DullahanorDulachansignifies a dark sullen person. The wordDurrachanorDullahan, by which in some places the goblin is known, has the same signification. It comes fromDorrorDurr, anger, orDurrach, malicious, fierce, &c.—MS. communication from the lateMr. 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 appears 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 un pen,” the headless horse, are generally accredited.—MS. communication fromMiss 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 fromSir 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 cabeçaamong thecuentos de viejas con que se entretienen al fuego las dilatadas noches del invierno,” &c.“The people of Basse Brétagne believe, that when the death of any person is at hand, a hearse drawn by skeletons (which they callcarriquet 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,communicated byDr. William Grimm.See alsoThiele’s Danske Folkesagn, vol. iv. p. 66, &c.
DullahanorDulachansignifies a dark sullen person. The wordDurrachanorDullahan, by which in some places the goblin is known, has the same signification. It comes fromDorrorDurr, anger, orDurrach, malicious, fierce, &c.—MS. communication from the lateMr. 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 appears 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 un pen,” the headless horse, are generally accredited.—MS. communication fromMiss 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 fromSir 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 cabeçaamong thecuentos de viejas con que se entretienen al fuego las dilatadas noches del invierno,” &c.
“The people of Basse Brétagne believe, that when the death of any person is at hand, a hearse drawn by skeletons (which they callcarriquet 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,communicated byDr. William Grimm.
See alsoThiele’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 roameThrough 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.
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 roameThrough 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.
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 potatoes in the ashes, while his rosy daughter held a splinter[26]to her mother, who, seated on a siesteen,[27]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. “I 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 Ihard?” and she dropped her work upon her knees, and looked fearfully towards the door. “TheVarginherself 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 berundaway with, and made a horse of, like my grandfather was?—the sorrow a step will I 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 ofhis way to the door. “Who’s there?” said he, and his voice trembled mightily all the while. “In the name of Saint Patrick, who’s there?” “’Tis I, 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, especially 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 proffered blanket.[28]
“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 wasouldDiarmid 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 themspaketo 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 walking about the fields one moonlight night, quite melancholy-like in himself for want of thetobaccy; 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?—but a large army of the good people, ’coutered for all the world just like the dragoons! ‘Are ye all ready?’ said a little fellow at their head dressed out like a general. ‘No,’ said a little curmudgeon of a chap all dressed in red, from the crown of his cocked hat to the sole of his boot. ‘No, general,’ said he: ‘if you don’t get the Fir darrig a horse he must stay behind, and ye’ll lose the battle.’”
“‘There’s Diarmid Bawn,’ said the general, pointing to Judy’s grandfather, your honour, ‘make a horse of him.’
“So with that master Fir darrig comes up to Diarmid, who, you may be sure, was in a mighty great fright; but he determined, seeing there was no help for him, to put a bold face on the matter; and so he began to cross himself, and to say some blessed words, that nothing bad could stand before.
“‘Is that what you’d be after, you spalpeen?’ said the little red imp, at the same time grinning a horrible grin; ‘I’m not the man to care a straw for either your words or your crossings.’ So, without more to do, he gives poor Diarmid a rap with the flat side of his sword, and in a moment he was changed into a horse, with little Fir darrig stuck fast on his back.
“Away they all flew over the wide ocean, like so many wild geese, screaming and chattering all the time, till they came to Jamaica; and there they had a murdering fight with the good people of that country. Well, it was all very well with them, and they stuck to it manfully, and fought it out fairly, till one of the Jamaica men made a cut with his sword under Diarmid’s left eye. And then, sir, you see, poor Diarmid lost his temper entirely, and he dashed into the very middle of them, with Fir darrig mounted upon his back, and he threw out his heels, and whisked his tail about, and wheeled and turned round and round at such a rate, that he soon made a fair clearance of them, horse, foot, and dragoons. At last Diarmid’s faction got the better, all through his means; and then they had such feasting and rejoicing, and gave Diarmid, who was the finest horse amongst them all, the best of every thing.
“‘Let every man take a hand oftobaccyfor Diarmid Bawn,’ said the general; and so they did; and away theyflew, for ’twas getting near morning, to the old fort back again, and there they vanished like the mist from the mountain.
“When Diarmid looked about, the sun was rising, and he thought it was all a dream, till he saw a big rick oftobaccyin the old fort, and felt the blood running from his left eye: for sure enough he was wounded in the battle, and would have beenkiltentirely, if it wasn’t for a gospel composed by father Murphy that hung about his neck ever since he had the scarlet fever; and for certain, it was enough to have given him another scarlet fever to have had the little red man all night on his back, whip and spur for the bare life. However, there was thetobaccyheaped up in a great heap by his side; and he heard a voice, although he could see no one, telling him, ‘That ’twas all his own, for his good behaviour in the battle; and that whenever Fir darrig would want a horse again he’d know where to find a clever beast, as he never rode a better than Diarmid Bawn.’ That’s what he said, sir.”
“Thank you, Pat,” said the squire; “it certainly is a wonderful story, and I am not surprised at Judy’s alarm. But now, as the storm is over, and the moon shining brightly, I’ll make the best of my way home.” So saying, he disrobed himself of the blanket, put on his coat, and whistling his dogs, set off across the mountain; while Patrick stood at the door, bawling after him, “May God and the blessed Virgin preserve your honour, and keep ye from the good people; for ’twas of a moonlight night like this that Diarmid Bawn was made a horse of, for the Fir darrig to ride.”
“I can’t stop in the house—I won’t stop in it for all the money that is buried in the old castle of Carrigrohan. If ever there was such a thing in the world!—to be abused to my face night and day, and nobody to the fore doing it! and then, if I’m angry, to be laughed at with a great roaring ho, ho, ho! I won’t stay in the house after to-night, if there was not another place in the country to put my head under.” This angry soliloquy was pronounced in the hall of the old manor-house of Carrigrohan by John Sheehan. John was a new servant: he had been only three days in the house, which had the character of being haunted, and in that short space of time he had been abused and laughed at by a voice which sounded as if a man spoke with his head in a cask; nor could he discover who was the speaker, or from whence the voice came. “I’ll not stop here,” said John; “and that ends the matter.”
“Ho, ho, ho! be quiet, John Sheehan, or else worse will happen to you.”
John instantly ran to the hall window, as the words were evidently spoken by a person immediately outside, but no one was visible. He had scarcely placed his face at the pane of glass, when he heard another loud “Ho, ho, ho!” as if behind him in the hall; as quick as lightning he turned his head, but no living thing was to be seen.
“Ho, ho, ho, John!” shouted a voice that appeared to come from the lawn before the house; “do you think you’ll see Teigue?—oh, never! as long as you live! so leave alone looking after him, and mind your business; there’s plenty of company to dinner from Cork to be here to-day, and ’tis time you had the cloth laid.”
“Lord bless us! there’s more of it!—I’ll never stay another day here,” repeated John.
“Hold your tongue, and stay where you are quietly,and play no tricks on Mr. Pratt, as you did on Mr. Jervois about the spoons.”
John Sheehan was confounded by this address from his invisible persecutor, but nevertheless he mustered courage enough to say—“Who are you?—come here, and let me see you, if you are a man;” but he received in reply only a laugh of unearthly derision, which was followed by a “Good-bye—I’ll watch you at dinner, John!”
“Lord between us and harm! this beats all!—I’ll watch you at dinner!—may be you will;—’tis the broad daylight, so ’tis no ghost; but this is a terrible place, and this is the last day I’ll stay in it. How does he know about the spoons?—if he tells it, I’m a ruined man!—there was no living soul could tell it to him but Tim Barrett, and he’s far enough off in the wilds of Botany Bay now, so how could he know it—I can’t tell for the world! But what’s that I see there at the corner of the wall?—’tis not a man!—oh, what a fool I am! ’tis only the old stump of a tree!—But this is a shocking place—I’ll never stop in it, for I’ll leave the house to-morrow; the very look of it is enough to frighten any one.”
The mansion had certainly an air of desolation; it was situated in a lawn, which had nothing to break its uniform level, safe a few tufts of narcissuses and a couple of old trees coeval with the building. The house stood at a short distance from the road; it was upwards of a century old, and Time was doing his work upon it; its walls were weather-stained in all colours, its roof showed various white patches, it had no look of comfort; all was dim and dingy without, and within there was an air of gloom, of departed and departing greatness, which harmonized well with the exterior. It required all the exuberance of youth and of gaiety to remove the impression, almost amounting to awe, with which you trod the huge square hall, paced along the gallery which surrounded the hall, or explored the long rambling passages below stairs. The ball-room, as the large drawing-room was called, and several other apartments, were in a state of decay: the walls were stained with damp; and I remember well the sensation of awe which I felt creeping over me when, boy as I was, and full of boyish life, and wild and ardent spirits, I descended tothe vaults; all without and within me became chilled beneath their dampness and gloom—their extent, too, terrified me; nor could the merriment of my two schoolfellows, whose father, a respectable clergyman, rented the dwelling for a time, dispel the feelings of a romantic imagination, until I once again ascended to the upper regions.
John had pretty well recovered himself as the dinner-hour approached, and the several guests arrived. They were all seated at table, and had begun to enjoy the excellent repast, when a voice was heard from the lawn:—
“Ho, ho, ho, Mr. Pratt, won’t you give poor Teigue some dinner? ho, ho, a fine company you have there, and plenty of every thing that’s good; sure you won’t forget poor Teigue?”
John dropped the glass he had in his hand.
“Who is that?” said Mr. Pratt’s brother, an officer of the artillery.
“That is Teigue,” said Mr. Pratt, laughing, “whom you must often have heard me mention.”
“And pray, Mr. Pratt,” inquired another gentleman, “whoisTeigue?”
“That,” he replied, “is more than I can tell. No one has ever been able to catch even a glimpse of him. I have been on the watch for a whole evening with three of my sons, yet, although his voice sometimes sounded almost in my ear, I could not see him. I fancied, indeed, that I saw a man in a white frieze jacket pass into the door from the garden to the lawn, but it could be only fancy, for I found the door locked, while the fellow whoever he is, was laughing at our trouble. He visits us occasionally, and sometimes a long interval passes between his visits, as in the present case; it is now nearly two years since we heard that hollow voice outside the window. He has never done any injury that we know of, and once when he broke a plate, he brought one back exactly like it.”
“It is very extraordinary,” said several of the company.
“But,” remarked a gentleman to young Mr. Pratt, “your father said he broke a plate; how did he get it without your seeing him?”
“When he asks for some dinner, we put it outside the window and go away; whilst we watch he will not take it, but no sooner have we withdrawn, than it is gone.”
“How does he know that you are watching?”
“That’s more than I can tell, but he either knows or suspects. One day my brothers Robert and James with myself were in our back parlour, which has a window into the garden, when he came outside and said, ‘Ho, ho, ho! master James, and Robert, and Henry, give poor Teigue a glass of whisky.’ James went out of the room, filled a glass with whisky, vinegar, and salt, and brought it to him. ‘Here Teigue,’ said he, ‘come for it now.’ ‘Well, put it down, then, on the step outside the window.’ This was done, and we stood looking at it. ‘There, now, go away,’ he shouted. We retired, but still watched it. ‘Ho, ho! you are watching Teigue; go out of the room, now, or I won’t take it.’ We went outside the door and returned; the glass was gone, and a moment after we heard him roaring and cursing frightfully. He took away the glass, but the next day the glass was on the stone step under the window, and there were crumbs of bread in the inside, as if he had put it in his pocket; from that time he was not heard till to-day.”
“Oh,” said the colonel, “I’ll get a sight of him; you are not used to these things; an old soldier has the best chance; and as I shall finish my dinner with this wing, I’ll be ready for him when he speaks next.—Mr. Bell, will you take a glass of wine with me?”
“Ho, ho! Mr. Bell,” shouted Teigue. “Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you were a quaker long ago. Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you’re a pretty boy;—a pretty quaker you were; and now you’re no quaker, nor any thing else:—ho, ho! Mr. Bell. And there’s Mr. Parkes: to be sure, Mr. Parkes looks mighty fine to-day, with his powdered head, and his grand silk stockings, and his bran new rakish-red waistcoat.—And there’s Mr. Cole,—did you ever see such a fellow? a pretty company you’ve brought together, Mr. Pratt: kiln-dried quakers, butter-buying buckeens from Mallow-lane, and a drinking exciseman from the Coal-quay, to meet the great thundering artillery-general that is come out of the Indies, and is the biggest dust of them all.”
“You scoundrel!” exclaimed the colonel: “I’ll make you show yourself;” and snatching up his sword from a corner of the room, he sprang out of the window upon thelawn. In a moment a shout of laughter, so hollow, so unlike any human sound, made him stop, as well as Mr. Bell, who with a huge oak stick was close at the colonel’s heels; others of the party followed on the lawn, and the remainder rose and went to the windows. “Come on, colonel,” said Mr. Bell; “let us catch this impudent rascal.”
“Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, here I am—here’s Teigue—why don’t you catch him?—Ho, ho! Colonel Pratt, what a pretty soldier you are to draw your sword upon poor Teigue, that never did any body harm.”
“Let us see your face, you scoundrel,” said the colonel.
“Ho, ho, ho!—look at me—look at me: do you see the wind, colonel Pratt?—you’ll see Teigue as soon; so go in and finish your dinner.”
“If you’re upon the earth I’ll find you, you villain!” said the colonel, whilst the same unearthly shout of derision seemed to come from behind an angle of the building. “He’s round that corner,” said Mr. Bell—“run, run.”
They followed the sound, which was continued at intervals along the garden wall, but could discover no human being; at last both stopped to draw breath, and in an instant, almost at their ears, sounded the shout.
“Ho, ho, ho! colonel Pratt, do you see Teigue now?—do you hear him?—Ho, ho, ho! you’re a fine colonel to follow the wind.”
“Not that way, Mr. Bell—not that way; come here,” said the colonel.
“Ho, ho, ho! what a fool you are; do you think Teigue is going to show himself to you in the field, there? But colonel, follow me if you can:—you a soldier!—ho, ho, ho!” The colonel was enraged—he followed the voice over hedge and ditch, alternately laughed at and taunted by the unseen object of his pursuit—(Mr. Bell, who was heavy, was soon thrown out,) until at length, after being led a weary chase, he found himself at the top of the cliff, over that part of the river Lee, which from its great depth, and the blackness of its water, has received the name of Hell-hole. Here, on the edge of the cliff, stood the colonel out of breath, and mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, while the voice, which seemed close at his feet, exclaimed—“Now, colonel Pratt—now, if you’re a soldier, here’s a leapfor you;—now look at Teigue—why don’t you look at him?—Ho, ho, ho! Come along: you’re warm, I’m sure, colonel Pratt, so come in and cool yourself; Teigue is going to have a swim!” The voice seemed as descending amongst the trailing ivy and brushwood which clothes this picturesque cliff nearly from top to bottom, yet it was impossible that any human being could have found footing. “Now, colonel, have you courage to take the leap?—Ho, ho, ho! what a pretty soldier you are. Good-bye—I’ll see you again in ten minutes above, at the house—look at your watch, colonel:—there’s a dive for you!” and a heavy plunge into the water was heard. The colonel stood still, but no sound followed, and he walked slowly back to the house, not quite half a mile from the Crag.
“Well, did you see Teigue?” said his brother, whilst his nephews, scarcely able to smother their laughter, stood by.—“Give me some wine,” said the colonel. “I never was led such a dance in my life: the fellow carried me all round and round, till he brought me to the edge of the cliff, and then down he went into Hell-hole, telling me he’d be here in ten minutes: ’tis more than that now, but he’s not come.”
“Ho, ho, ho! colonel, isn’t he here?—Teigue never told a lie in his life: but, Mr. Pratt, give me a drink and my dinner, and then good night to you all, for I’m tired; and that’s the colonel’s doing.” A plate of food was ordered: it was placed by John, with fear and trembling, on the lawn under the window. Every one kept on the watch, and the plate remained undisturbed for some time.
“Ah! Mr. Pratt, will you starve poor Teigue? Make every one go away from the windows, and master Henry out of the tree, and master Richard off the garden-wall.”
The eyes of the company were turned to the tree and the garden-wall; the two boys’ attention was occupied in getting down: the visiters were looking at them; and “Ho, ho, ho!—good luck to you, Mr. Pratt!—’tis a good dinner, and there’s the plate, ladies and gentlemen—good-bye to you, colonel—good-bye, Mr. Bell!—good-bye to you all!”—brought their attention back, when they saw the empty plate lying on the grass; and Teigue’s voice was heard nomore for that evening. Many visits were afterwards paid by Teigue; but never was he seen, nor was any discovery ever made of his person or character.
Ned Sheehy was servant-man to Richard Gumbleton, Esquire, of Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, in the north of the county of Cork; and a better servant than Ned was not to be found in that honest county, from Cape Clear to the Kilworth Mountains; for nobody—no, not his worst enemy—could say a word against him, only that he was rather given to drinking, idling, lying, and loitering, especially the last; for send Ned of a five-minute message at nine o’clock in the morning, and you were a lucky man if you saw him before dinner. If there happened to be a public-house in the way, or even a little out of it, Ned was sure to mark it as dead as a pointer; and, knowing every body, and every body liking him, it is not to be wondered at he had so much to say and to hear, that the time slipped away as if the sun somehow or other had knocked two hours into one.
But when he came home, he never was short of an excuse: he had, for that matter, five hundred ready upon the tip of his tongue; so much so, that I doubt if even the veryreverend doctor Swift, for many years Dean of St. Patrick’s, in Dublin, could match him in that particular, though his reverence had a pretty way of his own of writing things which brought him into very decent company. In fact, Ned would fret a saint, but then he was so good-humoured a fellow, and really so handy about a house,—for, as he said himself, he was as good as a lady’s maid,—that his master could not find it in his heart to part with him.
In your grand houses—not that I am saying that Richard Gumbleton, esquire of Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, did not keep a good house, but a plain country gentleman, although he is second-cousin to the last high-sheriff of the county, cannot have all the army of servants that the lord-lieutenant has in the castle of Dublin—I say, in your grand houses, you can have a servant for every kind of thing, but in Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, Ned was expected to please master and mistress; or, as counsellor Curran said,—by the same token the counsellor was a little dark man—one day that he dined there, on his way to the Clonmel assizes—Ned was minister for the home and foreign departments.
But to make a long story short, Ned Sheehy was a good butler, and a right good one too, and as for a groom, let him alone with a horse: he could dress it, or ride it, or shoe it, or physic it, or do any thing with it but make it speak—he was a second whisperer!—there was not his match in the barony, or the next one neither. A pack of hounds he could manage well, ay, and ride after them with the boldest man in the land. It was Ned who leaped the old bounds’ ditch at the turn of the boreen of the lands of Reenascreena, after the English captain pulled up on looking at it, and cried out it was “No go.” Ned rode that day Brian Boro, Mr. Gumbleton’s famous chestnut, and people call it Ned Sheehy’s Leap to this hour.
So, you see, it was hard to do without him: however, many a scolding he got; and although his master often said of an evening, “I’ll turn off Ned,” he always forgot to do so in the morning. These threats mended Ned not a bit; indeed, he was mending the other way, like bad fish in hot weather.
One cold winter’s day, about three o’clock in the afternoon, Mr. Gumbleton said to him,
“Ned,” said he, “go take Modderaroo down to black Falvey, the horse-doctor, and bid him look at her knees; for Doctor Jenkinson, who rode her home last night, has hurt her somehow. I suppose he thought a parson’s horse ought to go upon its knees; but, indeed, it was I was the fool to give her to him at all, for he sits twenty stone if he sits a pound, and knows no more of riding, particularly after his third bottle, than I do of preaching. Now mind and be back in an hour at farthest, for I want to have the plate cleaned up properly for dinner, as Sir Augustus O’Toole, you know, is to dine here to-day.—Don’t loiter, for your life.”
“Is it I, sir?” says Ned. “Well, that beats any thing; as if I’d stop out a minute!” So, mounting Modderaroo, off he set.
Four, five, six o’clock came, and so did Sir Augustus and lady O’Toole, and the four misses O’Toole, and Mr. O’Toole, and Mr. Edward O’Toole, and Mr. James O’Toole, which were all the young O’Tooles that were at home, but no Ned Sheehy appeared to clean the plate, or to lay the table-cloth, or even to put dinner on. It is needless to say how Mr. and Mrs. Dick Gumbleton fretted and fumed; but it was all to no use. They did their best, however, only it was a disgrace to see long Jem the stableboy, and Bill the gossoon that used to go of errands, waiting, without any body to direct them, when there was a real baronet and his lady at table; for Sir Augustus was none of your knights. But a good bottle of claret makes up for much, and it was not one only they had that night. However, it is not to be concealed that Mr. Dick Gumbleton went to bed very cross, and he awoke still crosser.
He heard that Ned had not made his appearance for the whole night; so he dressed himself in a great fret, and, taking his horsewhip in his hand, he said,
“There is no farther use in tolerating this scoundrel; I’ll go look for him, and if I find him, I’ll cut the soul out of his vagabond body! so I will.”
“Don’t say so, Dick, dear,” said Mrs. Gumbleton (for she was always a mild woman, being daughter of fightingTom Crofts, who shot a couple of gentlemen, friends of his, in the cool of the evening, after the Mallow races, one after the other,) “don’t swear, Dick, dear,” said she; “but do, my dear, oblige me by cutting the flesh off his bones, for he richly deserves it. I was quite ashamed of Lady O’Toole, yesterday, I was, ’pon honour.”
Out sallied Mr. Gumbleton; and he had not far to walk, for, not more than two hundred yards from the house, he found Ned lying fast asleep under a ditch (a hedge,) and Modderaroo standing by him, poor beast, shaking every limb. The loud snoring of Ned, who was lying with his head upon a stone as easy and as comfortable as if it had been a bed of down or a hop-bag, drew him to the spot, and Mr. Gumbleton at once perceived, from the disarray of Ned’s face and person, that he had been engaged in some perilous adventure during the night. Ned appeared not to have descended in the most regular manner; for one of his shoes remained sticking in the stirrup, and his hat, having rolled down a little slope, was imbedded in green mud. Mr. Gumbleton, however, did not give himself much trouble to make a curious survey, but with a vigorous application of his thong, soon banished sleep from the eyes of Ned Sheehy.
“Ned!” thundered his master in great indignation,—and on this occasion it was not a word and blow, for with that one word came half a dozen: “Get up, you scoundrel,” said he.
Ned roared lustily, and no wonder, for his master’s hand was not one of the lightest; and he cried out, between sleeping and waking—“O, sir!—don’t be angry, sir!—don’t be angry, and I’ll roast you easier—easy as a lamb!”
“Roast me easier, you vagabond!” said Mr. Gumbleton; “what do you mean?—I’ll roast you, my lad. Where were you all night?—Modderaroo will never get over it.—Pack out of my service, you worthless villain, this moment; and, indeed, you may be thankful that I don’t get you transported.”
“Thank God, master dear,” said Ned, who was now perfectly awakened—“it’s yourself, any how. There never was a gentleman in the whole country ever did so good aturn to a poor man as your honour has been after doing to me: the Lord reward you for that same. Oh! but strike me again, and let me feel that it is yourself, master dear;—may whisky be my poison—”
“It will be your poison, you good-for-nothing scoundrel,” said Mr. Gumbleton.
“Well, then,maywhiskey be my poison,” said Ned, “if ’twas not I was—in the blackest of misfortunes, and they were before me, whichever way I turned ’twas no matter. Your honour sent me last night, sure enough, with Modderaroo to mister Falvey’s—I don’t deny it—why should I? for reason enough I have to remember what happened.”
“Ned, my man,” said Mr. Gumbleton, “I’ll listen to none of your excuses: just take the mare into the stable and yourself off, for I vow—”
“Begging your honour’s pardon,” said Ned, earnestly, “for interrupting your honour; but, master, master! make no vows—they are bad things: I never made but one in all my life, which was, to drink nothing at all for a year and a day, and ’tis myself repinted of it for the clean twelvemonth after. But if your honour would only listen to reason: I’ll just take in the poor baste, and if your honour don’t pardon me this one time may I never see another day’s luck or grace.”
“I know you, Ned,” said Mr. Gumbleton. “Whatever your luck has been, you never had any grace to lose: but I don’t intend discussing the matter with you. Take in the mare, sir.”
Ned obeyed, and his master saw him to the stables. Here he reiterated his commands to quit, and Ned Sheehy’s excuse for himself began. That it was heard uninterruptedly is more than I can affirm; but as interruptions, like explanations, spoil a story, we must let Ned tell it his own way.
“No wonder your honour,” said he, “should be a bit angry—grand company coming to the house and all, and no regular serving-man to wait, only long Jem; so I don’t blame your honour the least for being fretted like; but when all’s heard, you will see that no poor man is more to be pitied for last night than myself. Fin Mac Coulnever went through more in his born days than I did, though he was a greatjoint(giant,) and I only a man.
“I had not rode half a mile from the house, when it came on, as your honour must have perceived clearly, mighty dark all of a sudden, for all the world as if the sun had tumbled down plump out of the fine clear blue sky. It was not so late, being only four o’clock at the most, but it was as black as your honour’s hat. Well, I didn’t care much, seeing I knew the road as well as I knew the way to my mouth, whether I saw it or not, and I put the mare into a smart canter; but just as I turned down by the corner of Terence Leahy’s field—sure your honour ought to know the place well—just at the very spot the fox was killed when your honour came in first out of a whole field of a hundred and fifty gentlemen, and may be more, all of them brave riders.”
(Mr. Gumbleton smiled.)
“Just then, there, I heard the low cry of the good people wafting upon the wind. ‘How early you are at your work, my little fellows!’ says I to myself; and, dark as it was, having no wish for such company, I thought it best to get out of their way; so I turned the horse a little up to the left, thinking to get down by the boreen, that is that way, and so round to Falvey’s; but there I heard the voice plainer and plainer close behind, and I could hear these words:—
‘Ned! Ned!By my cap so red!You’re as good, Ned,As a man that is dead.’
‘Ned! Ned!By my cap so red!You’re as good, Ned,As a man that is dead.’
‘A clean pair of spurs is all that’s for it now,’ said I; so off I set, as hard as I could lick, and in my hurry knew no more where I was going than I do the road to the hill of Tarah. Away I galloped on for some time, until I came to the noise of a stream, roaring away by itself in the darkness. ‘What river is this?’ said I to myself—for there was nobody else to ask—‘I thought,’ says I, ‘I knew every inch of ground, and of water too, within twenty miles, and never the river surely is there in this direction.’ So I stopped to look about; but I might havespared myself that trouble, for I could not see as much as my hand. I didn’t know what to do; but I thought in myself, it’s a queer river, surely, if somebody does not live near it; and I shouted out as loud as I could, Murder! murder!—fire!—robbery!—any thing that would be natural in such a place—but not a sound did I hear except my own voice echoed back to me, like a hundred packs of hounds in full cry above and below, right and left. This didn’t do at all; so I dismounted, and guided myself along the stream, directed by the noise of the water, as cautious as if I was treading upon eggs, holding poor Modderaroo by the bridle, who shook, the poor brute, all over in a tremble, like my old grandmother, rest her soul any how! in the ague. Well, sir, the heart was sinking in me, and I was giving myself up, when, as good luck would have it, I saw a light. ‘May be,’ said I, ‘my good fellow, you are only a jacky lantern, and want to bog me and Modderaroo.’ But I looked at the light hard, and I thought it was toostudy(steady) for a jacky lantern. ‘I’ll try you,’ says I—‘so here goes; and, walking as quick as a thief, I came towards it, being very near plumping into the river once or twice, and being stuck up to my middle, as your honour may perceive cleanly the marks of, two or three times in theslob.[29]At last I made the light out, and it coming from a bit of a house by the road-side; so I went to the door and gave three kicks at it, as strong as I could.
“‘Open the door for Ned Sheehy,’ said a voice inside. Now, besides that I could not, for the life of me, make out how any one inside should know me before I spoke a word at all, I did not like the sound of that voice, ’twas so hoarse and so hollow, just like a dead man’s!—so I said nothing immediately. The same voice spoke again, and said, ‘Why don’t you open the door to Ned Sheehy?’ ‘How pat my name is to you,’ said I, without speaking out, ‘on tip of your tongue, like butter;’ and I was between two minds about staying or going, when what should the door do but open, and out came a man holding a candle in his hand, and he had upon him a face as white as a sheet.
“‘Why, then, Ned Sheehy,’ says he, ‘how grand you’re grown, that you won’t come in and see a friend, as you’re passing by?’
“‘Pray, sir,’ says I, looking at him—though that face of his was enough to dumbfounder any honest man like myself—‘Pray, sir,’ says I, ‘may I make so bold as to ask if you are not Jack Myers that was drowned seven years ago, next Martinmas, in the ford of Ah-na-fourish?’
“‘Suppose I was,’ says he: ‘has not a man a right to be drowned in the ford facing his own cabin-door any day of the week that he likes, from Sunday morning to Saturday night?’
“‘I’m not denying that same, Mr. Myers, sir,’ says I, ‘if ’tis yourself is to the fore speaking to me.’
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘no more words about that matter now: sure you and I, Ned, were friends of old; come in, and take a glass; and here’s a good fire before you, and nobody shall hurt or harm you, and I to the fore, and myself able to do it.’
“Now, your honour, though ’twas much to drink with a man that was drowned seven years before, in the ford of Ah-na-fourish, facing his own door, yet the glass was hard to be withstood—to say nothing of the fire that was blazing within—for the night was mortal cold. So tying Modderaroo to the hasp of the door—if I don’t love the creature as I love my own life—I went in with Jack Myers.
“Civil enough he was—I’ll never say otherwise to my dying hour—for he handed me a stool by the fire, and bid me sit down and make myself comfortable. But his face, as I said before, was as white as the snow on the hills, and his two eyes fell dead on me, like the eyes of a cod without any life in them. Just as I was going to put the glass to my lips, a voice—’twas the same that I heard bidding the door be opened—spoke out of a cupboard that was convenient to the left-hand side of the chimney, and said, ‘Have you any news for me, Ned Sheehy?’
“‘The never a word, sir,’ says I, making answer before I tasted the whisky, all out of civility; and, to speak the truth, never the least could I remember at that moment of what had happened to me, or how I got there; for I was quite bothered with the fright.
“‘Have you no news,’ says the voice, ‘Ned, to tell me, from Mountbally Gumbletonmore; or from the Mill; or about Moll Trantum that was married last week to Bryan Oge, and you at the wedding?’
“‘No, sir,’ says I, ‘never the word.’
“‘What brought you in here, Ned, then?’ says the voice. I could say nothing; for, whatever other people might do, I never could frame an excuse; and I was loath to say it was on account of the glass and the fire, for that would be to speak the truth.
“‘Turn the scoundrel out,’ says the voice; and at the sound of it, who would I see but Jack Myers making over to me with a lump of a stick in his hand, and it clenched on the stick so wicked. For certain, I did not stop to feel the weight of the blow; so, dropping the glass, and it full of the stuff too, I bolted out of the door, and never rested from running away, for as good, I believe, as twenty miles, till I found myself in a big wood.
“‘The Lord preserve me! what will become of me now!’ says I. ‘Oh, Ned Sheehy!’ says I, speaking to myself, ‘my man, you’re in a pretty hobble; and to leave poor Modderaroo after you!’ But the words were not well out of my mouth, when I heard the dismallest ullagoane in the world, enough to break any one’s heart that was not broke before, with the grief entirely; and it was not long till I could plainly see four men coming towards me, with a great black coffin on their shoulders. ‘I’d better get up in a tree,’ says I, ‘for they say ’tis not lucky to meet a corpse: I’m in the way of misfortune to-night, if ever man was.’
“I could not help wondering how aberrin(funeral) should come there in the lone wood at that time of night, seeing it could not be far from the dead hour. But it was little good for me thinking, for they soon came under the very tree I was roosting in, and down they put the coffin, and began to make a fine fire under me. I’ll be smothered alive now, thinks I, and that will be the end of me; but I was afraid to stir for the life, or to speak out to bid them just make their fire under some other tree, if it would be all the same thing to them. Presently they opened thecoffin, and out they dragged as fine-looking a man as you’d meet with in a day’s walk.
“‘Where’s the spit?’ says one.
“‘Here ’tis,’ says another, handing it over; and for certain they spitted him, and began to turn him before the fire.
“If they are not going to eat him, thinks I, like theHannibalsfather Quinlan told us about in hissarmintlast Sunday.
“‘Who’ll turn the spit while we go for the other ingredients?’ says one of them that brought the coffin, and a big ugly-looking blackguard he was.
“‘Who’d turn the spit but Ned Sheehy?’ says another.
“Burn you! thinks I, how should you know that I was here so handy to you up in the tree?
“‘Come down, Ned Sheehy, and turn the spit,’ says he.
“‘I’m not here at all, sir,’ says I, putting my hand over my face that he might not see me.
“‘That won’t do for you, my man,’ says he; ‘you’d better come down, or may be I’d make you.’
“‘I’m coming, sir,’ says I; for ’tis always right to make a virtue of necessity. So down I came, and there they left me turning the spit in the middle of the wide wood.
“‘Don’t scorch me, Ned Sheehy, you vagabond,’ says the man on the spit.
“‘And my lord, sir, and ar’n’t you dead, sir,’ says I, ‘and your honour taken out of the coffin and all?’
“‘I ar’n’t,’ says he.
“‘But surely you are, sir,’ says I, ‘for ’tis to no use now for me denying that I saw your honour, and I up in the tree.’
“‘I ar’n’t,’ says he again, speaking quite short and snappish.
“So I said no more, until presently he called out to me to turn him easy, or that may be ’twould be the worse turn for myself.
“‘Will that do, sir?’ says I, turning him as easy as I could.
“‘That’s too easy,’ says he: so I turned him faster.
“‘That’s too fast,’ says he; so finding that, turn him which way I would, I could not please him, I got into abit of a fret at last, and desired him to turn himself, for a grumbling spalpeen as he was, if he liked it better.
“Away I ran, and away he came hopping, spit and all, after me, and he but half-roasted. ‘Murder!’ says I, shouting out; ‘I’m done for at long last—now or never!’—when all of a sudden, and ’twas really wonderful, not knowing where I was rightly, I found myself at the door of the very little cabin by the road-side that I had bolted out of from Jack Myers; and there was Modderaroo standing hard by.
“‘Open the door for Ned Sheehy,’ says the voice,—for ’twas shut against me,—and the door flew open in an instant. In I ran without stop or stay, thinking it better to be beat by Jack Myers, he being an old friend of mine, than to be spitted like a Michaelmas goose by a man that I knew nothing about, either of him or his family, one or the other.
“‘Have you any news for me?’ says the voice, putting just the same question to me that it did before.
“‘Yes, sir,’ says I, ‘and plenty.’ So I mentioned all that had happened to me in the big wood, and how I got up in the tree, and how I was made come down again, and put to turning the spit, roasting the gentleman, and how I could not please him, turn him fast or easy, although I tried my best, and how he ran after me at last, spit and all.
“‘If you had told me this before, you would not have been turned out in the cold,’ said the voice.
“‘And how could I tell it to you, sir,’ says I, ‘before it happened?’
“‘No matter,’ says he, ‘you may sleep now till morning on that bundle of hay in the corner there, and only I was your friend, you’d have beenkiltentirely.’ So down I lay, but I was dreaming, dreaming all the rest of the night; and when you, master dear, woke me with that blessed blow, I thought ’twas the man on the spit had hold of me, and could hardly believe my eyes, when I found myself in your honour’s presence, and poor Modderaroo safe and sound by my side; but how I came there is more than I can say, if ’twas not Jack Myers, although he did make the offer to strike me, or some one among the good people that befriended me.”
“It is all a drunken dream, you scoundrel,” said Mr. Gumbleton; “have I not had fifty such excuses from you?”
“But never one, your honour, that really happened before,” said Ned, with unblushing front. “Howsomever, since your honour fancies ’tis drinking I was, I’d rather never drink again to the world’s end, than lose so good a master as yourself, and if I’m forgiven this once, and get another trial——”
“Well,” said Mr. Gumbleton, “you may, for this once, go into Mountbally Gumbletonmore again; let me see that you keep your promise as to not drinking, or mind the consequences; and, above all, let me hear no more of the good people, for I don’t believe a single word about them, whatever I may do of bad ones.”
So saying, Mr. Gumbleton turned on his heel, and Ned’s countenance relaxed into its usual expression.
“Now I would not be after saying about the good people what the master said last,” exclaimed Peggy, the maid, who was within hearing, and who, by the way, had an eye after Ned: “I would not be after saying such a thing; the good people, may be, will make him feel thediffer(difference) to his cost.”
Nor was Peggy wrong; for whether Ned Sheehy dreamt of the Fir Darrig or not, within a fortnight after, two of Mr. Gumbleton’s cows, the best milkers in the parish, ran dry, and before the week was out, Modderaroo was lying dead in the stone quarry.
The kitchen of some country houses in Ireland presents in no ways a bad modern translation of the ancient feudal hall. Traces of clanship still linger round its hearth in the numerous dependants on “the master’s” bounty. Nurses, foster-brothers, and other hangers-on, are there as matter of right, while the strolling piper, full of mirth and music, the benighted traveller, even the passing beggar, are received with a hearty welcome, and each contributesplanxty, song, or superstitious tale, towards the evening’s amusement.
An assembly, such as has been described, had collected round the kitchen fire of Ballyrahenhouse, at the foot of the Galtee mountains, when, as is ever the case, one tale of wonder called forth another; and with the advance of the evening each succeeding story was received with deep and deeper attention. The history of Cough na Looba’s dance with the black friar at Rahill, and the fearful tradition ofCoum an ‘ir morriv(the dead man’s hollow,) were listened to in breathless silence. A pause followed the last relation, and all eyes rested on the narrator, an old nurse who occupied the post of honour, that next the fire-side. She was seated in that peculiar position which the Irish name “currigguib,” a position generally assumed by a veteran and determined story-teller. Her haunches resting upon the ground, and her feet bundled under the body; her arms folded across and supported by her knees, and the outstretched chin of her hooded head pressing on the upper arm; which compact arrangement nearly reduced the whole figure into a perfect triangle.
Unmoved by the general gaze, Bridget Doyle made no change of attitude, while she gravely asserted the truth of the marvellous tale concerning the Dead Man’s Hollow; her strongly marked countenance at the time receiving what painters term a fine chiaro-obscuro effect from the fire-light.
“I have told you,” she said, “what happened to my own people, the Butlers and the Doyles, in the old times; but here is little Ellen Connell from the county Cork, who can speak to what happened under her own father and mother’s roof.”
Ellen, a young and blooming girl of about sixteen, was employed in the dairy at Ballyrahen. She was the picture of health and rustic beauty; and at this hint from nurse Doyle, a deep blush mantled over her countenance; yet, although “unaccustomed to public speaking,” she, without farther hesitation or excuse, proceeded as follows:—
“It was one May-eve, about thirteen years ago, and that is, as every body knows, the airiest day in all the twelve months. It is the day above all other days,” said Ellen,with her large dark eyes cast down on the ground, and drawing a deep sigh, “when the young boys and the young girls go looking after theDrutheen, to learn from it rightly the name of their sweethearts.
“My father, and my mother, and my two brothers, with two or three of the neighbours, were sitting round the turf fire, and were talking of one thing or another. My mother was hushoing my little sister, striving to quieten her, for she was cutting her teeth at the time, and was mighty uneasy through the means of them. The day, which was threatening all along, now that it was coming on to dusk, began to rain, and the rain increased and fell fast and faster, as if it was pouring through a sieve out of the wide heavens; and when the rain stopped for a bit there was a wind which kept up such a whistling and racket, that you would have thought the sky and the earth were coming together. It blew and it blew, as if it had a mind to blow the roof off the cabin, and that would not have been very hard for it to do, as the thatch was quite loose in two or three places. Then the rain began again, and you could hear it spitting and hissing in the fire, as it came down through the bigchimbley.
“‘God bless us,’ says my mother, ‘but ’tis a dreadful night to be at sea,’ says she, ‘and God be praised that we have a roof, bad as it is, to shelter us.’
“I don’t, to be sure, recollect all this, mistress Doyle, but only as my brothers told it to me, and other people, and often have I heard it; for I was so little then, that they say I could just go under the table without tipping my head. Any way, it was in the very height of the pelting and whistling that we heard something speak outside the door. My father and all of us listened, but there was no more noise at that time. We waited a little longer, and then we plainly heard a sound like an old man’s voice, asking to be let in, but mighty feeble and weak. Tim bounced up, without a word, to ask us whether we’d like to let the old man, or whoever he was, in—having always a heart as soft as a mealy potato before the voice of sorrow. When Tim pulled back the bolt that did the door, in marched a little bit of a shrivelled, weather-beaten creature, about two feet and a half high.
“We were all watching to see who’d come in, for therewas a wall between us and the door; but when the sound of the undoing of the bolt stopped, we heard Tim give a sort of a screech, and instantly he bolted in to us. He had hardly time to say a word, or we either, when the little gentleman shuffled in after him, without a God save all here, or by your leave, or any other sort of thing that any decent body might say. We all, of one accord, scrambled over to the farthest end of the room, where we were, old and young, every one trying who’d get nearest the wall, and farthest from him. All the eyes of our body were stuck upon him, but he didn’t mind us no more than that frying-pan there does now. He walked over to the fire, and squatting himself down like a frog, took the pipe that my father dropped from his mouth in the hurry, put it into his own, and then began to smoke so hearty, that he soon filled the room of it.
“We had plenty of time to observe him, and my brothers say that he wore a sugar-loaf hat that was as red as blood: he had a face as yellow as a kite’s claw, and as long as to-day and to-morrow put together, with a mouth all screwed and puckered up like a washerwoman’s hand, little blue eyes, and rather a highish nose; his hair was quite gray and lengthy, appearing under his hat, and flowing over the cape of a long scarlet coat, which almost trailed the ground behind him, and the ends of which he took up and planked on his knees to dry, as he sat facing the fire. He had smart corduroy breeches, and woollen stockings drawn up over the knees, so as to hide the kneebuckles, if he had the pride to have them; but, at any rate, if he hadn’t them in his knees he had buckles in his shoes, out before his spindle legs. When we came to ourselves a little we thought to escape from the room, but no one would go first, nor no one would stay last; so we huddled ourselves together and made a dart out of the room. My little gentleman never minded any thing of the scrambling, nor hardly stirred himself, sitting quite at his ease before the fire. The neighbours, the very instant minute they got to the door, although it still continued pelting rain, cut gutter as if Oliver Cromwell himself was at their heels; and no blame to them for that, any how. It was my father, and my mother, and my brothers, and myself, a little hop-of-my-thumb midge as I was then, that were left tosee what would come out of this strange visit; so we all went quietly to thelabbig,[30]scarcely daring to throw an eye at him as we passed the door. Never the wink of sleep could they sleep that live-long night, though, to be sure, I slept like a top, not knowing better, while they were talking and thinking of the little man.
“When they got up in the morning, every thing was as quiet and as tidy about the place as if nothing had happened, for all that the chairs and stools were tumbled here there, and every where, when we saw the lad enter. Now, indeed, I forget whether he came next night or not, but any way, that was the first time we ever laid eye upon him. This I know for certain, that, about a month after that he came regularly every night, and used to give us a signal to be on the move, for ’twas plain he did not like to be observed. This sign was always made about eleven o’clock; and then, if we’d look towards the door, there was a little hairy arm thrust in through the key-hole, which would not have been big enough, only there was a fresh hole made near the first one, and the bit of stick between them had been broken away, and so ’twas just fitting for the little arm.
“The Fir Darrig continued his visits, never missing a night, as long as we attended to the signal; smoking always out of the pipe he made his own of, and warming himself till day dawned before the fire, and then going no one living knows where: but there was not the least mark of him to be found in the morning; and ’tis as true, nurse Doyle, and honest people, as you are all here sitting before me and by the side of me, that the family continued thriving, and my father and brothers rising in the world while ever he came to us. When we observed this, we used always look for the very moment to see when the arm would come, and then we’d instantly fly off with ourselves to our rest. But before we found the luck, we used sometimes sit still and not mind the arm, especially when a neighbour would be with my father, or that two or three or four of them would have a drop among them, and then they did not care for all the arms, hairy or not, that ever were seen. No one, however, dared to speak to it or ofit insolently, except, indeed, one night that Davy Kennane—but he was drunk—walked over and hit it a rap on the back of the wrist: the hand was snatched off like lightning; but every one knows that Davy did not live a month after this happened, though he was only about ten days sick. The like of such tricks are ticklish things to do.
“As sure as the red man would put in his arm for a sign through the hole in the door, and that we did not go and open it to him, so sure, some mishap befell the cattle: the cows were elf-stoned, or overlooked, or something or another went wrong with them. One night my brother Dan refused to go at the signal, and the next day, as he was cutting turf in Crogh-na-drimina bog, within a mile and a half of the house, a stone was thrown at him which broke fairly, with the force, into two halves. Now, if that had happened to hit him he’d be at this hour as dead as my great great grandfather. It came whack slap against the spade he had in his hand, and split at once in two pieces. He took them up and fitted them together, and they made a perfect heart. Some way or the other he lost it since, but he still has the one which was shot at the spotted milch cow, before the little man came near us. Many and many a time I saw that same; ’tis just the shape of the ace of hearts on the cards, only it is of a dark red colour, and polished up like the grate that is in the grand parlour within. When this did not kill the cow on the spot, she swelled up; but if you took and put the elf-stone under her udder, and milked her upon it to the last stroking, and then made her drink the milk, it would cure her, and she would thrive with you ever after.
“But, as I said, we were getting on well enough as long as we minded the door and watched for the hairy arm, which we did sharp enough when we found it was bringing luck to us, and we were now as glad to see the little red gentleman, and as ready to open the door to him, as we used to dread his coming at first and be frightened of him. But at long last we throve so well that the landlord—God forgive him—took notice of us, and envied us, and asked my father how he came by the penny he had, and wanted him to take more ground at a rack-rent that was more than any Christian ought to pay to another, seeing there was no making it. When my father—and small blame tohim for that—refused to lease the ground, he turned us off the bit of land we had, and out of the house and all, and left us in a wide and wicked world, where my father, for he was a soft innocent man, was not up to the roguery and trickery that was practised upon him. He was taken this way by one and that way by another, and he treating them that were working his downfall. And he used to take bite and sup with them, and they with him, free enough as long as the money lasted; but when that was gone, and he had not as much ground, that he could call his own, as would sod a lark, they soon shabbed him off. The landlord died not long after; and he now knows whether he acted right or wrong in taking the house from over our heads.
“It is a bad thing for the heart to be cast down, so we took another cabin, and looked out with great desire for the Fir Darrig to come to us. But ten o’clock came and no arm, although we cut a hole in the door just themoral(model) of the other. Eleven o’clock!—twelve o’clock!—no, not a sign of him: and every night we watched, but all would not do. We then travelled to the other house, and we rooted up the hearth, for the landlord asked so great a rent for it from the poor people that no one could take it; and we carried away the very door off the hinges, and we brought every thing with us that we thought the little man was in any respect partial to, but he did not come, and we never saw him again.
“My father and my mother, and my young sister, are since dead, and my two brothers, who could tell all about this better than myself, are both of them gone out with Ingram in his last voyage to the Cape of Good Hope, leaving me behind without kith or kin.”
Here young Ellen’s voice became choked with sorrow, and bursting into tears, she hid her face in her apron.