(ANONYMOUS)
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 was _only 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.
The two men delegated to act as guardians, or, as they are technically
termed, “keepers,” were old friends and comrades of the deceased, and
had served with him in the same yeomanry corps. Jack O’Malley was a
Roman Catholic--a square, stout-built, and handsome fellow, with a
pleasant word for every one, and full of that gaiety, vivacity, and
nonchalance for which the Roman Catholic peasantry of Ireland are so
particularly distinguished. He was now about forty-five years of age,
sternly attached to the dogmas of his religion, and always remarkable
for his revolutionary and anti-British principles. He was brave as a
lion, and never quailed before a man; but, though caring so little for a
_living_ man, he was extremely afraid of a _dead_ one, and would go ten
miles out of his road at night to avoid passing a “rath,” or “haunted
bush.” Harry Taylor, on the other hand, was a staunch Protestant; a
tall, genteel-looking man, of proud and imperious aspect, and full of
reserve and hauteur--the natural consequence of a consciousness of
political and religious ascendency and superiority of intelligence and
education, which so conspicuously marked the demeanour of the Protestant
peasantry of those days. Harry, too, loved his glass as well as Jack,
but was of a more peaceful disposition, and as he was well educated and
intelligent, he was utterly opposed to superstition, and laughed to
scorn the mere idea of ghosts, goblins, and fairies. Thus Jack and Harry
were diametrically opposed to each other in every point except their
love of the cruiskeen, yet they never failed to seize every opportunity
of being together; and, although they often blackened each other’s eyes
in their political and religious disputes, yet their quarrels were
always amicably settled, and they never found themselves happy but in
each other’s society.
It was now the sixth or seventh night that Jack and Harry, as usual,
kept their lonely watch in the kitchen of the murdered man. A large turf
fire blazed brightly on the hearth, and on a bed of straw in the ample
chimney-corner was stretched old Moya in a profound sleep. On the
hearthstone, between the two friends, stood a small oak table, on which
was placed a large decanter of whisky, a jug of boiled water, and a bowl
of sugar; and, as if to add an idea of security to that of comfort, on
one end of the table were placed in saltier a formidable-looking
blunderbuss and a brace of large brass pistols. Jack and his comrade
perpetually renewed their acquaintance with the whisky-bottle, and
laughed and chatted and recounted the adventures of their young days
with as much hilarity as if the house which now witnessed their mirth
never echoed to the cry of death or blood. In the course of conversation
Jack mentioned the incident of the strange appearance of the banshee,
and expressed a hope that she would not come that night to disturb their
carouse.
“Banshee the devil!” shouted Harry; “how superstitious you papists are!
I would like to see the phiz of any man, dead or alive, who dare make
his appearance here to-night.” And, seizing the blunderbuss, and looking
wickedly at Jack, he vociferated, “By Hercules, I would drive the
contents of this through their sowls who dare annoy us.”
“Better for you to shoot your mother than fire at the banshee, anyhow,”
remarked Jack.
“Psha!” said Harry, looking contemptuously at his companion. “I would
think no more of riddling the old jade’s hide than I would of throwing
off this tumbler;” and, to suit the action to the word, he drained off
another bumper of whisky-punch.
“Jack,” says Harry, “now that we are in such prime humour, will you give
us a song?”
“With all the veins of my heart,” says Jack. “What will it be?”
“Anything you please; your will must be my pleasure,” answered Harry.
Jack, after coughing and clearing his pipes, chanted forth, in a bold
and musical voice, a rude rigmarole called “The Royal Blackbird,” which,
although of no intrinsic merit, yet, as it expressed sentiments hostile
to British connection and British government and favourable to the house
of Stewart, was very popular amongst the Catholic peasantry of Ireland,
whilst, on the contrary, it was looked upon by the Protestants as highly
offensive and disloyal. Harry, however, wished his companion too well to
oppose the song, and he quietly awaited its conclusion.
“Bravo, Jack,” said Harry, as soon as the song was ended; “that you may
never lose your wind.”
“In the king’s name now I board you for another song,” says Jack.
Harry, without hesitation, recognised his friend’s right to demand a
return, and he instantly trolled forth, in a deep, sweet, and sonorous
voice, the following: