afore you: my father doesn't remimber more nor seeing his funeral, and
a merry one it was; for my grandfather, and some of them that had a
respect for the family and his forbarers, if they hadn't it for himself,
made up as much money among them as berried him dacently any how,--ay,
and gave him a rousin' wake into the bargain, with lashins of whiskey,
stout beer, and ale; for in them times--God be with them every farmer
brewed his own ale and beer;--more betoken, that one pint of it was
worth a keg of this wash of yours, Ned.”
“Wasn't it he that used to _appear?_” inquired M'Roarkin.
“Sure enough he did, Tom.”
“Lord save us,” said Nancy, “what could trouble him, I dunna?”
“Why,” continued Shane Fadh, “some said one thing, and some another;
but the upshot of it was this: when the last of the Grameses sould the
estate, castle, and all, it seems he didn't resave all the purchase
money; so, afther he had spint what he got, he applied to the purchaser
for the remainder--him that the Mountjoy family bought it from; but it
seems he didn't draw up writings, or sell it according to law, so that
the thief o' the world baffled him from day to day, and wouldn't give
him a penny--bekase he knew, the blaggard, that the Square was then as
poor as a church mouse, and hadn't money enough to thry it at law with
him; but the Square was always a simple asy-going man. One day he went
to this fellow, riding on an ould garran, with a shoe loose--the only
baste he had in the world--and axed him, for God's sake, to give him of
what he owed him, if it was ever so little; 'for,' says he, 'I huve
not as much money betune me and death as will get a set of shoes for my
horse.'”
“'Well,' says the nager, 'if-you're not able to keep your horse shod, I
would jist recommend you to sell him, and thin his shoes won't cost you
any thing,' says he.
“The ould Square went away with tears in his eyes,--for he loved the
poor brute, bekase they wor the two last branches of the ould stock.”
“Why,” inquired M'Kinley, in his small squeaking voice, “was the horse
related to the family?”
“I didn't say he was related to the fam----
“Get out, you _shingaun!_” (* Fairy-like, or connected to the fairies)
returned the old man, perceiving by the laugh that now went round, the
sly tendency of the question--“no, nor to your family either, for he
had nothing of the ass in him--eh? will you put that in your pocket, my
little _skinadhre_ (* A thin, fleshless, stunted person.)--ha! ha! ha!”
The laugh was now turned against M'Kinley.
Shane Fadh proceeded: “The ould Square, as I was tellin yez, cried to
find himself an' the poor baste so dissolute; but when he had gone a bit
from the fellow, he comes back to the vagabone--'Now,' says he, 'mind my
words--if you happen to live afther me, you need never expect a night's
pace; for I here make a serous an' solemn vow, that as long as my
property's in your possession, or in any of your seed, breed, or
gineration's, I'll never give over hauntin' you an' them, till you'll
rue to the back-bone your dishonesty an' chathery to me an' this poor
baste, that hasn't a shoe to his foot.'
“'Well,' says the nager, 'I'll take chance of that, any way.'”
“I'm tould, Shane,” observed the poacher, “that the Square was a fine
man in his time, that wouldn't put up with sich treatment from anybody.”
“Ay, but he was ould now,” Shane replied, “and too wakely to fight.--A
fine man, Bill!--he was the finest man, 'cepting ould Square Storey,
that ever was in this counthry. I hard my granfather often say that he
was six feet four, and made in proportion--a handsome, black-a-vis'd
man, with great dark whiskers. Well! he spent money like sklates, and so
he died miserable--but had a merry birrel, as I said.”
“But,” inquired Nancy, “did he ever appear to the rogue that chated
him?”
“Every night in the year, Nancy, exceptin' Sundays; and what was more,
the horse along with him--for he used to come ridin' at midnight upon
the same garran; and it was no matther what place or company the other
'ud be in, the ould Square would come reglarly, and crave him for what
he owed him.”
“So it appears that horses have sowls,” observed M'Roarkin,
philosophically, giving, at the same time, a cynical chuckle at the
sarcasm contained in his own conceit.
“Whether they have sowls or bodies,” replied the narrator, “what I'm
tellin' you is truth; every night in the year the ould chap would come
for what was indue him; find as the two went along, the noise of the
loose shoe upon the horse would be hard rattlin', and seen knockin' the
fire out of the stones, by the neighbors and the thief that chated him,
even before the Square would appeal at all at all.”
“Oh, wurrah!” exclaimed Nancy, shuddering with terror. “I wouldn't take
anything and be out now on the _Drumfarrar road_*, and nobody with me
but myself.”
*A lonely mountain-road, said to have been haunted. It is on
this road that the coffin scenes mentioned in the Party
fight and Funeral is laid.
“I think if you wor,” said M'Kinley, “the light weights and short
measures would be comin' acrass your conscience.”
“No, in troth, Alick, wouldn't they; but may be if you wor, the promise
you broke to Sally Mitchell might trouble you a bit: at any rate, I've a
prayer, and if I only repated it wanst, I mightn't be afeard of all the
divils in hell.”
“Throth, but it's worth havin', Nancy: where did you get it?” asked
M'Kinley.
“Hould your wicked tongue, you thief of a heretic,” said Nancy,
laughing, “when will _you_ larn anything that's good? I got it from one
that wouldn't have it if it _wasn't_ good--Darby M'Murt, the pilgrim,
since you must know.”
“Whisht!” said Frayne: “upon my word, I blieve the old Square's comin'
to pay tis a visit; does any of yez hear a horse trottin' with a shoe
loose?”
“I sartinly hear it,” observed Andy Morrow.
“And I,” said Ned himself.
There was now a general pause, and in the silence a horse, proceeding
from the moors in the direction of the house, was distinctly heard;
and nothing could be less problematical than that one of his shoes was
loose.
“Boys, take care of yourselves,” said Shane Fadh, “if the Square comes,
he won't be a pleasant customer--he was a terrible fellow in his day:
I'll hould goold to silver that he'll have the smell of brimstone about
him.”
“Nancy, where's your prayer now?” said M'Kinley, with a grin: “I think
you had betther out with it, and thry if it keeps this old brimstone
Square on the wrong side of the house.”
“Behave yourself, Alick; it's a shame for you to be sich a hardened
crathur: upon my sannies, I blieve your afeard of neither God nor the
divil--the Lord purtect and guard us from the dirty baste!”
“You mane particklarly them that uses short measures and light weights,”
rejoined M'Kinley.
There was another pause, for the horseman was within a few perches of
the crossroads. At this moment an unusual gust of wind, accompanied by
torrents of rain, burst against the house with a violence that made
its ribs creak; and the stranger's horse, the shoe still clanking,
was distinctly heard to turn in from the road to Ned's door, where it
stopped, and the next moment a loud knocking intimated the horseman's
intention to enter. The company now looked at each other, as if
uncertain what to do. Nancy herself grew pale, and, in the agitation of
the moment, forgot to think of her protecting prayer. Biddy and Bessy
Connolly started from the settle on which they had been sitting with
their sweethearts, and sprung beside their uncle, on the hob. The
stranger was still knocking with great violence, yet there was no
disposition among the company to admit him, notwithstanding the severity
of the night--blowing, as it really did, a perfect hurricane. At length
a sheet of lightning flashed through the house, followed by an amazing
loud clap of thunder; while, with a sudden push from without, the door
gave way, and in stalked a personage Whose stature was at least six
feet four, with dark eyes and complexion, and coal-black whiskers of an
enormous size, the very image of the Squire they had been describing. He
was dressed in a long black surtout, which him appear even taller than
he actually was, had a pair of heavy boots upon and carried a tremendous
whip, large enough to fell an ox. He was in a rage on entering; and
the heavy, dark, close-knit-brows, from beneath which a pair of eyes,
equally black, shot actual fire, whilst the Turk-like whiskers, which
curled themselves up, as it were, in sympathy with his fury, joined to
his towering height, gave him altogether, when we consider the frame of
mind in which he found the company, an appalling and almost supernatural
appearance.
“Confound you, for a knot of lazy scoundrels,” exclaimed the stranger,
“why do you sit here so calmly, while any being craves admittance on
such a night as this? Here, you lubber in the corner, with a pipe in
your mouth, come and put up this horse of mine until the night settles.”
“May the blessed mother purtect us!” exclaimed Nancy, in a whisper,
to Andy Morrow, “if I blieve he's a right thing!--would it be the ould
Square? Did you ever set your eyes upon sich a”--
“Will you bestir yourself, you boor, and' not keep my horse and saddle
out under such a torrent?” he cried, “otherwise I must only bring him
into the house, and then you may say for once that you've had the devil
under your roof.”
“Paddy Smith, you lazy spalpeen,” said Nancy, winking at Ned to
have nothing to do with the horse, “why don't you fly and put up the
gintleman's horse? And you, Atty, avourneen, jist go out with him, and
hould the candle while he's doin' it: be quick now, and I'll give you
glasses a-piece when you come in.”
“Let them put him up quickly; but I say, you Caliban,” added the
stranger, addressing Smith, “don't be rash about him except you can bear
fire and brimstone; get him, at all events, a good feed of oats. Poor
Satan!” he continued, patting the horse's head, which was now within the
door, “you've had a hard night of it, my poor Satan, as well as myself.
That's my dark spirit--my brave chuck, that fears neither man nor
devil.”
This language was by no means calculated to allay the suspicions of
those who were present, particularly of Nancy and her two nieces. Ned
sat in astonishment, with the pipe in his hand, which he had, in the
surprise of the moment, taken from his mouth, his eyes fixed upon the
stranger, and his mouth open. The latter noticed him, and stretching
over the heads of the circle, tapped him on the shoulder with his
whip:--
“I have a few words to say to you, sir,” he said.
“To me, your honor!” exclaimed Ned, without stirring, however.
“Yes,” replied the other, “but you seem to be fastened to your seat:
come this way.”
“By all manner of manes, sir,” said Ned, starting up, and going over to
the dresser, against which the stranger stood.
When the latter had got him there, he very coolly walked up, and secured
Ned's comfortable seat on the hob, at the same time observing--
“You hadn't the manners to ask me to sit down; but I always make it a
point of conscience to take care of myself, landlord.”
There was not a man about the fire who did not stand up, as if struck
with a sudden recollection, and offer him a seat.
“No,” said he, “thank you, my good fellows, I am very well as it is: I
suppose, mistress, you are the landlady,” addressing Nancy; “if you
be, I'll thank you to bring me a gill of your best whiskey,--your best,
mind. Let it be as strong as an evil spirit let loose, and as hot as
fire; for it can't be a jot too ardent such a night as this, for a being
that rides the devil.”
Nancy started up instinctively, exclaiming, “Indeed, plase your honor's
reverence, I am the landlady, as you say, sir, sure enough; but, the
Lawk save and guard us! won't a gallon of raw whiskey be too much for
one man to drink?”
“A gallon! I only said a gill, my good hostess; bring me a gill--but I
forget--I believe you have no such measure in this country; bring me a
pint, then.”
Nancy now went into the bar, whither she gave Ned a wink to follow her;
and truly was glad of an opportunity of escaping from the presence of
the visitor. When there, she ejaculated--
“May the holy Mother keep and guard us, Ned, but I'm afeard that's no
Christian crathur, at all at all! Arrah, Ned, aroon, would he be that
ould Square Grame, that Shane Fadh, maybe, angered, by spakin' of him?”
“Troth,” said Ned, “myself doesn't know what he is; he bates any mortal
I ever seen.”
“Well, hould agra! I have it: we'll see whether he'll drink this or not,
any how.”
“Why, what's that you're doin'?” asked Ned.
“Jist,” replied Nancy, “mixin' the smallest taste in the world of holy
wather with the whiskey, and if he drinks that, you know he can be
nothing that's bad.” *
* The efficacy of holy water in all Roman Catholic countries,
but especially in Ireland, is supposed to be very great. It
is kept in the house, or, in certain cases, about the
person, as a safeguard against evil spirits, fairies, or
sickness. It is also used to allay storms and quench
conflagrations; and when an Irishman or Irishwoman is about
to go a journey, commence labor or enter upon any other
important undertaking, the person is sure to be sprinkled
with holy water, under the hope that the journey or
undertaking will prosper.
Nancy, however, did not perceive that the trepidation of her hand
was such as to incapacitate her from making nice distinctions in the
admixture. She now brought the spirits to the stranger, who no sooner
took a mouthful of it, than he immediately stopped it on its passage,
and fixing his eyes earnestly on herself, squirted it into the fire, and
the next moment the whiskey was in a blaze that seemed likely to set the
chimney in flames.
“Why, my honest hostess,” he exclaimed, “do you give this to me for
whiskey? Confound me, but two-thirds of it is water; and I have no
notion to pay for water when I want spirits: have the goodness to
exchange this, and get me some better stuff, if you have it.”
He again put the jug to his mouth, and having taken a little, swallowed
it:--“Why, I tell you, woman, you must have made some mistake; one-half
of it is water.”
Now, Nancy, from the moment he refused to swallow the liquor, had been
lock-jawed; the fact was, she thought that the devil himself, or old
Squire Graham, had got under her roof; and she stood behind Ned, who
was nearly as terrified as herself, with her hands raised, her tongue
clinging to the roof of her mouth, and the perspiration falling from her
pale face in large drops. But as soon as she saw him swallow a portion
of that liquid, which she deemed beyond the deglutition of ghost
or devil, she instantly revived--her tongue resumed its accustomed
office--her courage, as well as her good-humor, returned, and she went
up to him with great confidence, saying,
“Why, then, your Reverence's honor, maybe I did make a bit of a mistake,
sir”--taking up the jug, and tasting its contents: “Hut! bad scran to
me, but I did, beggin' your honor's pardon; how-an-diver, I'll soon
rightify that, your Reverence.”
So saying, she went and brought him a pint of the stoutest the house
afforded. The stranger drank a glass of it, and then ordered hot water
and sugar, adding--
“My honest friends here about the fire will have no objection to help me
with this; but, on second consideration, you had better get us another
quart, that as the night is cold, we may have a jorum at this pleasant
fire, that will do our hearts good; and this pretty girl here,”
addressing Biddy, who really deserved the epithet, “will sit beside me,
and give us a song.”
It was surprising what an effect the punch even in perspective, had upon
the visual organs of the company; second-sight was rather its precursor
than its attendant; for, with intuitive penetration, they now discovered
various good qualities in his ghost-ship, that had hitherto been beyond
their ken; and those very personal properties, which before struck them
dumb with terror, already called forth their applause.
“What a fine man he is!” one would whisper, loud enough, however, to be
heard by the object of his panegyric.
“He is, indeed, and a rale gintleman,” another would respond in the same
key.
“Hut! he's none of your proud, stingy upsthart bodagahs*--none of your
beggarly half-sirs*,” a third would remark: “he's the dacent thing
entirely--you see he hasn't his heart in a thrifle.”
* A person vulgar, but rich, without any pretensions but
those of wealth to the character of a gentleman; a churl.
Half-sir; the same as above.
“And so sign's on him,” a fourth would add, with comic gravity, “he
wasn't bred to shabbiness, as you may know by his fine behavior and his
big whiskers.”
When the punch was made, and the kitchen-table placed endwise towards
the fire, the stranger, finding himself very comfortable, inquired if he
could be accommodated with a bed and supper, to which Nancy replied in
the affirmative.
“Then, in that case,” said he, “I will be your guest for the night.”
Shane Fadh now took courage to repeat the story of old Squire Graham and
his horse with the loose shoe; informing the stranger, at the same time,
of the singular likeness which he bore to the subject of the story, both
in face and size, and dwelling upon the remarkable coincidence in the
time and manner of his approach.
“Tut, man!” said the stranger, “a far more extraordinary adventure
happened to one of my father's tenants, which, if none of you have any
objection, I will relate.”
There was a buzz of approbation at this; and they all thanked his
honor, expressing the strongest desire to hear his story. He was just
proceeding to gratify them, when another rap came to the door, and,
before any of the inmates had time to open it, Father Ned Deleery and
his curate made their appearance, having been on their way home from a
conference held in the town of ----, eighteen miles from the scene of
our present story.
It may be right here to inform the reader, that about two hundred yards
from Ned's home stood a place of Roman Catholic worship, called “the
Forth,” * from the resemblance it bore to the _Forts_ or _Baths_, so
common in Ireland. It was a small green, perfectly circular, and about
twenty yards in diameter. Around it grew a row of old overspreading
hawthorns, whose branches formed a canopy that almost shaded it from sun
and storm. Its area was encompassed by tiers of seats, one raised above
another, and covered with the flowery grass. On these the congregation
used to sit--the young men chatting or ogling their sweethearts on the
opposite side; the old ones in little groups, discussing the politics of
the day, as retailed by Mick M'Caffry.** the politician; while, up near
the altar, hemmed in by a ring of old men and women, you might perceive
a _voteen_, repeating some new prayer or choice piece of devotion--or
some other, in a similar circle, perusing, in a loud voice. Dr.
Gallagher's Irish Sermons, Pastorini's History of the Christian Church,
or Columbkill's Prophecy--and, perhaps, a strolling pilgrim, the centre
of a third collection, singing the _Dies irae_, in Latin, or the Hermit
of Killarney, in English.
* This very beautiful but simple place of worship does not
now exist. On its site is now erected a Roman Catholic
chapel.
** Mick was also a schoolmaster, and the most celebrated
village politician of his day. Every Sunday found him
engaged as in the text.
At the extremity of this little circle was a plain altar of wood,
covered with a little thatched shed, under which the priest celebrated
mass; but before the performance of this ceremony, a large multitude
usually assembled opposite Ned's shop-door, at the cross-roads. This
crowd consisted of such as wanted to buy tobacco, candles, soap, potash,
and such other groceries as the peasantry remote from market-towns
require. After mass, the public-house was filled to the door-posts, with
those who wished to get a sample of Nancy's _Iska-behagh_* and many
a time has little Father Ned himself, of a frosty day, after having
performed mass with a celerity highly agreeable to his auditory, come in
to Nancy, nearly frost-bitten, to get his breakfast, and a toothful of
mountain dew to drive the cold out of his stomach.
_Usquebaugh_--literally, “water of life.”
The fact is, that Father Deleery made himself quite at home at Ned's
without any reference to Nancy's saving habits; the consequence was,
that her welcome to him was extremely sincere--“from the teeth out.”
Father Ned saw perfectly through her assumed heartiness of manner, but
acted as if the contrary was the case; Nancy understood him also, and
with an intention of making up by complaisance for their niggardliness
in other respects, was a perfect honeycomb. This state of
cross-purposes, however, could not last long; neither did it. Father Ned
never paid, and Nancy never gave credit; so, at length, they came to an
open rupture; she threatened to process him for what he owed her, and
he, in return, threatened to remove the congregation from “The Forth”
to Ballymagowan bridge, where he intended to set up his nephew in the
“public line,” to the ruin of Nancy's flourishing establishment.
“Father Ned,” said Nancy, “I'm a hardworking, honest woman, and I don't
see why my substance is to be wasted by your Reverence when you won't
pay for it.”
“And do you forget,” Father Ned would reply, “that it's me that
brings you your custom? Don't you know that if I remove my flock to
Ballymagowan, you'll soon sing to another tune? so lay that to your
heart.”
“Troth, I know that whatever I get I'm obliged to pay for it; and I
think every man should do the same, Father Ned. You must get a hank of
yarn from me, and a bushel or two of oats from Ned, and your riglar dues
along with all; but, avourneen, it's yourself that won't pay a penny
when you can help it.”
“Salvation to me, but you'd skin a flint!”
“Well, if I would, I pay my debts first.”
“You do?”
“Yes, troth, do I.”
“Why then that's more than you'll be able to do long, plase the fates.”
“If all my customers wor like your Reverence, it is.”
“I'll tell you what it is, Nancy, I often threatened to take the
congregation from 'The Forth,' and I'll do it--if I don't, may I never
sup sorrow!”
Big with such a threat, Father Ned retired. The apprehensions of Nancy
on this point, however, were more serious than she was willing to
acknowledge. This dispute took place a few days before the night in
question.
Father Ned was a little man, with a red face, slender legs, and
flat feet; he was usually cased in a pair of ribbed minister's grey
small-clothes, with leggings of the same material. His coat, which was
much too short, rather resembled a jerkin, and gave him altogether an
appearance very much at variance with an idea of personal gravity or
reverence. Over this dress he wore in winter, a dark great-coat, with
high collar, that buttoned across his face, showing only the point, of
his red nose; so that, when riding or walking, his hat rested more upon
the collar of his coat than upon his head.
The curate was a tall, raw-boned young man, with high jutting
cheek-bones, low forehead, and close knees; to his shoulders, which were
very high, hung a pair of long bony arms, whose motions seemed rather
the effect of machinery than volition. His hair, which was a bad black,
was cropped close, and trimmed across his eye-brows, like that of a
Methodist preacher; the small-clothes he wore were of the same web which
had produced Father Ned's, and his body-coat was a dark blue, with black
buttons. Each wore a pair of gray woollen mittens.
“There, Pether,” said Father Ned, as he entered, “hook my bridle along
with your own, as your hand is in--God save all here! Paddy Smith,
ma bouchal, put these horses in the stable, till we dry ourselves a
bit--Father Pether and I.”
“Musha, but you're both welcome,” said Nancy, wishing to wipe out the
effects of the last tift with Father Ned, by the assistance of the
stranger's punch; “will ye bounce, ye spalpeens, and let them to the
fire? Father Ned, you're dhreepin' with the rain; and, Father Pether,
avourneen, you're wet to the skin, too.”
“Troth, and he is, Nancy, and a little bit farther, if you knew but all.
Mr. Morrow, how do you do, sir?--And--eh?--Who's this we've got in the
corner? A gintleman, boys, if cloth can make one! Mr. Morrow, introduce
me.”
“Indeed, Father Ned, I hav'nt the pleasure of knowing the gintleman
myself.”