was _ould_ Diarmid Bawn, the piper, as personable a looking man as any
in the five parishes he was; and he could play the pipes so sweetly,
and make them _spake_ to such perfection, that it did one’s heart good
to hear him. We never had any one, for that matter, in this side of
the country like him, before or since, except James Gandsey, that is
own piper to Lord Headley—his honour’s lordship is the real good
gentleman—and ’tis Mr. Gandsey’s music that is the pride of Killarney
lakes. Well, as I was saying, Diarmid was Judy’s grandfather, and he
rented a small mountainy farm; and he was walking about the fields one
moonlight night, quite melancholy-like in himself for want of the
_tobaccy_; because why, the river was flooded, and he could not get
across to buy any, and Diarmid would rather go to bed without his
supper than a whiff of the dudeen. Well, your honour, just as he came
to the old fort in the far field, what should he see?—but a large
army of the good people, ’coutered for all the world just like the
dragoons! ‘Are ye all ready?’ said a little fellow at their head
dressed out like a general. ‘No,’ said a little curmudgeon of a chap
all dressed in red, from the crown of his cocked hat to the sole of
his boot. ‘No, general,’ said he: ‘if you don’t get the Fir darrig a
horse he must stay behind, and ye’ll lose the battle.’”
“‘There’s Diarmid Bawn,’ said the general, pointing to Judy’s
grandfather, your honour, ‘make a horse of him.’
“So with that master Fir darrig comes up to Diarmid, who, you may be
sure, was in a mighty great fright; but he determined, seeing there
was no help for him, to put a bold face on the matter; and so he began
to cross himself, and to say some blessed words, that nothing bad
could stand before.
“‘Is that what you’d be after, you spalpeen?’ said the little red imp,
at the same time grinning a horrible grin; ‘I’m not the man to care a
straw for either your words or your crossings.’ So, without more to
do, he gives poor Diarmid a rap with the flat side of his sword, and
in a moment he was changed into a horse, with little Fir darrig stuck
fast on his back.
“Away they all flew over the wide ocean, like so many wild geese,
screaming and chattering all the time, till they came to Jamaica; and
there they had a murdering fight with the good people of that country.
Well, it was all very well with them, and they stuck to it manfully,
and fought it out fairly, till one of the Jamaica men made a cut with
his sword under Diarmid’s left eye. And then, sir, you see, poor
Diarmid lost his temper entirely, and he dashed into the very middle
of them, with Fir darrig mounted upon his back, and he threw out his
heels, and whisked his tail about, and wheeled and turned round and
round at such a rate, that he soon made a fair clearance of them,
horse, foot, and dragoons. At last Diarmid’s faction got the better,
all through his means; and then they had such feasting and rejoicing,
and gave Diarmid, who was the finest horse amongst them all, the best
of every thing.
“‘Let every man take a hand of _tobaccy_ for Diarmid Bawn,’ said the
general; and so they did; and away they flew, for ’twas getting near
morning, to the old fort back again, and there they vanished like the
mist from the mountain.
“When Diarmid looked about, the sun was rising, and he thought it was
all a dream, till he saw a big rick of _tobaccy_ in the old fort, and
felt the blood running from his left eye: for sure enough he was
wounded in the battle, and would have been _kilt_ entirely, if it
wasn’t for a gospel composed by father Murphy that hung about his neck
ever since he had the scarlet fever; and for certain, it was enough to
have given him another scarlet fever to have had the little red man
all night on his back, whip and spur for the bare life. However, there
was the _tobaccy_ heaped up in a great heap by his side; and he heard
a voice, although he could see no one, telling him, ‘That ’twas all
his own, for his good behaviour in the battle; and that whenever Fir
darrig would want a horse again he’d know where to find a clever
beast, as he never rode a better than Diarmid Bawn.’ That’s what he
said, sir.”
“Thank you, Pat,” said the squire; “it certainly is a wonderful story,
and I am not surprised at Judy’s alarm. But now, as the storm is over,
and the moon shining brightly, I’ll make the best of my way home.” So
saying, he disrobed himself of the blanket, put on his coat, and
whistling his dogs, set off across the mountain; while Patrick stood
at the door, bawling after him, “May God and the blessed Virgin
preserve your honour, and keep ye from the good people; for ’twas of a
moonlight night like this that Diarmid Bawn was made a horse of, for
the Fir darrig to ride.”
TEIGUE OF THE LEE.
XXXI.
“I can’t stop in the house—I won’t stop in it for all the money that
is buried in the old castle of Carrigrohan. If ever there was such a
thing in the world!—to be abused to my face night and day, and nobody
to the fore doing it! and then, if I’m angry, to be laughed at with a
great roaring ho, ho, ho! I won’t stay in the house after to-night, if
there was not another place in the country to put my head under.” This
angry soliloquy was pronounced in the hall of the old manor-house of
Carrigrohan by John Sheehan. John was a new servant: he had been only
three days in the house, which had the character of being haunted, and
in that short space of time he had been abused and laughed at by a
voice which sounded as if a man spoke with his head in a cask; nor
could he discover who was the speaker, or from whence the voice came.
“I’ll not stop here,” said John; “and that ends the matter.”
“Ho, ho, ho! be quiet, John Sheehan, or else worse will happen to
you.”
John instantly ran to the hall window, as the words were evidently
spoken by a person immediately outside, but no one was visible. He had
scarcely placed his face at the pane of glass, when he heard another
loud “Ho, ho, ho!” as if behind him in the hall; as quick as lightning
he turned his head, but no living thing was to be seen.
“Ho, ho, ho, John!” shouted a voice that appeared to come from the
lawn before the house; “do you think you’ll see Teigue?—oh, never! as
long as you live! so leave alone looking after him, and mind your
business; there’s plenty of company to dinner from Cork to be here
to-day, and ’tis time you had the cloth laid.”
“Lord bless us! there’s more of it!—I’ll never stay another day
here,” repeated John.
“Hold your tongue, and stay where you are quietly, and play no tricks
on Mr. Pratt, as you did on Mr. Jervois about the spoons.”
John Sheehan was confounded by this address from his invisible
persecutor, but nevertheless he mustered courage enough to say—“Who
are you?—come here, and let me see you, if you are a man;” but he
received in reply only a laugh of unearthly derision, which was
followed by a “Good-bye—I’ll watch you at dinner, John!”
“Lord between us and harm! this beats all!—I’ll watch you at
dinner!—may be you will;—’tis the broad daylight, so ’tis no ghost;
but this is a terrible place, and this is the last day I’ll stay in
it. How does he know about the spoons?—if he tells it, I’m a ruined
man!—there was no living soul could tell it to him but Tim Barrett,
and he’s far enough off in the wilds of Botany Bay now, so how could
he know it—I can’t tell for the world! But what’s that I see there at
the corner of the wall?—’tis not a man!—oh, what a fool I am! ’tis
only the old stump of a tree!—But this is a shocking place—I’ll
never stop in it, for I’ll leave the house to-morrow; the very look of
it is enough to frighten any one.”
The mansion had certainly an air of desolation; it was situated in a
lawn, which had nothing to break its uniform level, safe a few tufts
of narcissuses and a couple of old trees coeval with the building. The
house stood at a short distance from the road; it was upwards of a
century old, and Time was doing his work upon it; its walls were
weather-stained in all colours, its roof showed various white patches,
it had no look of comfort; all was dim and dingy without, and within
there was an air of gloom, of departed and departing greatness, which
harmonized well with the exterior. It required all the exuberance of
youth and of gaiety to remove the impression, almost amounting to awe,
with which you trod the huge square hall, paced along the gallery
which surrounded the hall, or explored the long rambling passages
below stairs. The ball-room, as the large drawing-room was called, and
several other apartments, were in a state of decay: the walls were
stained with damp; and I remember well the sensation of awe which I
felt creeping over me when, boy as I was, and full of boyish life, and
wild and ardent spirits, I descended to the vaults; all without and
within me became chilled beneath their dampness and gloom—their
extent, too, terrified me; nor could the merriment of my two
schoolfellows, whose father, a respectable clergyman, rented the
dwelling for a time, dispel the feelings of a romantic imagination,
until I once again ascended to the upper regions.
John had pretty well recovered himself as the dinner-hour approached,
and the several guests arrived. They were all seated at table, and had
begun to enjoy the excellent repast, when a voice was heard from the
lawn:—
“Ho, ho, ho, Mr. Pratt, won’t you give poor Teigue some dinner? ho,
ho, a fine company you have there, and plenty of every thing that’s
good; sure you won’t forget poor Teigue?”
John dropped the glass he had in his hand.
“Who is that?” said Mr. Pratt’s brother, an officer of the artillery.
“That is Teigue,” said Mr. Pratt, laughing, “whom you must often have
heard me mention.”
“And pray, Mr. Pratt,” inquired another gentleman, “who _is_ Teigue?”
“That,” he replied, “is more than I can tell. No one has ever been
able to catch even a glimpse of him. I have been on the watch for a
whole evening with three of my sons, yet, although his voice sometimes
sounded almost in my ear, I could not see him. I fancied, indeed, that
I saw a man in a white frieze jacket pass into the door from the
garden to the lawn, but it could be only fancy, for I found the door
locked, while the fellow whoever he is, was laughing at our trouble.
He visits us occasionally, and sometimes a long interval passes
between his visits, as in the present case; it is now nearly two years
since we heard that hollow voice outside the window. He has never done
any injury that we know of, and once when he broke a plate, he brought
one back exactly like it.”
“It is very extraordinary,” said several of the company.
“But,” remarked a gentleman to young Mr. Pratt, “your father said he
broke a plate; how did he get it without your seeing him?”
“When he asks for some dinner, we put it outside the window and go
away; whilst we watch he will not take it, but no sooner have we
withdrawn, than it is gone.”
“How does he know that you are watching?”
“That’s more than I can tell, but he either knows or suspects. One day
my brothers Robert and James with myself were in our back parlour,
which has a window into the garden, when he came outside and said,
‘Ho, ho, ho! master James, and Robert, and Henry, give poor Teigue a
glass of whisky.’ James went out of the room, filled a glass with
whisky, vinegar, and salt, and brought it to him. ‘Here Teigue,’ said
he, ‘come for it now.’ ‘Well, put it down, then, on the step outside
the window.’ This was done, and we stood looking at it. ‘There, now,
go away,’ he shouted. We retired, but still watched it. ‘Ho, ho! you
are watching Teigue; go out of the room, now, or I won’t take it.’ We
went outside the door and returned; the glass was gone, and a moment
after we heard him roaring and cursing frightfully. He took away the
glass, but the next day the glass was on the stone step under the
window, and there were crumbs of bread in the inside, as if he had put
it in his pocket; from that time he was not heard till to-day.”
“Oh,” said the colonel, “I’ll get a sight of him; you are not used to
these things; an old soldier has the best chance; and as I shall
finish my dinner with this wing, I’ll be ready for him when he speaks
next.—Mr. Bell, will you take a glass of wine with me?”
“Ho, ho! Mr. Bell,” shouted Teigue. “Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you were a
quaker long ago. Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you’re a pretty boy;—a pretty
quaker you were; and now you’re no quaker, nor any thing else:—ho,
ho! Mr. Bell. And there’s Mr. Parkes: to be sure, Mr. Parkes looks
mighty fine to-day, with his powdered head, and his grand silk
stockings, and his bran new rakish-red waistcoat.—And there’s Mr.
Cole,—did you ever see such a fellow? a pretty company you’ve brought
together, Mr. Pratt: kiln-dried quakers, butter-buying buckeens from
Mallow-lane, and a drinking exciseman from the Coal-quay, to meet the
great thundering artillery-general that is come out of the Indies, and
is the biggest dust of them all.”
“You scoundrel!” exclaimed the colonel: “I’ll make you show yourself;”
and snatching up his sword from a corner of the room, he sprang out of
the window upon the lawn. In a moment a shout of laughter, so hollow,
so unlike any human sound, made him stop, as well as Mr. Bell, who
with a huge oak stick was close at the colonel’s heels; others of the
party followed on the lawn, and the remainder rose and went to the
windows. “Come on, colonel,” said Mr. Bell; “let us catch this
impudent rascal.”
“Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, here I am—here’s Teigue—why don’t you catch
him?—Ho, ho! Colonel Pratt, what a pretty soldier you are to draw
your sword upon poor Teigue, that never did any body harm.”
“Let us see your face, you scoundrel,” said the colonel.
“Ho, ho, ho!—look at me—look at me: do you see the wind, colonel
Pratt?—you’ll see Teigue as soon; so go in and finish your dinner.”
“If you’re upon the earth I’ll find you, you villain!” said the
colonel, whilst the same unearthly shout of derision seemed to come
from behind an angle of the building. “He’s round that corner,” said
Mr. Bell—“run, run.”
They followed the sound, which was continued at intervals along the
garden wall, but could discover no human being; at last both stopped
to draw breath, and in an instant, almost at their ears, sounded the
shout.
“Ho, ho, ho! colonel Pratt, do you see Teigue now?—do you hear
him?—Ho, ho, ho! you’re a fine colonel to follow the wind.”
“Not that way, Mr. Bell—not that way; come here,” said the colonel.
“Ho, ho, ho! what a fool you are; do you think Teigue is going to show
himself to you in the field, there? But colonel, follow me if you
can:—you a soldier!—ho, ho, ho!” The colonel was enraged—he
followed the voice over hedge and ditch, alternately laughed at and
taunted by the unseen object of his pursuit—(Mr. Bell, who was heavy,
was soon thrown out,) until at length, after being led a weary chase,
he found himself at the top of the cliff, over that part of the river
Lee, which from its great depth, and the blackness of its water, has
received the name of Hell-hole. Here, on the edge of the cliff, stood
the colonel out of breath, and mopping his forehead with his
handkerchief, while the voice, which seemed close at his feet,
exclaimed—“Now, colonel Pratt—now, if you’re a soldier, here’s a
leap for you;—now look at Teigue—why don’t you look at him?—Ho,
ho, ho! Come along: you’re warm, I’m sure, colonel Pratt, so come in
and cool yourself; Teigue is going to have a swim!” The voice seemed
as descending amongst the trailing ivy and brushwood which clothes
this picturesque cliff nearly from top to bottom, yet it was
impossible that any human being could have found footing. “Now,
colonel, have you courage to take the leap?—Ho, ho, ho! what a pretty
soldier you are. Good-bye—I’ll see you again in ten minutes above, at
the house—look at your watch, colonel:—there’s a dive for you!” and
a heavy plunge into the water was heard. The colonel stood still, but
no sound followed, and he walked slowly back to the house, not quite
half a mile from the Crag.
“Well, did you see Teigue?” said his brother, whilst his nephews,
scarcely able to smother their laughter, stood by.—“Give me some
wine,” said the colonel. “I never was led such a dance in my life: the
fellow carried me all round and round, till he brought me to the edge
of the cliff, and then down he went into Hell-hole, telling me he’d be
here in ten minutes: ’tis more than that now, but he’s not come.”
“Ho, ho, ho! colonel, isn’t he here?—Teigue never told a lie in his
life: but, Mr. Pratt, give me a drink and my dinner, and then good
night to you all, for I’m tired; and that’s the colonel’s doing.” A
plate of food was ordered: it was placed by John, with fear and
trembling, on the lawn under the window. Every one kept on the watch,
and the plate remained undisturbed for some time.
“Ah! Mr. Pratt, will you starve poor Teigue? Make every one go away
from the windows, and master Henry out of the tree, and master Richard
off the garden-wall.”
The eyes of the company were turned to the tree and the garden-wall;
the two boys’ attention was occupied in getting down: the visiters
were looking at them; and “Ho, ho, ho!—good luck to you, Mr.
Pratt!—’tis a good dinner, and there’s the plate, ladies and
gentlemen—good-bye to you, colonel—good-bye, Mr. Bell!—good-bye to
you all!”—brought their attention back, when they saw the empty plate
lying on the grass; and Teigue’s voice was heard no more for that
evening. Many visits were afterwards paid by Teigue; but never was he
seen, nor was any discovery ever made of his person or character.
NED SHEEHY’S EXCUSE.
XXXII.
Ned Sheehy was servant-man to Richard Gumbleton, Esquire, of
Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, in the north of the county of Cork; and a
better servant than Ned was not to be found in that honest county,
from Cape Clear to the Kilworth Mountains; for nobody—no, not his
worst enemy—could say a word against him, only that he was rather
given to drinking, idling, lying, and loitering, especially the last;
for send Ned of a five-minute message at nine o’clock in the morning,
and you were a lucky man if you saw him before dinner. If there
happened to be a public-house in the way, or even a little out of it,
Ned was sure to mark it as dead as a pointer; and, knowing every body,
and every body liking him, it is not to be wondered at he had so much
to say and to hear, that the time slipped away as if the sun somehow
or other had knocked two hours into one.
But when he came home, he never was short of an excuse: he had, for
that matter, five hundred ready upon the tip of his tongue; so much
so, that I doubt if even the very reverend doctor Swift, for many
years Dean of St. Patrick’s, in Dublin, could match him in that
particular, though his reverence had a pretty way of his own of
writing things which brought him into very decent company. In fact,
Ned would fret a saint, but then he was so good-humoured a fellow, and
really so handy about a house,—for, as he said himself, he was as
good as a lady’s maid,—that his master could not find it in his heart
to part with him.
In your grand houses—not that I am saying that Richard Gumbleton,
esquire of Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, did not keep a good house, but a
plain country gentleman, although he is second-cousin to the last
high-sheriff of the county, cannot have all the army of servants that
the lord-lieutenant has in the castle of Dublin—I say, in your grand
houses, you can have a servant for every kind of thing, but in
Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, Ned was expected to please master and
mistress; or, as counsellor Curran said,—by the same token the
counsellor was a little dark man—one day that he dined there, on his
way to the Clonmel assizes—Ned was minister for the home and foreign
departments.
But to make a long story short, Ned Sheehy was a good butler, and a
right good one too, and as for a groom, let him alone with a horse: he
could dress it, or ride it, or shoe it, or physic it, or do any thing
with it but make it speak—he was a second whisperer!—there was not
his match in the barony, or the next one neither. A pack of hounds he
could manage well, ay, and ride after them with the boldest man in the
land. It was Ned who leaped the old bounds’ ditch at the turn of the
boreen of the lands of Reenascreena, after the English captain pulled
up on looking at it, and cried out it was “No go.” Ned rode that day
Brian Boro, Mr. Gumbleton’s famous chestnut, and people call it Ned
Sheehy’s Leap to this hour.
So, you see, it was hard to do without him: however, many a scolding
he got; and although his master often said of an evening, “I’ll turn
off Ned,” he always forgot to do so in the morning. These threats
mended Ned not a bit; indeed, he was mending the other way, like bad
fish in hot weather.
One cold winter’s day, about three o’clock in the afternoon, Mr.
Gumbleton said to him,
“Ned,” said he, “go take Modderaroo down to black Falvey, the
horse-doctor, and bid him look at her knees; for Doctor Jenkinson, who
rode her home last night, has hurt her somehow. I suppose he thought a
parson’s horse ought to go upon its knees; but, indeed, it was I was
the fool to give her to him at all, for he sits twenty stone if he
sits a pound, and knows no more of riding, particularly after his
third bottle, than I do of preaching. Now mind and be back in an hour
at farthest, for I want to have the plate cleaned up properly for
dinner, as Sir Augustus O’Toole, you know, is to dine here
to-day.—Don’t loiter, for your life.”
“Is it I, sir?” says Ned. “Well, that beats any thing; as if I’d stop
out a minute!” So, mounting Modderaroo, off he set.
Four, five, six o’clock came, and so did Sir Augustus and lady
O’Toole, and the four misses O’Toole, and Mr. O’Toole, and Mr. Edward
O’Toole, and Mr. James O’Toole, which were all the young O’Tooles that
were at home, but no Ned Sheehy appeared to clean the plate, or to lay
the table-cloth, or even to put dinner on. It is needless to say how
Mr. and Mrs. Dick Gumbleton fretted and fumed; but it was all to no
use. They did their best, however, only it was a disgrace to see long
Jem the stableboy, and Bill the gossoon that used to go of errands,
waiting, without any body to direct them, when there was a real
baronet and his lady at table; for Sir Augustus was none of your
knights. But a good bottle of claret makes up for much, and it was not
one only they had that night. However, it is not to be concealed that
Mr. Dick Gumbleton went to bed very cross, and he awoke still crosser.
He heard that Ned had not made his appearance for the whole night; so
he dressed himself in a great fret, and, taking his horsewhip in his
hand, he said,
“There is no farther use in tolerating this scoundrel; I’ll go look
for him, and if I find him, I’ll cut the soul out of his vagabond
body! so I will.”
“Don’t say so, Dick, dear,” said Mrs. Gumbleton (for she was always a
mild woman, being daughter of fighting Tom Crofts, who shot a couple
of gentlemen, friends of his, in the cool of the evening, after the
Mallow races, one after the other,) “don’t swear, Dick, dear,” said
she; “but do, my dear, oblige me by cutting the flesh off his bones,
for he richly deserves it. I was quite ashamed of Lady O’Toole,
yesterday, I was, ’pon honour.”
Out sallied Mr. Gumbleton; and he had not far to walk, for, not more
than two hundred yards from the house, he found Ned lying fast asleep
under a ditch (a hedge,) and Modderaroo standing by him, poor beast,
shaking every limb. The loud snoring of Ned, who was lying with his
head upon a stone as easy and as comfortable as if it had been a bed
of down or a hop-bag, drew him to the spot, and Mr. Gumbleton at once
perceived, from the disarray of Ned’s face and person, that he had
been engaged in some perilous adventure during the night. Ned appeared
not to have descended in the most regular manner; for one of his shoes
remained sticking in the stirrup, and his hat, having rolled down a
little slope, was imbedded in green mud. Mr. Gumbleton, however, did
not give himself much trouble to make a curious survey, but with a
vigorous application of his thong, soon banished sleep from the eyes
of Ned Sheehy.
“Ned!” thundered his master in great indignation,—and on this
occasion it was not a word and blow, for with that one word came half
a dozen: “Get up, you scoundrel,” said he.
Ned roared lustily, and no wonder, for his master’s hand was not one
of the lightest; and he cried out, between sleeping and waking—“O,
sir!—don’t be angry, sir!—don’t be angry, and I’ll roast you
easier—easy as a lamb!”
“Roast me easier, you vagabond!” said Mr. Gumbleton; “what do you
mean?—I’ll roast you, my lad. Where were you all night?—Modderaroo
will never get over it.—Pack out of my service, you worthless
villain, this moment; and, indeed, you may be thankful that I don’t
get you transported.”