well-known song of Deardra.
The Irish _Merrow_ answers exactly to the English Mermaid. It
is also used to express a sea-monster, like the Armorick and
Cornish _Morhuch_, to which it evidently bears analogy.
The romantic historians of Ireland describe the _Suire_ as
playing round the ships of the Milesians when on their passage
to that Island.
THE DULLAHAN.
“Then wonder not at _headless folk_,
Since every day you greet ’em;
Nor treat old stories as a joke,
When fools you daily meet ’em.”
—_The Legendary._
“Says the friar, ’tis strange headless horses should trot.”
_Old Song._
THE GOOD WOMAN.
XXVI.
In a pleasant and not unpicturesque valley of the White Knight’s
country, at the foot of the Galtee mountains, lived Larry Dodd and his
wife Nancy. They rented a cabin and a few acres of land, which they
cultivated with great care, and its crops rewarded their industry.
They were independent and respected by their neighbours; they loved
each other in a marriageable sort of way, and few couples had
altogether more the appearance of comfort about them.
Larry was a hard working, and, occasionally, a hard drinking,
Dutch-built, little man, with a fiddle head and a round stern; a
steady-going straight-forward fellow, barring when he carried too much
whisky, which, it must be confessed, might occasionally prevent his
walking the chalked line with perfect philomathical accuracy. He had a
moist, ruddy countenance, rather inclined to an expression of gravity,
and particularly so in the morning; but, taken all together he was
generally looked upon as a marvellously proper person, notwithstanding
he had, every day in the year, a sort of unholy dew upon his face,
even in the coldest weather, which gave rise to a supposition (amongst
censorious persons, of course,) that Larry was apt to indulge in
strong and frequent potations. However, all men of talents have their
faults,—indeed, who is without them?—and as Larry, setting aside his
domestic virtues and skill in farming, was decidedly the most
distinguished breaker of horses for forty miles round, he must be in
some degree excused, considering the inducements of “the stirrup cup,”
and the fox-hunting society in which he mixed, if he had also been the
greatest drunkard in the county: but, in truth, this was not the case.
Larry was a man of mixed habits, as well in his mode of life and his
drink, as in his costume. His dress accorded well with his
character—a sort of half-and-half between farmer and horse-jockey. He
wore a blue coat of coarse cloth, with short skirts, and a stand-up
collar; his waistcoat was red, and his lower habiliments were made of
leather, which in course of time had shrunk so much, that they fitted
like a second skin; and long use had absorbed their moisture to such a
degree, that they made a strange sort of crackling noise as he walked
along. A hat covered with oil-skin; a cutting-whip, all worn and jagged
at the end; a pair of second-hand, or, to speak more correctly
second-footed, greasy top boots, that seemed never to have imbibed a
refreshing draught of Warren’s blacking of matchless lustre!—and one
spur without a rowel, completed the every-day dress of Larry Dodd.
Thus equipped was Larry returning from Cashel, mounted on a
rough-coated and wall-eyed nag, though, notwithstanding these and a
few other trifling blemishes, a well-built animal; having just
purchased the said nag, with a fancy that he could make his own money
again of his bargain, and, may be, turn an odd penny more by it at the
ensuing Kildorrery fair. Well pleased with himself, he trotted fair
and easy along the road in the delicious and lingering twilight of a
lovely June evening, thinking of nothing at all, only whistling, and
wondering would horses always be so low. “If they go at this rate,”
said he to himself, “for half nothing, and that paid in butter buyer’s
notes, who would be the fool to walk?” This very thought, indeed, was
passing in his mind, when his attention was roused by a woman pacing
quickly by the side of his horse and hurrying on as if endeavouring to
reach her destination before the night closed in. Her figure,
considering the long strides she took, appeared to be under the common
size—rather of the dumpy order; but farther, as to whether the damsel
was young or old, fair or brown, pretty or ugly, Larry could form no
precise notion, from her wearing a large cloak (the usual garb of the
female Irish peasant,) the hood of which was turned up, and completely
concealed every feature.
Enveloped in this mass of dark and concealing drapery, the strange
woman, without much exertion, contrived to keep up with Larry Dodd’s
steed for some time, when his master very civilly offered her a lift
behind him, as far as he was going her way. “Civility begets
civility,” they say; however he received no answer; and thinking that
the lady’s silence proceeded only from bashfulness, like a man of true
gallantry, not a word more said Larry until he pulled up by the side
of a gap, and then says he, “_Ma colleen beg_,[22] just jump up behind
me, without a word more, though never a one have you spoke, and I’ll
take you safe and sound through the lonesome bit of road that is
before us.”
[22] My little girl.
She jumped at the offer, sure enough, and up with her on the back of
the horse as light as a feather. In an instant there she was seated up
behind Larry, with her hand and arm buckled round his waist holding
on.
“I hope you’re comfortable there, my dear,” said Larry, in his own
good-humoured way; but there was no answer; and on they went—trot,
trot, trot—along the road; and all was so still and so quiet, that
you might have heard the sound of the hoofs on the limestone a mile
off; for that matter there was nothing else to hear except the moaning
of a distant stream, that kept up a continued _cronane_,[23] like a
nurse _hushoing_. Larry, who had a keen ear, did not, however, require
so profound a silence to detect the click of one of the shoes. “’Tis
only loose the shoe is,” said he to his companion, as they were just
entering on the lonesome bit of road of which he had before spoken.
Some old trees, with huge trunks, all covered, and irregular branches
festooned with ivy, grew over a dark pool of water, which had been
formed as a drinking-place for cattle; and in the distance was seen
the majestic head of Gaultee-more. Here the horse, as if in grateful
recognition, made a dead halt; and Larry, not knowing what vicious
tricks his new purchase might have, and unwilling that through any odd
chance the young woman should get _spilt_ in the water, dismounted,
thinking to lead the horse quietly by the pool.
[23] A monotonous song; a drowsy humming noise.
“By the piper’s luck, that always found what he wanted,” said Larry,
recollecting himself, “I’ve a nail in my pocket: ’tis not the first
time I’ve put on a shoe, and may be it won’t be the last; for here is
no want of paving-stones to make hammers in plenty.”
No sooner was Larry off, than off with a spring came the young woman
just at his side. Her feet touched the ground without making the least
noise in life, and away she bounded like an ill-mannered wench, as she
was, without saying, “by your leave,” or no matter what else. She
seemed to glide rather than run, not along the road, but across a
field, up towards the old ivy-covered walls of Kilnaslattery
church—and a pretty church it was.
“Not so fast, if you please, young woman—not so fast,” cried Larry,
calling after her: but away she ran, and Larry followed, his leathern
garment, already described, crack, crick, crackling at every step he
took. “Where’s my wages?” said Larry: “_Thorum pog, ma colleen
oge_,[24]—sure I’ve earned a kiss from your pair of pretty lips—and
I’ll have it too!” But she went on faster and faster, regardless of
these and other flattering speeches from her pursuer; at last she came
to the churchyard wall, and then over with her in an instant.
[24] Give me a kiss, my young girl.
“Well, she’s a mighty smart creature any how. To be sure, how neat she
steps upon her pasterns! Did any one ever see the like of that
before;—but I’ll not be balked by any woman that ever wore a head, or
any ditch either,” exclaimed Larry, as with a desperate bound he
vaulted, scrambled, and tumbled over the wall into the churchyard. Up
he got from the elastic sod of a newly-made grave in which Tade Leary
that morning was buried—rest his soul!—and on went Larry, stumbling
over headstones, and foot-stones, over old graves and new graves,
pieces of coffins, and the skulls and bones of dead men—the Lord save
us!—that were scattered about there as plenty as paving-stones;
floundering amidst great overgrown dock-leaves and brambles that, with
their long prickly arms, tangled round his limbs, and held him back
with a fearful grasp. Mean time the merry wench in the cloak moved
through all these obstructions as evenly and as gaily as if the
churchyard, crowded up as it was with graves and grave-stones (for
people came to be buried there from far and near,) had been the floor
of a dancing-room. Round and round the walls of the old church she
went. “I’ll just wait,” said Larry, seeing this, and thinking it all
nothing but a trick to frighten him; “when she comes round again, if I
don’t take the kiss, I won’t, that’s all,—and here she is!” Larry
Dodd sprang forward with open arms, and clasped in them—a woman, it
is true—but a woman without any lips to kiss, by reason of her having
no head.
“Murder!” cried he. “Well, that accounts for her not speaking.” Having
uttered these words, Larry himself became dumb with fear and
astonishment; his blood seemed turned to ice, and a dizziness came
over him; and, staggering like a drunken man, he rolled against the
broken window of the ruin, horrified at the conviction that he had
actually held a Dullahan in his embrace!
When he recovered to something like a feeling of consciousness, he
slowly opened his eyes, and then, indeed, a scene of wonder burst upon
him. In the midst of the ruin stood an old wheel of torture,
ornamented with heads, like Cork gaol, when the heads of Murty
Sullivan and other gentlemen were stuck upon it. This was plainly
visible in the strange light which spread itself around. It was
fearful to behold, but Larry could not choose but look, for his limbs
were powerless through the wonder and the fear. Useless as it was, he
would have called for help, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his
mouth, and not one word could he say. In short, there was Larry,
gazing through a shattered window of the old church, with eyes bleared
and almost starting from their sockets; his breast resting on the
thickness of the wall, over which, on one side, his head and
outstretched neck projected, and on the other, although one toe
touched the ground, it derived no support from thence: terror, as it
were, kept him balanced. Strange noises assailed his ears, until at
last they tingled painfully to the sharp clatter of little bells,
which kept up a continued ding—ding—ding—ding: marrowless bones
rattled and clanked, and the deep and solemn sound of a great bell
came booming on the night wind.
’Twas a spectre rung
That bell when it swung—
Swing-swang!
And the chain it squeaked,
And the pulley creaked,
Swing-swang!
And with every roll
Of the deep death toll
Ding-dong!
The hollow vault rang
As the clapper went bang,
Ding-dong!
It was strange music to dance by; nevertheless, moving to it, round
and round the wheel set with skulls, were well-dressed ladies and
gentlemen, and soldiers and sailors, and priests and publicans, and
jockeys and jennys, but all without their heads. Some poor skeletons,
whose bleached bones were ill covered by moth-eaten palls, and who
were not admitted into the ring, amused themselves by bowling their
brainless noddles at one another, which seemed to enjoy the sport
beyond measure.
Larry did not know what to think; his brains were all in a mist; and
losing the balance which he had so long maintained, he fell head
foremost into the midst of the company of Dullahans.
“I’m done for and lost for ever,” roared Larry, with his heels turned
towards the stars, and souse down he came.
“Welcome, Larry Dodd, welcome,” cried every head, bobbing up and down
in the air. “A drink for Larry Dodd,” shouted they, as with one voice,
that quavered like a shake on the bagpipes. No sooner said than done,
for a player at heads, catching his own as it was bowled at him, for
fear of its going astray, jumped up, put the head, without a word,
under his left arm, and, with the right stretched out, presented a
brimming cup to Larry, who, to show his manners, drank it off like a
man.
“’Tis capital stuff,” he would have said, which surely it was, but he
got no farther than cap, when decapitated was he, and his head began
dancing over his shoulders like those of the rest of the party. Larry,
however, was not the first man who lost his head through the
temptation of looking at the bottom of a brimming cup. Nothing more
did he remember clearly,—for it seems body and head being parted is
not very favourable to thought—but a great hurry scurry with the
noise of carriages and the cracking of whips.
When his senses returned, his first act was to put up his hand to
where his head formerly grew, and to his great joy there he found it
still. He then shook it gently, but his head remained firm enough, and
somewhat assured at this, he proceeded to open his eyes and look
around him. It was broad daylight, and in the old church of
Kilnaslattery he found himself lying, with that head, the loss of
which he had anticipated, quietly resting, poor youth, “upon the lap
of earth.” Could it have been an ugly dream? “Oh no,” said Larry, “a
dream could never have brought me here, stretched on the flat of my
back, with that death’s head and cross marrow bones forenenting me on
the fine old tombstone there that was _faced_ by Pat Kearney[25] of
Kilcrea—but where is the horse?” He got up slowly, every joint aching
with pain from the bruises he had received, and went to the pool of
water, but no horse was there. “’Tis home I must go,” said Larry, with
a rueful countenance; “but how will I face Nancy?—what will I tell
her about the horse, and the seven I. O. U.’s that he cost me?—’Tis
them Dullahans that have made their own of him from me—the
horse-stealing robbers of the world, that have no fear of the
gallows!—but what’s gone is gone, that’s a clear case!”—so saying,
he turned his steps homewards, and arrived at his cabin about noon
without encountering any farther adventures. There he found Nancy,
who, as he expected, looked as black as a thundercloud at him for
being out all night. She listened to the marvellous relation which he
gave with exclamations of astonishment, and, when he had concluded, of
grief, at the loss of the horse that he had paid for like an honest
man with seven I. O. U.’s, three of which she knew to be as good as
gold.
[25] _Faced_, so written by the Chantrey of Kilcrea, for
“_fecit_.”
“But what took you up to the old church at all, out of the road, and
at that time of the night, Larry?” inquired his wife.
Larry looked like a criminal for whom there was no reprieve; he
scratched his head for an excuse, but not one could he muster up, so
he knew not what to say.
“Oh! Larry, Larry,” muttered Nancy, after waiting some time for his
answer, her jealous fears during the pause rising like barm; “’tis the
very same way with you as with any other man—you are all alike for
that matter—I’ve no pity for you—but, confess the truth.”
Larry shuddered at the tempest which he perceived was about to break
upon his devoted head.
“Nancy,” said he, “I do confess:—it was a young woman without any
head that——”
His wife heard no more. “A woman I knew it was,” cried she; “but a
woman without a head, Larry!—well, it is long before Nancy Gollagher
ever thought it would come to that with her!—that she would be left
dissolute and alone here by her _baste_ of a husband, for a woman
without a head!—O father, father! and O mother, mother! it is well
you are low to-day!—that you don’t see this affliction and disgrace
to your daughter that you reared decent and tender.
“O Larry, you villain, you’ll be the death of your lawful wife going
after such O—O—O—”
“Well,” says Larry, putting his hands in his coat-pockets, “least said
is soonest mended. Of the young woman I know no more than I do of Moll
Flanders: but this I know, that a woman without a head may well be
called a Good Woman, because she has no tongue!”
How this remark operated on the matrimonial dispute history does not
inform us. It is, however, reported that the lady had the last word.
HANLON’S MILL.
XXVII.
One fine summer’s evening Michael Noonan went over to Jack Brien’s,
the shoemaker, at Ballyduff, for the pair of brogues which Jack was
mending for him. It was a pretty walk the way he took, but very
lonesome; all along by the river-side, down under the oak-wood, till
he came to Hanlon’s mill, that used to be, but that had gone to ruin
many a long year ago.
Melancholy enough the walls of that same mill looked; the great old
wheel, black with age, all covered over with moss and ferns, and the
bushes all hanging down about it. There it stood silent and
motionless; and a sad contrast it was to its former busy clack, with
the stream which once gave it use rippling idly along.
Old Hanlon was a man that had great knowledge of all sorts; there was
not an herb that grew in the field but he could tell the name of it
and its use, out of a big book he had written, every word of it in the
real Irish _karacter_. He kept a school once, and could teach the
Latin; that surely is a blessed tongue all over the wide world; and I
hear tell as how “the great Burke” went to school to him. Master
Edmund lived up at the old house there, which was then in the family,
and it was the Nagles that got it afterwards, but they sold it.
But it was Michael Noonan’s walk I was about speaking of. It was
fairly between lights, the day was clean gone, and the moon was not
yet up, when Mick was walking smartly across the Inch. Well, he heard,
coming down out of the wood, such blowing of horns and hallooing, and
the cry of all the hounds in the world, and he thought they were
coming after him; and the galloping of the horses, and the voice of
the whipper-in, and he shouting out, just like the fine old song,
“Hallo Piper, Lilly, agus Finder;”
and the echo over from the gray rock across the river giving back
every word as plainly as it was spoken. But nothing could Mick see,
and the shouting and hallooing following him every step of the way
till he got up to Jack Brien’s door; and he was certain, too, he heard
the clack of old Hanlon’s mill going, through all the clatter. To be
sure, he ran as fast as fear and his legs could carry him, and never
once looked behind him, well knowing that the Duhallow hounds were out
in quite another quarter that day, and that nothing good could come
out of the noise of Hanlon’s mill.
Well, Michael Noonan got his brogues, and well heeled they were, and
well pleased was he with them; when who should be seated at Jack
Brien’s before him, but a gossip of his, one Darby Haynes, a mighty
decent man, that had a horse and car of his own, and that used to be
travelling with it, taking loads like the royal mail coach between
Cork and Limerick; and when he was at home, Darby was a near neighbour
of Michael Noonan’s.
“Is it home you’re going with the brogues this blessed night?” said
Darby to him.
“Where else would it be?” replied Mick: “but, by my word, ’tis not
across the Inch back again I’m going, after all I heard coming here;
’tis to no good that old Hanlon’s mill is busy again.”
“True, for you,” said Darby; “and may be you’d take the horse and car
home for me, Mick, by way of company, as ’tis along the road you go.
I’m waiting here to see a sister’s son of mine that I expect from
Kilcoleman.” “That same I’ll do,” answered Mick, “with a thousand
welcomes.” So Mick drove the car fair and easy, knowing that the poor
beast had come off a long journey; and Mick—God reward him for
it—was always tender-hearted and good to the dumb creatures.
The night was a beautiful one; the moon was better than a quarter old;
and Mick, looking up at her, could not help bestowing a blessing on
her beautiful face, shining down so sweetly upon the gentle Awbeg. He
had now got out of the open road, and had come to where the trees grew
on each side of it: he proceeded for some space in the chequered light
which the moon gave through them. At one time, when a big old tree got
between him and the moon, it was so dark, that he could hardly see the
horse’s head; then, as he passed on, the moonbeams would stream
through the open boughs and variegate the road with light and shade.
Mick was lying down in the car at his ease, having got clear of the
plantation, and was watching the bright piece of a moon in a little
pool at the road-side, when he saw it disappear all of a sudden as if
a great cloud came over the sky. He turned round on his elbow to see
if it was so; but how was Mick astonished at finding, close alongside
of the car, a great high black coach drawn by six black horses, with
long black tails reaching almost down to the ground, and a coachman
dressed all in black sitting up on the box. But what surprised Mick
the most was, that he could see no sign of a head either upon coachman
or horses. It swept rapidly by him, and he could perceive the horses
raising their feet as if they were in a fine slinging trot, the
coachman touching them up with his long whip, and the wheels spinning
round like hoddy-doddies; still he could hear no noise, only the
regular step of his gossip Darby’s horse, and the squeaking of the
gudgeons of the car, that were as good as lost entirely for want of a
little grease.
Poor Mick’s heart almost died within him, but he said nothing, only
looked on; and the black coach swept away and was soon lost among
some distant trees. Mick saw nothing more of it, or, indeed, of any
thing else. He got home just as the moon was going down behind Mount
Hillery—took the tackling off the horse, turned the beast out in the
field for the night, and got to his bed.
Next morning, early, he was standing at the road-side, thinking of all
that had happened the night before, when he saw Dan Madden, that was
Mr. Wrixon’s huntsman, coming on the master’s best horse down the
hill, as hard as ever he went at the tail of the hounds. Mick’s mind
instantly misgave him that all was not right, so he stood out in the
very middle of the road, and caught hold of Dan’s bridle when he came
up.
“Mick, dear—for the love of heaven! don’t stop me,” cried Dan.
“Why, what’s the hurry?” said Mick.
“Oh, the master!—he’s off,—he’s off—he’ll never cross a horse again
till the day of judgment!”
“Why, what would ail his honour?” said Mick; “sure it is no later than
yesterday morning that I was talking to him, and he stout and hearty;
and says he to me, Mick, says he—”
“Stout and hearty was he?” answered Madden; “and was he not out with
me in the kennel last night, when I was feeding the dogs; and didn’t
he come out to the stable, and give a ball to Peg Pullaway with his
own hand, and tell me he’d ride the old General to-day; and sure,”
said Dan, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, “who’d have
thought that the first thing I’d see this morning was the mistress
standing at my bed-side, and bidding me get up and ride off like fire
for Doctor Galway; for the master had got a fit, and”—poor Dan’s
grief choked his voice—“oh, Mick! if you have a heart in you, run
over yourself, or send the gossoon for Kate Finnigan, the midwife;
she’s a cruel skilful woman, and may be she might save the master,
till I get the doctor.”
Dan struck his spurs into the hunter, and Michael Noonan flung off his
newly-mended brogues, and cut across the fields to Kate Finnigan’s;
but neither the doctor nor Katty was of any avail, and the next
night’s moon saw Ballygibblin—and more’s the pity—a house of
mourning.
THE DEATH COACH.
XXVIII.
’Tis midnight!—how gloomy and dark!
By Jupiter there’s not a star!—
’Tis fearful!—’tis awful!—and hark!
What sound is that comes from afar?
Still rolling and rumbling, that sound
Makes nearer and nearer approach;
Do I tremble, or is it the ground?—
Lord save us!—what is it?—a coach!—