[2]Nonsense.
[2]Nonsense.
“If I said so, I forgot,” answered the publican, his suspicions of Shamus at an end. “But it is about twenty years, indeed, since I left Ireland.”
“And by your speech, sir, and your dacency, I’ll engage you were in a good way in the poor place afore you left it?”
“You guess correctly, friend.” (The publican gave way to vanity.) “Before misfortunes came over me, I possessed, along with a good hundred acres besides, the very ground that the old ruin I saw in the foolish dream I told you stands upon.”
“An’ so did my curse-o’-God’s uncle,” thought Shamus, his heart’s blood beginning to boil, though, with a great effort, he kept himself seemingly cool. “And this is the man fornent me, if he answers another word I’ll ax him. Faix, sir, and sure that makes your dhrame quarer than ever; and the ground the ould abbey is on, sir, and the good acres round it, did you say they lay somewhere in the poor county myself came from?”
“What county is that, friend?” demanded the publican, again with a studious frown.
“The ould County Monaghan, sure, sir,” replied Shamus, very deliberately.
“No, but the county of Clare,” answered his companion.
“Was it?” screamed Shamus, again springing up. The cherished hatred of twenty years imprudently bursting out, his uncle lay stretched at his feet, after a renewed flourish of his cudgel. “And do you know who you are telling it to this morning? Did you ever hear that the sisther you kilt left a bit of a gorsoon behind her, that one day or other might overhear you? Ay,” he continued, keeping down the struggling man, “It ispoor Shamus Dempsey that’s kneeling by you; ay, and that has more to tell you. The shed built over the old friar’s tombstone was built by the hands you feel on your throttle, and that tombstone is his hearthstone; and,” continued Shamus, beginning to bind the prostrate man with a rope snatched from a bench near them, “while you lie here awhile, an’ no one to help you, in the cool of the morning, I’ll just take a start of you on the road home, to lift the flag and get the threasure; and follow me if you dare! You know there’s good money bid for your head in Ireland—so here goes. Yes, faith, and wid this-thisto help me on the way!” He snatched up a heavy purse which had fallen from his uncle’s pocket in the struggle. “And sure, there’s neither hurt nor harm in getting back a little of a body’s own from you. A bright goodmorning, uncle dear!”
Shamus dragged his manacled relative into the shop, quickly shut to and locked the door, flung the key over the house into the Thames, and the next instant was running at headlong speed.
He was not so deficient in the calculations of common sense as to think himself yet out of his uncle’s power. It appeared, indeed, pretty certain that, neither for the violence done to his person nor for the purse appropriated by his nephew, the outlawed murderer would raise a hue and cry after one who, aware of his identity, could deliver him up to the laws of his country. But Shamus felt certain that it would be a race between him and his uncle for the treasure that lay under the friar’s tombstone. His simple nature supplied no stronger motive for a pursuit on the part of a man whose life now lay in the breath of his mouth. Full of his conviction, however, Shamus saw he had not a moment to lose until the roof of his shed in the old abbey again sheltered him. So, freely making use of his uncle’s guineas, he purchased a strong horse in the outskirts of London, and, to the surprise if not under heavy suspicions of the vender, set off at a gallop upon the road by which he had the day before gained the great metropolis.
A ship was ready to sail at Bristol for Ireland; but, to Shamus’s discomfiture, she waited for a wind. He got aboard, however, and in the darksome and squalid hold often knelt down, and, with clasped hands and panting breast, petitioned Heaven for a favourable breeze. But from morning until evening the wind remained as he had found it, and Shamus despaired. His uncle, meantime, might have reached some other port, and embarked for their country. In the depth of his anguish he heard a brisk bustle upon deck, clambered up to investigate its cause, and found the ship’s sails already half unfurled to a wind that promised to bear him to his native shores by the next morning. The last light of day yet lingered in the heavens; he glanced, now under way, to the quay of Bristol. A group who had been watching the departure of the vessel turned round to note the approach to them of a man, who ran furiously toward the place where they stood, pointing after her, and evidently speaking with vehemence, although no words reached Shamus’s ear. Neither was his eye sure of this person’s features, but his heart read them distinctly. A boat shot from the quay; the man stood up in it, and its rowers made a signal.
Shamus stepped to the gangway, as if preparing to hurl his pursuer into the sea. The captain took a speaking-trumpet, and informing the boat that he could not stop an instant, advised her to wait for another merchantman, which would sail in an hour. And during and after his speech his vessel ploughed cheerily on, making as much way as she was adapted to accomplish.
Shamus’s bosom felt lightened of its immediate terror, but not freed of apprehension for the future. The ship that was to sail in an hour haunted his thoughts; he did not leave the deck, and, although the night proved very dark, his anxious eyes were never turned from the English coast. Unusual fatigue and want of sleep now and then overpowered him, and his senses swam in a wild and snatching slumber; but from this he would start, crying out and clinging to the cordage, as the feverish dream of an instant presented him with the swelling canvas of a fast-sailing ship, which came, suddenly bursting through the gloom of midnight, alongside of his own. Morning dawned, really to unveil to him the object of his fears following almost in the wake of her rival. He glanced in the opposite direction, and beheld the shores of Ireland; in another hour he jumped upon them; but his enemy’s face watched him from the deck of the companion vessel, now not more than a few ropes’ lengths distant.
Shamus mounted a second good horse, and spurred toward home. Often did he look back, but without seeing any cause for increased alarm. As yet, however, the road had been level and winding, and therefore could not allow him to span much of it at a glance. After noon it ascended a high and lengthened hill surrounded by wastes of bog. As he gained the summit of this hill, and again looked back, a horseman appeared, sweeping to its foot. Shamus galloped at full speed down the now quickly falling road; then along its level continuation for about a mile; and then up another eminence, more lengthened, though not so steep as the former; and from it still he looked back, and caught the figure of the horseman breaking over the line of the hill he had passed. For hours such was the character of the chase, until the road narrowed and began to wind amid an uncultivated and uninhabited mountain wilderness. Here Shamus’s horse tripped and fell; the rider, little injured, assisted him to his legs, and, with lash and spur, re-urged him to pursue his course. The animal went forward in a last effort, and for still another span of time well befriended his rider. A rocky valley, through which both had been galloping, now opened at its farther end, presenting to Shamus’s eye, in the distance, the sloping ground, and the ruin which, with its mouldering walls, encircled his poor home; and the setting sun streamed golden rays through the windows and rents of the old abbey.
The fugitive gave a weak cry of joy, and lashed his beast again. The cry seemed to be answered by a shout; and a second time, after a wild plunge, the horse fell, now throwing Shamus off with a force that left him stunned. And yet he heard the hoofs of another horse come thundering down the rocky way; and, while he made a faint effort to rise on his hands and look at his pursuer, the horse and horseman were very near, and the voice of his uncle cried, “Stand!” at the same time that the speaker fired a pistol, of which the ball struck a stone at Shamus’s foot. The next moment his uncle, having left his saddle, stood over him, presenting a second pistol, and he spoke in a low but distinct voice.
“Spawn of a beggar! This is not merely for the chance of riches given by our dreams, though it seems, in the teeth of all I ever thought, that the devil tells truth at last. No, nor it is not quite for the blow; but itisto close the lips that, with a single word, can kill me. You die to let me live!”
“Help!” aspirated Shamus’s heart, turning itself to Heaven. “Help me but now, not for the sake of the goold either, but for the sake of them that will be left on the wild world widout me; for them help me, great God!”
Hitherto his weakness and confusion had left him passive. Before his uncle spoke the last words, his silent prayer was offered, and Shamus had jumped upon his assailant. They struggled and dragged each other down. Shamus felt the muzzle of the pistol at his breast; heard it snap—but only snap; he seized and mastered it, and once more the uncle was at the mercy of his nephew. Shamus’s hand was raised to deal a good blow; but he checked himself, and addressed the almost senseless ears of his captive.
“No; you’re my mother’s blood, and a son of hers will never draw it from your heart; but I can make sure of you again; stop a bit.”
He ran to his own prostrate horse, took off its bridle and its saddle-girth, and with both secured his uncle’s limbs beyond all possibility of the struggler being able to escape from their control.
“There,” resumed Shamus; “lie there till we have time to send an ould friend to see you, that, I’ll go bail, will take good care of your four bones. And do you know where I’m going now? You tould me, on Lunnon Bridge, that you knewthat, at least,” pointing to the abbey; “ay, and the quare ould hearthstone that’s to be found in it. And so, look at this, uncle, honey.” He vaulted upon his relative’s horse. “I’m just goin’ to lift it off o’ the barrel-pot full of good ould goold, and you have only to cry halves, and you’ll get it, as, sure as that the big divil is in the town you came from.”
Nance Dempsey was nursing her new-born babe, sitting up in her straw, and doing very well after her late illness, when old Noreen tottered in from the front of the ruin to tell her that “the body they were just speaking about was driving up the hill mad, like as if’t was his own sperit in great throuble.” And the listener had not recovered from her surprise when Shamus ran into the shed, flung himself, kneeling, by her side, caught her in his arms, then seized her infant, covered it with kisses, and then, roughly throwing it in her lap, turned to the fireplace, raised one of the rocky seats lying near it, poised the ponderous mass over the hearthstone, and shivered into pieces, with one crash, that solid barrier between him and his visionary world of wealth.
“It’s cracked he is out an’ out of a certainty,” said Nance, looking terrified at her husband.
“Nothing else am I,” shouted Shamus, after groping under the broken slab; “an’, for a token, get along wid yourself out of this, ould gran!”
He started up and seized her by the shoulder. Noreen remonstrated. He stooped for a stone; she ran; he pursued her to the arches of the ruin. She stopped half-way down the descent. He pelted her with clods to the bottom, and along a good piece of her road homeward, and then danced back into his wife’s presence.
“Now, Nance,” he cried, “now that we’re by ourselves, what noise is this like?”
“And he took out han’fuls after han’fuls of the ould goold afore her face, my dear,” added the original narrator of this story.
“An’ after the gaugers and their crony, Ould Nick, ran off wid the uncle of him, Nance and he and the childer lived together in their father’s and mother’s house; and if they didn’t live and die happy, I wish that you and I may.”
THERE never was a greater-souled or doughtier tailor than little Neal Malone. Though but four feet four in height, he paced the earth with the courage and confidence of a giant; nay, one would have imagined that he walked as if he feared the world itself was about to give way under him. Let no one dare to say in future that a tailor is but the ninth part of a man. That reproach has been gloriously taken away from the character of the cross-legged corporation by Neal Malone. He has wiped it off like a stain from the collar of a secondhand coat; he has pressed this wrinkle out of the lying front of antiquity; he has drawn together this rent in the respectability of his profession. No. By him who was breeches-maker to the gods,—that is, except, like Highlanders, they eschewed inexpressibles,—by him who cut Jupiter’s frieze jocks for winter, and eke by the bottom of his thimble, we swear that Neal Malone wasmorethan the ninth part of a man.
Setting aside the Patagonians, we maintain that two thirds of mortal humanity were comprised in Neal; and perhaps we might venture to assert that two thirds of Neal’s humanity were equal to six thirds of another man’s. It is right well known that Alexander the Great was a little man, and we doubt whether, had Alexander the Great been bred to the tailoring business, he would have exhibited so much of the hero as Neal Malone. Neal was descended from a fighting family, who had signalised themselves in as many battles as ever any single hero of antiquity fought. His father, his grandfather, and his great-grandfather were all fighting men, and his ancestors in general, up, probably, to Con of the Hundred Battles himself. No wonder, therefore, that Neal’s blood should cry out against the cowardice of his calling; no wonder that he should be an epitome of all that was valorous and heroic in a peaceable man, for we neglected to inform the reader that Neal, though “bearing no base mind,” never fought any man in his own person. That, however, deducted nothing from his courage. If he did not fight it was simply because he found cowardice universal. No man would engage him; his spirit blazed in vain; his thirst for battle was doomed to remain unquenched, except by whisky, and this only increased it. In short, he could find no foe. He has often been known to challenge the first cudgel-players and pugilists of the parish, to provoke men of fourteenstone weight, and to bid mortal defiance to faction heroes of all grades-but in vain. There was that in him which told them that an encounter with Neal would strip them of their laurels. Neal saw all this with a lofty indignation; he deplored the degeneracy of the times, and thought it hard that the descendant of such a fighting family should be doomed to pass through life peaceably, whilst so many excellent rows and riots took place around him. It was a calamity to see every man’s head broken but his own; a dismal thing to observe his neighbours go about with their bones in bandages, yet his untouched, and his friends beat black and blue, whilst his own cuticle remained unscoloured.
“Blur an’ agers!” exclaimed Neal one day, when half tipsy in the fair, “am I never to get a bit o’ figtin’? Is there no cowardly spalpeen to stand afore Neal Malone? Be this an’ be that, I’m blue-mowlded for want of a batin’! I’m disgracin’ my relations by the life I’m ladin’! Will none o’ ye fight me aither for love, money, or whisky, frind or inimy, an’ bad luck to ye? I don’t care a traneen which, only out o’ pure frindship, let us have a morsel o’ the rale kick-up, ’t any rate. Frind or inimy, I say agin, if you regard me; sorethatmakes no differ, only let us have the fight.”
This excellent heroism was all wasted; Neal could not find a single adversary. Except he divided himself like Hotspur, and went to buffets one hand against the other, there was no chance of a fight; no person to be found sufficiently magnanimous to encounter the tailor. On the contrary, every one of his friends—or, in other words, every man in the parish—was ready to support him. He was clapped on the back until his bones were nearly dislocated in his body, and his hand shaken until his arm lost its cunning at the needle for half a week afterward. This, to be sure, was a bitter business, a state of being past endurance. Every man was his friend—no man was his enemy. A desperate position for any person to find himself in, but doubly calamitous to a martial tailor.
Many a dolourous complaint did Neal make upon the misfortune of having none to wish him ill; and what rendered this hardship doubly oppressive was the unlucky fact that no exertions of his, however offensive, could procure him a single foe. In vain did he insult, abuse, and malign all his acquaintances. In vain did he father upon them all the rascality and villainy he could think of; he lied against them with a force and originality that would have made many a modern novelist blush for want of invention—but all to no purpose. The world for once became astonishingly Christian; it paid back all his efforts to excite its resentment with the purest of charity; when Neal struck it on the one cheek, it meekly turned unto him the other. It could scarcely be expected that Neal would bear this. To have the whole world in friendship with a man is beyond doubt an affliction. Not to have the face of a single enemy to look upon would decidedly be considered a deprivation of many agreeable sensations by most people as well as by Neal Malone. Let who might sustain a loss or experience a calamity, it was a matter of indifference to Neal. They were only his friends, and he troubled neither his head nor his heart about them.
Heaven help us! There is no man without his trials; and Neal, the reader perceives, was not exempt from his. What did it avail him that he carried a cudgel ready for all hostile contingencies, or knit his brows and shook his kippeen at the fiercest of his fighting friends? The moment he appeared they softened into downright cordiality. His presence was the signal of peace; for, notwithstanding his unconquerable propensity to warfare, he went abroad as the genius of unanimity, though carrying in his bosom the redoubtable disposition of a warrior; just as the sun, though the source of light himself, is said to be dark enough at bottom.
It could not be expected that Neal, with whatever fortitude he might bear his other afflictions, could bear such tranquillity like a hero. To say that he bore it as one would be basely to surrender his character; for what hero ever bore a state of tranquillity with courage? It affected his cutting out! It produced what Burton calls “a windie melancholie,” which was nothing else than an accumulation of courage that had no means of escaping, if courage can, without indignity, be ever said to escape. He sat uneasy on his lap-board. Instead of cutting out soberly, he flourished his scissors as if he were heading a faction; he wasted much chalk by scoring his cloth in wrong places, and even caught his hot goose without a holder. These symptoms alarmed his friends, who persuaded him to go to a doctor. Neal went to satisfy them; but he knew that no prescription could drive the courage out of him, that he was too far gone in heroism to be made a coward of by apothecary stuff. Nothing in the pharmacopoeia could physic him into a pacific state. His disease was simply the want of an enemy, and an unaccountable superabundance of friendship on the part of his acquaintances. How could a doctor remedy this by a prescription? Impossible. The doctor, indeed, recommended blood-letting; but to lose blood in a peaceable manner was not only cowardly, but a bad cure for courage. Neal declined it: he would lose no blood for any man until he could not help it; which was giving the character of a hero at a single touch.Hisblood was not to be thrown away in this manner; the only lancet ever applied to his relations was the cudgel, and Neal scorned to abandon the principles of his family.
His friends, finding that he reserved his blood for more heroic purposes than dastardly phlebotomy, knew not what to do with him. His perpetual exclamation was, as we have already stated, “I’m blue-mowlded for want of a batin’!” They did everything in their power to cheer him with the hope of a drubbing; told him he lived in an excellent country for a man afflicted with his malady; and promised, if it were at all possible, to create him a private enemy or two, who, they hoped in heaven, might trounce him to some purpose.
This sustained him for a while; but as day after day passed and no appearance of action presented itself, he could not choose but increase in courage. His soul, like a sword-blade too long in the scabbard, was beginning to get fuliginous by inactivity. He looked upon the point of his own needle and the bright edge of his scissors with a bitter pang when he thought of the spirit rusting within him; he meditated fresh insults, studied new plans, and hunted out cunning devices for provoking his acquaintances to battle, until by degrees he began to confound his own brain and to commit more grievous oversights in his business than ever. Sometimes he sent home to one person a coat with the legs of a pair of trousers attached to it for sleeves, and despatched to another the arms of the aforesaid coat tacked together as a pair of trousers. Sometimes the coat was made to button behind instead of before; and he frequently placed the pockets in the lower part of the skirts, as if he had been in league with cutpurses.
This was a melancholy situation, and his friends pitied him accordingly.
“Don’t be cast down, Neal,” said they; “your friends feel for you, poor fellow.”
“Divil carry my frinds,” replied Neal; “sure, there’s not one o’ yez frindly enough to be my inimy. Tare an’ ouns! what’ll I do? I’m blue-mowlded for want of a batin’!”
Seeing that their consolation was thrown away upon him, they resolved to leave him to his fate; which they had no sooner done then Neal had thoughts of taking to the Skiomachia as a last remedy. In this mood he looked with considerable antipathy at his own shadow for several nights; and it is not to be questioned but that some hard battles would have taken place between them had it not been for the cunning of the shadow, which declined to fight him in any other position than with its back to the wall. This occasioned him to pause, for the wall was a fearful antagonist, inasmuch as it knew not when it was beaten; but there was still an alternative left. He went to the garden one clear day about noon, and hoped to have a bout with the shade free from interruption. Both approached, apparently eager for the combat and resolved to conquer or die, when a villainous cloud, happening to intercept the light, gave the shadow an opportunity of disappearing, and Neal found himself once more without an opponent.
“It’s aisy known,” said Neal, “you haven’t thebloodin you, or you’d come to the scratch like a man.”
He now saw that fate was against him, and that any further hostility toward the shadow was only a tempting of Providence. He lost his health, spirits, and everything but his courage. His countenance became pale and peaceful-looking; the bluster departed from him; his body shrank up like a withered parsnip. Thrice was he compelled to take in his clothes, and thrice did he ascertain that much of his time would be necessarily spent in pursuing his retreating person through the solitude of his almost deserted garments.
God knows it is difficult to form a correct opinion upon a situation so parodoxical as Neal’s was. To be reduced to skin and bone by the downright friendship of the world was, as the sagacious reader will admit, next to a miracle. We appeal to the conscience of any man who finds himself without an enemy whether he be not a greater skeleton than the tailor; we will give him fifty guineas provided he can show a calf to his leg. We know he could not; for the tailor had none, and that was because he had not an enemy. No man in friendship with the world ever has calves to his legs. To sum up all in a parodox of our own invention, for which we claim the full credit of originality, we now assert that more men have risen in the world by the injury of their enemies than have risen by the kindness of their friends. You may take this, reader, in any sense; apply it to hanging if you like; it is still immutably and immovably true.
One day Neal sat cross-legged, as tailors usually sit, in the act of pressing a pair of breeches; his hands were placed, backs up, upon the handle of his goose, and his chin rested upon the backs of his hands. To judge from his sorrowful complexion, one would suppose that he sat rather to be sketched as a picture of misery or of heroism in distress than for the industrious purpose of pressing the seams of a garment. There was a great deal of New Burlington Street pathos in his countenance; his face, like the times, was rather out of joint; “the sun was just setting, and his golden beams fell, with a saddened splendor, athwart the tailor’s—” The reader may fill up the picture.
In this position sat Neal when Mr. O’Connor, the schoolmaster, whose inexpressibles he was turning for the third time, entered the workshop. Mr. O’Connor himself was as finished a picture of misery as the tailor. There was a patient, subdued kind of expression in his face which indicated a very fair portion of calamity; his eye seemed charged with affliction of the first water; on each side of his nose might be traced two dry channels, which, no doubt, were full enough while the tropical rains of his countenance lasted. Altogether, to conclude from appearances, it was a dead match in affliction between him and the tailor; both seemed sad, fleshless, and unthriving.
“Misther O’Connor,” said the tailor, when the schoolmaster entered, “won’t you be pleased to sit down?”
Mr. O’Connor sat; and, after wiping his forehead, laid his hat upon the lap-board, put his half-handkerchief in his pocket, and looked upon the tailor. The tailor, in return, looked upon Mr. O’Connor; but neither of them spoke for some minutes. Neal, in fact, appeared to be wrapped up in his own misery, and Mr. O’Connor in his; or, as we often have much gratuitous sympathy for the distresses of our friends, we question but the tailor was wrapped up in Mr. O’Connor’s misery, and Mr. O’Connor in the tailor’s.
Mr. O’Connor at length said: “Neal, are my inexpressibles finished?”
“I am now pressin’ your inexpressibles,” replied Neal; “but, be my sowl, Mr. O’Connor, it’s not your inexpressibles I’m thinkin’ of. I’m not the ninth part o’ what I was. I’d hardly make paddin’ for a collar now.”
“Are you able to carry a staff still, Neal?”
“I’ve a light hazel one that’s handy,” said the tailor, “but where’s the use o’ carryin’ it whin I can get no one to fight wid? Sure, I’m disgracin’ my relations by the life I’m ladin’. I’ll go to my grave widout ever batin’ a man or bein’ bate myself; that’s the vexation. Divil the row ever I was able to kick up in my life; so that I’m fairly blue-mowlded for want of a batin’. But if you have patience—”
“Patience!” said Mr. O’Connor, with a shake of the head that was perfectly disastrous even to look at,—“patience, did you say, Neal?”
“Ay,” said Neal, “an’ be my sowl, if you deny that I said patience I’ll break your head!”
“Ah, Neal,” returned the other, “I don’t deny it; for, though I’m teaching philosophy, knowledge, and mathematics every day in my life, yet I’m learning patience myself both night and day. No, Neal; I have forgotten to deny anything. I have not been guilty of a contradiction, out of my own school, for the last fourteen years. I once expressed the shadow of a doubt about twelve years ago, but ever since I have abandoned even doubting. That doubt was the last expiring effort at maintaining my domestic authority—but I suffered for it.”
“Well,” said Neal, “if you have patience, I’ll tell you what afflicts me from beginnin’ to endin’.”
“Iwillhave patience,” said Mr. O’Connor; and he accordingly heard a dismal and indignant tale from the tailor.
“You have told me that fifty times over,” said Mr. O’Connor, after hearing the story. “Your spirit is too martial for a pacific life. If you follow my advice, I will teach you how to ripple the calm current of your existence to some purpose.Marry a wife. For twenty-five years I have given instruction in three branches, namely, philosophy, knowledge, and mathematics. I am also well versed in matrimony, and I declare that, upon my misery and by the contents of all my afflictions, it is my solemn and melancholy opinion that, if you marry a wife, you will, before three months pass over your concatenated state, not have a single complaint to make touching a superabundance of peace or tranquillity or a love of fighting.”
“Do you mane to say that any woman would make me afeard?” said the tailor, deliberately rising up and getting his cudgel. “I’ll thank you merely to go over the words agin, till I thrasy you widin an inch of your life. That’s all”
“Neal,” said the schoolmaster, meekly, “I won’t fight; I have been too often subdued ever to presume on the hope of a single victory. My spirit is long since evaporated; I am like one of your own shreds, a mere selvage. Do you not know how much my habiliments have shrunk in even within the last five years? Hear me, Neal, and venerate my words as if they proceeded from the lips of a prophet. If you wish to taste the luxury of being subdued—if you are, as you say, blue-moulded for want of a beating, and sick at heart of a peaceful existence—why, marry a wife. Neal, send my breeches home with all haste, for they are wanted, you understand. Farewell.”
Mr. O’Connor, having thus expressed himself, departed; and Neal stood, with the cudgel in his hand, looking at the door out of which he passed, with an expression of fierceness, contempt, and reflection strongly blended on the ruins of his once heroic visage.
Many a man has happiness within his reach if he but knew it. The tailor had been hitherto miserable because he pursued a wrong object. The schoolmaster, however, suggested a train of thought upon which Neal now fastened with all the ardour of a chivalrous temperament. Nay, be wondered that the family spirit should have so completely seized upon the fighting side of his heart as to preclude all thoughts of matrimony; for he could not but remember that his relations were as ready for marriage as for fighting. To doubt this would have been to throw a blot upon his own escutcheon. He therefore very prudently asked himself to whom, if he did not marry, should he transmit his courage. He was a single man, and, dying as such, he would be the sole depository of his own valor, which, like Junius’s secret, must perish with him. If he could have left it as a legacy to such of his friends as were most remarkable for cowardice, why, the case would be altered: but this was impossible, and he had now no other means of preserving it to posterity than by creating a posterity to inherit it. He saw, too, that the world was likely to become convulsed. Wars, as everybody knew, were certain to break out; and would it not be an excellent opportunity for being father to a colonel, or perhaps a general, that might astonish the world?
The change visible in Neal after the schoolmaster’s last visit absolutely thunderstruck all who knew him. The clothes which he had rashly taken in to fit his shrivelled limbs were once more let out. The tailor expanded with a new spirit; his joints ceased to be supple, as in the days of his valor; his eye became less fiery but more brilliant. From being martial, he got desperately gallant; but, somehow, he could not afford to act the hero and lover both at the same time. This, perhaps, would be too much to expect from a tailor. His policy was better. He resolved to bring all his available energy to bear upon the charms of whatever fair nymph he should select for the honour of matrimony; to waste his spirit in fighting would, therefore, be a deduction from the single purpose in view.
The transition from war to love is by no means so remarkable as we might at first imagine. We quote Jack Falstaff in proof of this; or, if the reader be disposed to reject our authority, then we quote Ancient Pistol himself—both of whom we consider as the most finished specimens of heroism that ever carried a safe skin. Acres would have been a hero had he worn gloves to prevent the courage from oozing out at his palms, or not felt such an unlucky antipathy to the “snug lying in the Abbey”; and as for Captain Bobadil, he never had an opportunity of putting his plan for vanquishing an army into practice. We fear, indeed, that neither his character nor Ben Jonson’s knowledge of human nature is properly understood; for it certainly could not be expected that a man whose spirit glowed to encounter a whole host could, without tarnishing his dignity, if closely pressed, condescend to fight an individual. But as these remarks on courage may be felt by the reader as an invidious introduction of a subject disagreeable to him, we beg to hush it for the present and return to the tailor.
No sooner had Neal begun to feel an inclination to matrimony than his friends knew that his principles had veered by the change now visible in his person and deportment. They saw he had ratted from courage and joined love. Heretofore his life had been all winter, darkened by storm and hurricane. The fiercer virtues had played the devil with him; every word was thunder, every look lightning; but now all that had passed away. Before he was thefortiter in re; at present he was thesuaviter in modo. His existence was perfect spring, beautifully vernal. All the amiable and softer qualities began to bud about his heart; a genial warmth was diffused over him; his soul got green within him; every day was serene, and if a cloud happened to become visible, there was a roguish rainbow astride of it, on which sat a beautiful Iris that laughed down at him and seemed to say, “Why the dickens, Neal, don’t you marry a wife?”
Neal could not resist the afflatus which decended on him; an ethereal light dwelled, he thought, upon the face of nature; the colour of the cloth which he cut out from day to day was, to his enraptured eye, like the colour of Cupid’s wings—all purple; his visions were worth their weight in gold; his dreams a credit to the bed he slept on; and his feelings, like blind puppies, young and alive to the milk of love and kindness which they drew from his heart. Most of this delight escaped the observation of the world, for Neal, like your true lover, became shy and mysterious. It is difficult to say what he resembled; no dark lantern ever had more light shut up within itself than Neal had in his soul, although his friends were not aware of it. They knew, indeed, that he had turned his back upon valor; but beyond this their knowledge did not extend.
Neal was shrewd enough to know that what he felt must be love; nothing else could distend him with happiness until his soul felt light and bladderlike but love. As an oyster opens when expecting the tide, so did his soul expand at the contemplation of matrimony. Labour ceased to be a trouble to him; he sang and sewed from morning till night; his hot goose no longer burned him, for his heart was as hot as his goose; the vibrations of his head, at each successive stitch, were no longer sad and melancholy. There was a buoyant shake of exultation in them which showed that his soul was placid and happy within him.
Endless honour be to Neal Malone for the originality with which he managed the tender sentiment! He did not, like your commonplace lovers, first discover a pretty girl and afterward become enamoured of her. No such thing; he had the passion prepared beforehand—cut out and made up, as it were, ready for any girl whom it might fit. This was falling in love in the abstract, and let no man condemn it without a trial, for many a long-winded argument could be urged in its defence. It is always wrong to commence business without capital, and Neal had a good stock to begin with. All we beg is that the reader will not confound it with Platonism, which never marries; but he is at full liberty to call it Socratism, which takes unto itself a wife and suffers accordingly.
Let no one suppose that Neal forgot the schoolmaster’s kindness, or failed to be duly grateful for it. Mr. O’Connor was the first person whom he consulted touching his passion. With a cheerful soul he waited on that melancholy and gentleman-like man, and in the very luxury of his heart told him that he was in love.
“In love, Neal!” said the schoolmaster. “May I inquire with whom?”
“Wid nobody in particular yet,” replied Neal; “but o’ late I’m got divilish fond o’ the girls in general.”
“And do you call that being in love, Neal?” said Mr. O’Connor.
“Why, what else would I call it?” returned the tailor. “Am n’t I fond o’ them?”
“Then it must be what is termed the ‘universal passion,’ Neal,” observed Mr. O’Connor, “although it is the first time I have seen such an illustration of it as you present in your own person.”
“I wish you would advise me how to act,” said Neal; “I’m as happy as a prince since I began to get fond o’ them an’ to think o’ marriage.”
The schoolmaster shook his head again, and looked rather miserable. Neal rubbed his hands with glee, and looked perfectly happy. The schoolmaster shook his head again, and looked more miserable than before. Neal’s happiness also increased on the second rubbing.
Now, to tell the secret at once, Mr. O’Connor would not have appeared so miserable were it not for Neal’s happiness; nor Neal so happy were it not for Mr. O’Connor’s misery. It was all the result of contrast; but this you will not understand unless you be deeply read in modern novels.
Mr. O’Connor, however, was a man of sense, who knew, upon this principle, that the longer he continued to shake his head the more miserable he must become, and the more also would he increase Neal’s happiness; but he had no intention of increasing Neal’s happiness at his own expense—for, upon the same hypothesis, it would have been for Neal’s interest had he remained shaking his head there and getting miserable until the day of judgment. He consequently declined giving the third shake, for he thought that plain conversation was, after all, more significant and forcible than the most eloquent nod, however ably translated.
“Neal,” said he, “could you, by stretching your imagination, contrive to rest contented with nursing your passion in solitude, and love the sex at a distance?”
“How could I nurse and mind my business?” replied the tailor. “I’ll never nurse so long as I’ll have the wife; and as for ’magination, it depends upon the grain o’it whether I can stretch it or not. I don’t know that I ever made a coat o’it in my life.”
“You don’t understand me, Neal,” said the schoolmaster. “In recommending marriage, I was only driving one evil out of you by introducing another. Do you think that, if you abandoned all thoughts of a wife, you would get heroic again—that is, would you take once more to the love of fighting?”
“There is no doubt but I would,” said the tailor; “if I miss the wife, I’ll kick up such a dust as never was seen in the parish, an’ you’re the first man that I’ll lick. But now that I’m in love,” he continued, “sure, I ought to look out for the wife.”
“Ah, Neal,” said the schoolmaster, “you are tempting destiny; your temerity be, with all its melancholy consequences, upon your own head.”
“Come,” said the tailor; “it wasn’t to hear you groaning to the tune o’ ‘Dhrimmindhoo,’ or ‘The old woman rockin’ her cradle,’ that I came; but to know if you could help me in makin’ out the wife. That’s the discoorse.”
“Look at me, Neal,” said the schoolmaster, solemnly. “I am at this moment, and have been any time for the last fifteen years, a livingcavetoagainst matrimony. I do not think that earth possesses such a luxury as a single solitary life. Neal, the monks of old were happy men; they were all fat and had double chins; and, Neal, I tell you that all fat men are in general happy. Care cannot come at them so readily as at a thin man; before it gets through the strong outworks of flesh and blood with which they are surrounded, it becomes treacherous to its original purpose, joins the cheerful spirits it meets in the system, and dances about the heart in all the madness of mirth; just like a sincere ecclesiastic who comes to lecture a good fellow against drinking, but who forgets his lecture over his cups, and is laid under the table with such success that he either never comes to finish his lecture, or comes often to be laid under the table. Look at me, Neal, how wasted, fleshless, and miserable I am. You know how my garments have shrunk in, and what a solid man I was before marriage. Neal, pause, I beseech you; otherwise you stand a strong chance of becoming a nonentity like myself.”
“I don’t care what I become,” said the tailor; “I can’t think that you’d be so unreasonable as to expect that any o’ the Malones should pass out o’ the world widout either bein’ bate or marrid. Have reason, Mr. O’Connor, an’ if you can help me to the wife I promise to take in your coat the next time for nothin’.”
“Well, then,” said Mr. O’Connor, “what would you think of the butcher’s daughter, Biddy Neil? You have always had a thirst for blood, and here you may have it gratified in an innocent manner, should you ever become sanguinary again. ’T is true, Neal, she is twice your size and possesses three times your strength; but for that very reason, Neal, marry her if you can. Large animals are placid; and Heaven preserve those bachelors whom I wish well from a small wife; ’t is such who always wield the sceptre of domestic life and rule their husbands with a rod of iron.”
“Say no more, Mr. O’Connor,” replied the tailor; “she’s the very girl I’m in love wid, an’ never fear but I’ll overcome her heart if it can be done by man. Now, step over the way to my house, an’ we’ll have a sup on the head o’ it. Who’s that calling?”
“Ah, Neal, I know the tones—there’s a shrillness in them not to be mistaken. Farewell! I must depart; you have heard the proverb, ‘Those who are bound must obey.’ Young Jack, I presume, is squalling, and I must either nurse him, rock the cradle, or sing comic tunes for him, though Heaven knows with what a disastrous heart I often sing, ‘Begone, dull care,’ the ‘Rakes of Newcastle,’ or, ‘Peas upon a Trencher.’ Neal, I say again, pause before you take this leap in the dark. Pause, Neal, I entreat you. Farewell!”
Neal, however, was gifted with the heart of an Irishman, and scorned caution as the characteristic of a coward; he had, as it appeared, abandoned all design of fighting, but the courage still adhered to him even in making love. He consequently conducted the siege of Biddy Neil’s heart with a degree of skill and valor which would not have come amiss to Marshal Gerald at the siege of Antwerp. Locke or Dugald Stewart, indeed, had they been cognisant of the tailor’s triumph, might have illustrated the principle on which he succeeded; as to ourselves, we can only conjecture it. Our own opinion is that they were both animated with a congenial spirit. Biddy was the very pink of pugnacity, and could throw in a body-blow or plant a facer with singular energy and science. Her prowess hitherto had, we confess, been displayed only within the limited range of domestic life; but should she ever find it necessary to exercise it upon a larger scale, there was no doubt whatsoever, in the opinion of her mother, brothers, and sisters, every one of whom she had successively subdued, that she must undoubtedly distinguish herself. There was certainly one difficulty which the tailor hadnotto encounter in the progress of fats courtship: the field was his own, he had not a rival to dispute his claim. Neither was there any opposition given by her friends; they were, on the contrary, all anxious for the match; and when the arrangements were concluded, Neal felt his hand squeezed by them in succession, with an expression more resembling condolence than joy. Neal, however, had been bred to tailoring, and not to metaphysics; he could cut out a coat very well, but we do not say that he could trace a principle—as what tailor, except Jeremy Taylor, could?
There was nothing particular in the wedding. Mr. O’Connor was asked by Neal to be present at it; but he shook his head, and told him that he had not courage to attend it or inclination to witness any man’s sorrows but his own. He met the wedding-party by accident, and was heard to exclaim with a sigh as they flaunted past him in gay exuberance of spirits: “Ah, poor Neal! he is going like one of her father’s cattle to the shambles! Woe is me for having suggested matrimony to the taylor! He will not long be under the necessity of saying that he is ‘blue-moulded for want of a beating.’ The butcheress will fell him like a Kerry ox, and I may have his blood to answer for and his discomfiture to feel for in addition to my own miseries.”
On the evening of the wedding-day, about the hour of ten o’clock, Neal, whose spirits were uncommonly exalted, for his heart luxuriated within him, danced with his bridesmaid; after the dance he sat beside her, and got eloquent in praise of her beauty; and it is said, too, that he whispered to her and chucked her chin with considerable gallantry. Thetête-à-têtecontinued for some time without exciting particular attention, with one exception; butthatexception was worth a whole chapter of general rules. Mrs. Malone rose up, then sat down again and took off a glass of the native; she got up a second time; all the wife rushed upon her heart. She approached them, and, in a fit of the most exquisite sensibility, knocked the bridesmaid down, and gave the tailor a kick of affecting pathos upon the inexpressibles. The whole scene was a touching one on both sides. The tailor was sent on all-fours to the floor, but Mrs. Malone took him quietly up, put him under her arm as one would a lap-dog, and with stately step marched away to the connubial apartment, in which everything remained very quiet for the rest of the night.
The next morning Mr. O’Connor presented himself to congratulate the tailor on his happiness. Neal, as his friend, shook hands with him, gave the schoolmaster’s fingers a slight squeeze, such as a man gives who would gently entreat your sympathy. The schoolmaster looked at him, and thought he shook his head. Of this, however, he could not be certain; for, as he shook his own during the moment of observation, he concluded that it might be a mere mistake of the eye, or, perhaps, the result of a mind predisposed to be credulous on the subject of shaking heads.
We wish it were in our power to draw a veil, or curtain, or blind of some description, over the remnant of the tailor’s narrative that is to follow; but as it is the duty of every faithful historian to give the secret causes of appearances which the world in general does not understand, so we think it but honest to go on, impartially and faithfully, without shrinking from the responsibility that is frequently annexed to truth.
For the first three days after matrimony Neal felt like a man who had been translated to a new and more lively state of existence. He had expected, and flattered himself, that the moment this event should take place he would once more resume his heroism, and experience the pleasure of a drubbing. This determination he kept a profound secret; nor was it known until a future period, when he disclosed it to Mr. O’Connor. He intended, therefore, that marriage should be nothing more than a mere parenthesis in his life—a kind of asterisk, pointing, in a note at the bottom, to this single exception in his general conduct—a nota bene to the spirit of a martial man, intimating that he had been peaceful only for a while. In truth, he was, during the influence of love over him and up to the very day of his marriage, secretly as blue-moulded as ever for want of a beating. The heroic penchant lay snugly latent in his heart, unchecked and unmodified. He flattered himself that he was achieving a capital imposition upon the world at large, that he was actually hoaxing mankind in general, and that such an excellent piece of knavish tranquillity had never been perpetrated before his time.
On the first week after his marriage there chanced to be a fair in the next market-town. Neal, after breakfast, brought forward a bunch of shillalahs, in order to select the best; the wife inquired the purpose of the selection, and Neal declared that he was resolved to have a fight that day if it were to be had, he said, for “love or money.” “The truth is,” he exclaimed, strutting with fortitude about the house, “the truth is, that I’vedonethe whole of yez—I’m as blue-mowlded as ever for want of a batin’.”
“Don’t go,” said the wife.
“Iwillgo,” said Neal, with vehemence; “I’ll go if the whole parish was to go to prevint me.”
In about another half-hour Neal sat down quietly to his business instead of going to the fair!
Much ingenious speculation might be indulged in upon this abrupt termination to the tailor’s most formidable resolution; but, for our own part, we will prefer going on with the narrative, leaving the reader at liberty to solve the mystery as he pleases. In the meantime we say this much; let those who cannot make it out carry it to their tailor; it is a tailor’s mystery, and no one has so good a right to understand it—except, perhaps, a tailor’s wife.
At the period of his matrimony Neal had become as plump and as stout as he ever was known to be in his plumpest and stoutest days. He and the schoolmaster had been very intimate about this time; but we know not how it happened that soon afterward he felt a modest, bride-like reluctance in meeting with that afflicted gentleman. As the eve of his union approached, he was in the habit, during the schoolmaster’s visits to his workshop, of alluding, in rather a sarcastic tone, considering the unthriving appearance of his friend, to the increasing lustiness of his person. Nay, he has often leaped up from his lap-board, and, in the strong spirit of exultation, thrust out his leg in attestation of his assertion, slapping it, moreover, with a loud laugh of triumph that sounded like a knell to the happiness of his emaciated acquaintance. The schoolmaster’s philosophy, however, unlike his flesh, never departed from him; his usual observation was, “Neal, we are both receding from the same point; you increase in flesh, whilst I, Heaven help me, am fast diminishing.”
The tailor received these remarks with very boisterous mirth, whilst Mr. O’Connor simply shook his head and looked sadly upon his limbs, now shrouded in a superfluity of garments, somewhat resembling a slender thread of water in a shallow summer stream nearly wasted away and surrounded by an unproportionate extent of channel.
The fourth month after the marriage arrived, Neal, one day near its close, began to dress himself in his best apparel. Even then, when buttoning his waistcoat, he shook his head after the manner of Mr. O’Connor, and made observations upon the great extent to which it over-folded him.
“Well,” thought he with a sigh, “this waistcoat certainlydidfit me to a T; but it’s wonderful to think how—cloth stretches!”
“Neal,” said the wife, on perceiving him dressed, “where are you bound for?”
“Faith,for life” replied Neal, with a mitigated swagger; “and I’d as soon, if it had been the will of Provid—”
He paused.
“Where are you going?” asked the wife a second time.
“Why,” he answered, “only to dance at Jemmy Connolly’s; I’ll be back early.”
“Don’t go,” said the wife.
“I’ll go,” said Neal, “if the whole counthry was to prevint me. Thunder an’ lightnin’, woman, who am I?” he exclaimed, in a loud, but rather infirm voice. “Am n’t I Neal Malone, that never met amanwho’d fight him? Neal Malone, that was never beat byman! Why, tare an’ ouns, woman! Whoo! I’ll get enraged some time, an’ play the divil! Who’s afeard, I say?”
“Don’t go,” added the wife a third time, giving Neal a significant look in the face.
In about another half-hour Neal sat down quietly to his business instead of going to the dance!
Neal now turned himself, like many a sage in similar circumstances, to philosophy; that is to say, he began to shake his head upon principle, after the manner of the schoolmaster. He would, indeed, have preferred the bottle upon principle; but there was no getting at the bottle except through the wife, and it so happened that by the time it reached him there was little consolation left in it. Neal bore all in silence; for silence, his friend had often told him, was a proof of wisdom.
Soon after this, Neal one evening met Mr. O’Connor by chance upon a plank which crossed a river. This plank was only a foot in breadth, so that no two individuals could pass each other upon it. We cannot find words in which to express the dismay of both on finding that they absolutely glided past each other without collision.
Both paused and surveyed each other solemnly; but the astonishment was all on the side of Mr. O’Connor.
“Neal,” said the schoolmaster, “by all the household gods, I conjure you to speak, that I may be assured you live!”
The ghost of a blush crossed the churchyard visage of the tailor.
“Oh!” he exclaimed, “why the divil did you tempt me to marry a wife?”
“Neal,” said his friend, “answer me in the most solemn manner possible; throw into your countenance all the gravity you can assume; speak as if you were under the hands of the hangman, with the rope about your neck, for the question is indeed a trying one which I am about to put. Are you still ‘blue-moulded for want of a beating’?”
The tailor collected himself to make a reply; he put one leg out—the very leg which he used to show in triumph to his friend, but, alas, how dwindled! He opened his waistcoat and lapped it round him until he looked like a weasel on its hind legs. He then raised himself up on his tiptoes, and, in an awful whisper, replied, “No!!! the divil a bit I’m blue-mowlded for want of a batin’!”
The schoolmaster shook his head in his own miserable manner; but, alas! he soon perceived that the tailor was as great an adept at shaking the head as himself. Nay, he saw that there was a calamitous refinement, a delicacy of shake in the tailor’s vibrations, which gave to his own nod a very commonplace character.
The next day the tailor took in his clothes; and from time to time continued to adjust them to the dimensions of his shrinking person. The schoolmaster and he, whenever they could steal a moment, met and sympathised together. Mr. O’Connor, however, bore up somewhat better than Neal. The latter was subdued in heart and in spirit, thoroughly, completely, and intensely vanquished. His features became sharpened by misery, for a termagant wife is the whetstone on which all the calamities of a henpecked husband are painted by the devil. He no longer strutted as he was wont to do, he no longer carried a cudgel as if he wished to wage a universal battle with mankind. He was now a married man. Sneakingly, and with a cowardly crawl, did he creep along, as if every step brought him nearer to the gallows. The schoolmaster’s march of misery was far slower than Neal’s, the latter distanced him. Before three years passed he had shrunk up so much that he could not walk abroad of a windy day without carrying weights in his pockets to keep him firm on the earth which he once trod with the step of a giant. He again sought the schoolmaster, with whom, indeed, he associated as much as possible. Here he felt certain of receiving sympathy; nor was he disappointed. That worthy but miserable man and Neal often retired beyond the hearing of their respective wives, and supported each other by every argument in their power. Often have they been heard in the dusk of evening singing behind a remote hedge that melancholy ditty, “Let usbothbe unhappy together,” which rose upon the twilight breeze with a cautious quaver of sorrow truly heartrending and lugubrious.
“Neal,” said Mr. O’Connor on one of those occasions, “here is a book which I recommend to your perusal; it is called ‘The Afflicted Man’s Companion’; try if you cannot glean some consolation out of it.”
“Faith,” said Neal, “I’m forever oblaged to you, but I don’t want it. I’ve had ‘The Afflicted Man’s Companion’ too long, and not an atom o’ consolation I can get out of it. I haveoneo’ them, I tell you; but, be my sowl, I’ll not undertakea pairo’ them. The very name’s enough for me.” They then separated.
The tailor’s vis vitae must have been powerful or he would have died. In two years more his friends could not distinguish him from his own shadow, a circumstance which was of great inconvenience to him. Several grasped at the hand of the shadow instead of his; and one man was near paying it five and sixpence for making a pair of small-clothes. Neal, it is true, undeceived him with some trouble, but candidly admitted that he was not able to carry home the money. It was difficult, indeed, for the poor tailor to bear what he felt; it is true he bore it as long as he could; but at length he became suicidal, and often had thoughts of “making his own quietus with his bare bodkin.” After many deliberations and afflictions, he ultimately made the attempt; but, alas! he found that the blood of the Malones refused to flow upon so ignominious an occasion. Sohesolved the phenomenon; although the truth was that his blood was not “i’ the vein” for it; none was to be had. What then was to be done? He resolved to get rid of life by some process, and the next that occurred to him was hanging. In a solemn spirit he prepared a selvage, and suspended himself from the rafter of his workshop. But here another disappointment awaited him, he would not hang. Such was his want of gravity that his own weight proved insufficient to occasion his death by mere suspension. His third attempt was at drowning; but he was too light to sink; all the elements, all his own energies, joined themselves, he thought, in a wicked conspiracy to save his life. Having thus tried every avenue to destruction, and failed in all, he felt like a man doomed to live forever. Henceforward he shrank and shrivelled by slow degrees, until in the course of time he became so attenuated that the grossness of human vision could no longer reach him.
This, however, could not last always. Though still alive, he was to all intents and purposes imperceptible. He could only now be heard; he was reduced to a mere essence; the very echo of human existence, vox etpraeterea nihil. It is true the schoolmaster asserted that he occasionally caught passing glimpses of him; but that was because he had been himself nearly spiritualised by affliction, and his visual ray purged in the furnace of domestic tribulation. By-and-by Neal’s voice lessened, got fainter and more indistinct, until at length nothing but a doubtful murmur could be heard, which ultimately could scarcely be distinguished from a ringing in the ears.
Such was the awful and mysterious fate of the tailor, who, as a hero, could not, of course, die; he merely dissolved like an icicle, wasted into immateriality, and finally melted away beyond the perception of mortal sense. Mr. O’Connor is still living, and once more in the fulness of perfect health and strength. His wife, however, we may as well hint, has been dead more than two years.
OF all the superstitions prevalent amongst the natives of Ireland at any period, past or present, there is none so grand or fanciful, none which has been so universally assented to or so cordially cherished, as the belief in the existence of the banshee. There are very few, however remotely acquainted with Irish life or Irish history, but must have heard or read of the Irish banshee; still, as there are different stories and different opinions afloat respecting this strange being, I think a little explanation concerning her appearance, functions, and habits will not be unacceptable to my readers.
The banshee, then, is said to be an immaterial and immortal being, attached, time out of mind, to various respectable and ancient families in Ireland, and is said always to appear to announce, by cries and lamentations, the death of any member of that family to which she belongs. She always comes at night, a short time previous to the death of the fated one, and takes her stand outside, convenient to the house, and there utters the most plaintive cries and lamentations, generally in some unknown language, and in a tone of voice resembling a human female. She continues her visits night after night, unless vexed or annoyed, until the mourned object dies, and sometimes she is said to continue about the house for several nights after. Sometimes she is said to appear in the shape of a most beautiful young damsel, and dressed in the most elegant and fantastic garments; but her general appearance is in the likeness of a very old woman, of small stature and bending and decrepit form, enveloped in a winding-sheet or grave-dress, and her long, white, hoary hair waving over her shoulders and descending to her feet. At other times she is dressed in the costume of the middle ages—the different articles of her clothing being of the richest material and of a sable hue. She is very shy and easily irritated, and, when once annoyed or vexed, she flies away, and never returns during the same generation. When the death of the person whom she mourns is contingent, or to occur by unforeseen accident, she is particularly agitated and troubled in her appearance, and unusually loud and mournful in her lamentations. Some would fain have it that this strange being is actuated by a feeling quite inimical to the interests of the family which she haunts, and that she comes with joy and triumph to announce their misfortunes. This opinion, however, is rejected by most people, who imagine her their most devoted friend, and that she was, at some remote period, a member of the family, and once existed on the earth in life and loveliness. It is not every Irish family can claim the honour of an attendant banshee; they must be respectably descended, and of ancient line, to have any just pretensions to a warning spirit. However, she does not appear to be influenced by the difference of creed or clime, provided there be no other impediment, as several Protestant families of Norman and Anglo-Saxon origin boast of their own banshee; and to this hour several noble and distinguished families in the country feel proud of the surveillance of that mysterious being. Neither is she influenced by the circumstances of rank or fortune, as she is oftener found frequenting the cabin of the peasant than the baronial mansion of the lord of thousands. Even the humble family to which the writer of this tale belongs has long claimed the honourable appendage of a banshee; and it may, perhaps, excite an additional interest in my readers when I inform them that my present story is associated with her last visit to that family.
Some years ago there dwelt in the vicinity of Mountrath, in the Queen’s County, a farmer, whose name for obvious reasons we shall not at present disclose. He never was married, and his only domestics were a servant-boy and an old woman, a housekeeper, who had long been a follower or dependent of the family. He was born and educated in the Roman Catholic Church, but on arriving at manhood, for reasons best known to himself, he abjured the tenets of that creed and conformed to the doctrines of Protestantism. However, in after years he seemed to waver, and refused going to church, and by his manner of living seemed to favour the dogmas of infidelity or atheism. He was rather dark and reserved in his manner, and oftentimes sullen and gloomy in his temper; and this, joined with his well-known disregard of religion, served to render him somewhat unpopular amongst his neighbours and acquaintances. However, he was in general respected, and was never insulted or annoyed. He was considered as an honest, inoffensive man, and as he was well supplied with firearms and ammunition,—in the use of which he was well practised, having, in his early days, served several years in a yeomanry corps,—few liked to disturb him, even had they been so disposed. He was well educated, and decidedly hostile to every species of superstition, and was constantly jeering his old housekeeper, who was extremely superstitious, and pretended to be entirely conversant with every matter connected with witchcraft and the fairy world. He seldom darkened a neighbour’s door, and scarcely ever asked any one to enter his, but generally spent his leisure hours in reading, of which he was extremely fond, or in furbishing his firearms, to which he was still more attached, or in listening to and laughing at the wild and blood-curdling stories of old Moya, with which her memory abounded. Thus he spent his time until the period at which our tale commences, when he was about fifty years of age, and old Moya, the housekeeper, had become extremely feeble, stooped, and of very ugly and forbidding exterior. One morning in the month of November, A.D. 1818, this man arose before daylight, and on coming out of the apartment where he slept he was surprised at finding old Moya in the kitchen, sitting over the raked-up fire, and smoking her tobacco-pipe in a very serious and meditative mood.
“Arrah, Moya,” said he, “what brings you out of your bed so early?”
“Och musha, I dunna,” replied the old woman; “I was so uneasy all night that I could not sleep a wink, and I got up to smoke a blast, thinkin’ that it might drive away the weight that’s on my heart.”
“And what ails you, Moya? Are you sick, or what came over you?”
“No, the Lord be praised! I am not sick, but my heart is sore, and there’s a load on my spirits that would kill a hundred.”
“Maybe you were dreaming, or something that way,” said the man, in a bantering tone, and suspecting, from the old woman’s grave manner, that she was labouring under some mental delusion.
“Dreaming!” reechoed Moya, with a bitter sneer; “ay, dreaming. Och, I wish to God I wasonly dreaming; but I am very much afraid it is worse than that, and that there is trouble and misfortune hanging over uz.”
“And what makes you think so, Moya?” asked he, with a half-suppressed smile.
Moya, aware of his well-known hostility to every species of superstition, remained silent, biting her lips and shaking her gray head prophetically.
“Why don’t you answer me, Moya?” again asked the man.
“Och,” said Moya, “I am heart-scalded to have it to tell you, and I know you will laugh at me; but, say what you will, there is something bad over uz, for the banshee was about the house all night, and she has me almost frightened out of my wits with her shouting and bawling.”
The man was aware of the banshee’s having been long supposed to haunt his family, but often scouted that supposition; yet, as it was some years since he had last heard of her visiting the place, he was not prepared for the freezing announcement of old Moya. He turned as pale as a corpse, and trembled excessively; at last, recollecting himself, he said, with a forced smile:
“And how do you know it was the banshee, Moya?”
“How do I know?” reiterated Moya, tauntingly. “Didn’t I see and hear her several times during the night? and more than that, didn’t I hear the dead-coach rattling round the house, and through the yard, every night at midnight this week back, as if it would tear the house out of the foundation?”
The man smiled faintly; he was frightened, yet was ashamed to appear so. He again said:
“And did you ever see the banshee before, Moya?”
“Yes,” replied Moya, “often. Didn’t I see her when your mother died? Didn’t I see her when your brother was drowned? and sure, there wasn’t one of the family that went these sixty years that I did not both see and hear her.”
“And where did you see her, and what way did she look to-night?”
“I saw her at the little window over my bed; a kind of reddish light shone round the house; I looked up, and there I saw her old, pale face and glassy eyes looking in, and she rocking herself to and fro, and clapping her little, withered hands, and crying as if her very heart would break.”
“Well, Moya, it’s all imagination; go, now, and prepare my breakfast, as I want to go to Maryborough to-day, and I must be home early.”
Moya trembled; she looked at him imploringly and said: “For Heaven’s sake, John, don’t go to-day; stay till some other day, and God bless you; for if you go to-day I would give my oath there will something cross you that’s bad.”
“Nonsense, woman!” said he; “make haste and get me my breakfast.”
Moya, with tears in her eyes, set about getting the breakfast ready; and whilst she was so employed John was engaged in making preparations for his journey.
Having now completed his other arrangements, he sat down to breakfast, and, having concluded it, he arose to depart.
Moya ran to the door, crying loudly; she flung herself on her knees, and said: “John, John, be advised. Don’t go to-day; take my advice; I know more of the world than you do, and I see plainly that if you go you will never enter this door again with your life.”
Ashamed to be influenced by the drivellings of an old cullough, he pushed her away with his hand, and, going out to the stable, mounted his horse and departed. Moya followed him with her eyes whilst in sight; and when she could no longer see him, she sat down at the fire and wept bitterly.
It was a bitter cold day, and the farmer, having finished his business in town, feeling himself chilly, went into a public-house to have a tumbler of punch and feed his horse; there he met an old friend, who would not part with him until he would have another glass with him and a little conversation, as it was many years since they had met before. One glass brought another, and it was almost duskish ere John thought of returning, and, having nearly ten miles to travel, it would be dark night before he could get home. Still his friend would not permit him to go, but called for more liquor, and it was far advanced in the night before they parted. John, however, had a good horse, and, having had him well fed, he did not spare whip or spur, but dashed along at a rapid pace through the gloom and silence of the winter’s night, and had already distanced the town upward of five miles, when, on arriving at a very desolate part of the road, a gunshot, fired from behind the bushes, put an end to his mortal existence. Two strange men, who had been at the same public-house in Maryborough drinking, observing that he had money and learning the road that he was to travel, conspired to rob and murder him, and waylaid him in this lonely spot for that horrid purpose.
Poor Moya did not go to bed that night, but sat at the fire, every moment impatiently expecting his return. Often did she listen at the door to try if she could hear the tramp of the horse’s footsteps approaching. But in vain; no sound met her ear except the sad wail of the night wind, moaning fitfully through the tall bushes which surrounded the ancient dwelling, or the sullen roar of a little dark river, which wound its way through the lowlands at a small distance from where she stood. Tired with watching, at length she fell asleep on the hearth-stone; but that sleep was disturbed and broken, and frightful and appalling dreams incessantly haunted her imagination.
At length the darksome morning appeared struggling through the wintry clouds, and Moya again opened the door to look out. But what was her dismay when she found the horse standing at the stable door without his rider, and the saddle all besmeared with clotted blood. She raised the death-cry; the neighbours thronged round, and it was at once declared that the hapless man was robbed and murdered. A party on horseback immediately set forward to seek him, and on arriving at the fatal spot he was found stretched on his back in the ditch, his head perforated with shot and slugs, and his body literally immersed in a pool of blood. On examining him it was found that his money was gone, and a valuable gold watch and appendages abstracted from his pocket. His remains were conveyed home, and, after having been waked the customary time, were committed to the grave of his ancestors in the little green churchyard of the village.
Having no legitimate children, the nearest heir to his property was a brother, a cabinet-maker, who resided in London. A letter was accordingly despatched to the brother announcing the sad catastrophe, and calling on him to come and take possession of the property; and two men were appointed to guard the place until he should arrive.