_By William Maginn, Esq._
The churchyard of Inistubber is as lonely a one as you would wish to see
on a summer's day, or avoid on a winter's night. Under the east window of
the church is a mouldering vault of the De Lacys,--a branch of a family
descended from one of the conquerors of Ireland; and there they are
buried, when the allotted time calls them to the tomb. Sir Theodore De
Lacy had lived a jolly, thoughtless life, rising early for the hunt, and
retiring late from the bottle. A good-humoured bachelor who took no care
about the management of his household, provided that the hounds were in
order for his going out, and the table ready on his coming in. As for the
rest,--an easy landlord, a quiet master, a lenient magistrate (except to
poachers,) and a very excellent foreman of a grand jury. He died one
evening while laughing at a story which he had heard regularly thrice a
week for the last fifteen years of his life, and his spirit mingled with
the claret. In former times when the De Lacys were buried, there was a
grand breakfast, and all the party rode over to the church to see the
last rites paid. The keeners lamented; the country people had a wake
before the funeral, and a dinner after it--and there was an end. But
with the march of mind comes trouble and vexation. A man has now-a-days
no certainty of quietness in his coffin--unless it be a patent one. He is
laid down in the grave, and the next morning finds himself called upon to
demonstrate an interesting fact! No one, I believe, admires this ceremony,
and it is not to be wondered at that Sir Theodore De Lacy held it in
especial horror. "I'd like," said he one evening, "to catch one of the
thieves coming after me when I'm dead--By the God of War, I'd break every
bone in his body;--but," he added with a sigh, "as I suppose I'll not be
able to take my own part then, upon you I leave it, Larry Sweeney, to
watch me three days and three nights after they plant me under the sod.
There's Doctor Dickenson there, I see the fellow looking at me--fill your
glass, Doctor--here's your health! and shoot him, Larry, do you hear,
shoot the Doctor like a cock, if he ever comes stirring up my poor old
bones from their roost of Inistubber." "Why, then," Larry answered,
accepting the glass which followed this command, "long life to both your
honours; and it's I that would like to be putting a bullet into Doctor
Dickenson--heaven between him and harm--for hauling your honour away,
as if you was a horse's head, to a bonfire. There's nothing, I 'shure you,
gintlemin, poor as I am, that would give me greater pleasure." "We feel
obliged, Larry" said Sir Theodore, "for your good wishes." "Is it I pull
you out of the grave, indeed!" continued the whipper-in, for such he was,
--"I'd let nobody pull your honour out of any place, saving 'twas
purgatory; and out of that I'd pull you myself, if I saw you going
_there_." "I am of opinion, Larry," said Doctor Dickenson, "you would
turn tail if you saw Sir Theodore on that road. You might go further, and
fare worse, you know." "Turn tail!" replied Larry, "it is I that
wouldn't--I appale to St. Patrick himself over beyond"--pointing to a
picture of the Prime Saint of Ireland, which hung in gilt daubery behind
his master's chair, right opposite to him. To Larry's horror and
astonishment, the picture fixing its eyes upon him, winked with the most
knowing air, as if acknowledging the appeal. "What makes you turn so
white then at the very thought," said the doctor, interpreting the
visible consternation of our hero in his own way. "Nothing particular,"
answered Larry; "but a wakeness has come strong over me, gintlemin, and
if you'd have no objection, I'd like to go into the air for a bit." Leave
was of course granted, and Larry retired amid the laughter of the
guests--but as he retreated, he could not avoid casting a glance on the
awful picture--and again the Saint winked, with a most malicious smile.
It was impossible to endure the repeated infliction, and Larry rushed
down the stairs in an agony of fright and amazement. "May be," thought
he, "it might be my own eyes that wasn't quite steady--or the flame of
the candle. But no--he winked at me as plain as ever I winked at Judy
Donaghue of a May morning. What he manes by it I can't say--but there's
no use of thinking about it--no, nor of talking neither, for who' d
believe me if I tould them of it?"
The next evening Sir Theodore died, as has been mentioned; and in due
time thereafter was buried according to the custom of the family, by
torch-light, in the churchyard of Inistubber. All was fitly performed;
and although Dickenson had no design upon the jovial knight--and if he
had not, there was nobody within fifteen miles that could be suspected
of such an outrage,--yet Larry Sweeney was determined to make good his
promise of watching his master. "I'd think little of telling a lie to him,
by the way of no harm when he was alive," said he, wiping his eyes, as
soon as the last of the train had departed, leaving him with a single
companion in the lonely cemetery; "but now that he's dead--God rest his
soul!--I'd scorn it. So Jack Kinaley, as behoves my first cousin's son,
stay you with me here this blessed night, for betune (between) you and I,
it an't lucky to stay by one's self in this ruinated old rookery, where
ghosts, God help us, is as thick as bottles in Sir Theodore's cellar!"
"Never you mind that, Larry," said Kinaley, a discharged soldier, who had
been through all the campaigns of the Peninsula; "never mind, I say, such
botherations. Han't I lain in bivouack on the field at Salamanca, and
Tallawara, and the Pyrumnees, and many another place beside, where there
was dead corpses lying about in piles, and there was no more ghosts than
kneebuckles in a ridgemint of Highlanders. Here, let me prime them pieces,
and hand us over the bottle; we'll stay snug under this east window, for
the wind's coming down the hill, and I defy"--"None of that bould talk,
Jack," said his cousin; "as for what ye saw in foreign parts, of dead men
killed afighting, sure that's nothing to the dead--God rest 'em!--that's
here. There you see, they had company one with the other, and being
killed fresh-like that morning, had no heart to stir; but here, faith!
'tis a horse of another colour." "May be it is," said Jack, "but the
night's coming on; so I'll turn in. Wake me if you sees any thing; and
after I've got my two hours' rest, I'll relieve you."
With these words the soldier turned on his side, under shelter of a grave,
and as his libations had been rather copious during the day, it was not
long before he gave audible testimony that the dread of supernatural
visitants had had no effect in disturbing the even current of his fancy.
Although Larry had not opposed the proposition of his kinsman, yet he
felt by no means at ease. He put in practice all the usually recommended
nostrums for keeping away unpleasant thoughts:--all would not do. "If it
was a common, dacent, quite (quiet,) well-behaved churchyard a'self,"
thought Larry, half-aloud--"but when 'tis a place like this forsaken ould
berrin'-ground, which is noted for villiany"--"For what, Larry?" said a
gentleman, stepping out of a niche which contained the only statue time
had spared. It was the figure of Saint Colman, to whom the church was
dedicated. Larry had been looking at the figure, as it shone forth in
ebon and ivory in the light and shadow of the now high-careering moon,
"For what, Larry," said the gentleman,--"for what do you say the
churchyard is noted?" "For nothing at all, plase your honour," replied
Larry, "except the height of gentility." The stranger was about four feet
high, dressed in what might be called flowing garments,--if, in spite of
their form, their rigidity did not deprive them of all claim to such an
appellation. He wore an antique mitre upon his head; his hands were
folded upon his breast; and over his right shoulder rested a pastoral
crook. There was a solemn expression in his countenance, and his eye
might truly be called stony. His beard could not be well said to wave
upon his bosom; but it lay upon it in ample profusion, stiffer than that
of a Jew on a frosty morning after mist. In short, as Larry soon
discovered to his horror, on looking up at the niche, it was no other
than Saint Colman himself, who had stept forth, indignant (in all
probability) at the stigma cast by the watcher of the dead on the
churchyard of which his Saintship was patron. He smiled with a grisly
solemnity--just such a smile as you might imagine would play round the
lips of a milestone (if it had any,) at the recantation so quickly
volunteered by Larry. "Well," said he, "Lawrence Sweeney"--"How well the
old rogue," thought Larry, "knows my name!" "Since you profess yourself
such an admirer of the merits of the churchyard of Inistubber, get up and
follow me, till I show you the civilities of the place--for I am master
here, and must do the honours." "Willingly would I go with your worship,"
replied our friend; "but you see here I am engaged to Sir Theodore, who,
though a good master, was a mighty passionate man when every thing was
not done as he ordered it; and I am feared to stir." "Sir Theodore," said
the Saint, "will not blame you for following me. I assure you he will
not." "But then," said Larry--"Follow me!" cried the Saint, in a hollow
voice, and casting upon him his stony eye, drew poor Larry after him, as
the bridal guest was drawn by the lapidary glance of the Ancient Mariner;
or, as Larry himself afterwards expressed it, "as a jaw tooth is wrinched
out of an ould woman with a pair of pinchers." The Saint strode before
him in silence, not in the least incommoded by the stones and rubbish,
which at every step sadly contributed to the discomfiture of Larry's
shins, who followed his marble conductor into a low vault, situated at
the west end of the church. The path lay through coffins piled up on each
side of the way in various degrees of decomposition; and, excepting that
the solid footsteps of the saintly guide, as they smote heavily on the
floor of stone, broke the deadly silence, all was still. Stumbling and
staggering along, directed only by the casual glimpses of light afforded
by the moon, where it broke through the dilapidated roof of the vault,
and served to discover only sights of woe, Larry followed. He soon felt
that he was descending, and could not help wondering at the length of the
journey. He began to entertain the most unpleasant suspicions as to the
character of his conductor;--but what could he do? Flight was out of the
question, and to think of resistance was absurd. "Needs must, they say,"
thought he to himself, "when the devil drives. I see it's much the same
when a saint, leads."
At last the dolorous march had an end; and not a little to Larry's
amazement, he found that his guide had brought him to the gate of a lofty
hall, before which a silver lamp, filled with naphtha, "yielded light as
from a sky."--From within loud sounds of merriment were ringing; and it
was evident, from the jocular harmony and the tinkling of glasses, that
some subterraneous catch-club were not idly employed over the bottle.
"Who's there?" said a porter, roughly responding to the knock of Saint
Colman. "Be so good," said the Saint, mildly, "my very good fellow, as to
open the door without further questions, or I'll break your head. I'm
bringing a gentleman here on a visit, whose business is pressing." "May
be so," thought Larry, "but what that business may be, is more than I can
tell." The porter sulkily complied with the order, after having
apparently communicated the intelligence that a stranger was at hand; for
a deep silence immediately followed the tipsy clamour; and Larry,
sticking close to his guide, whom he now looked upon almost as a friend,
when compared with these underground revellers to whom he was about to
be introduced, followed him through a spacious vestibule, which gradually
sloped into a low-arched room, where the company was assembled. And a
strange-looking company it was. Seated round a long table were
three-and-twenty grave and venerable personages, bearded, mitred, stoled,
and croziered,--all living statues of stone, like the Saint who had
walked out of his niche. On the drapery before them were figured the
images of the sun, moon, and stars--the inexplicable bear--the mystic
temple, built by the hand of Hiram--and other symbols, of which the
uninitiated knew nothing. The square, the line, the trowel, were not
wanting, and the hammer was lying in front of the chair. Labour, however,
was over, and the time for refreshment having arrived, each of the stony
brotherhood had a flagon before him; and when we mention that the Saints
were Irish, and that St. Patrick in person was in the chair, it is not to
be wondered at that the mitres, in some instances, hung rather loosely on
the side of the heads of some of the canonized compotators. Among the
company were found St. Senanus of Limerick, St. Declan of Ardmore, St.
Canice of Kilkenny, St. Finbar of Cork, St. Michan of Dublin, St. Brandon
of Kerry, St. Fachnan of Ross, and others of that holy brotherhood; a
vacant place, which completed the four-and-twentieth, was left for St.
Colman, who, as every body knows, is of Cloyne; and he, having taken his
seat, addressed the president, to inform him that he had brought the man.
The man (viz. Larry himself) was awestruck with the company in which he
so unexpectedly found himself; and trembled all over when, on the notice
of his guide, the eight-and-forty eyes of stone were turned directly upon
himself. "You have just nicked the night to a shaving, Larry," said St.
Patrick: "this is our chapter-night, and myself and brethren are here
'assembled on merry occasion.'--You know who I am?" "God bless your
reverence," said Larry, "it's I that do well. Often did I see your
picture hanging over the door of places where it is"--lowering his
voice--"pleasanter to be than here, buried under an ould church." "You
may as well say it out, Larry," said St. Patrick; "and don't think I'm
going to be angry with you about it; for I was once flesh and blood
myself. But you remember, the other night, saying that you would think
nothing of pulling your master out of purgatory, if you could get at him
there, and appealing to me to stand by your words.
"Y-e-e-s," said Larry, most mournfully; for he recollected the
significant look he had received from the picture. "And," continued St.
Patrick, "you remember also that I gave you a wink, which you know is as
good, any day, as a nod--at least, to a blind horse." "I'm sure, your
reverence," said Larry, with a beating heart, "is too much of a gintleman
to hould a poor man hard to every word he may say of an evening, and
therefore"--"I was thinking so," said the saint, "I guessed you'd prove a
poltroon when put to the push. What do you think, my brethren, I should
do to this fellow?" A hollow sound burst from the bosoms of the unanimous
assembly. The verdict was short and decisive:--"Knock out his brains!" And
in order to suit the action to the word, the whole four-and-twenty arose
at once, and with their immovable eyes fixed firmly on the face of our
hero--who horror struck with the sight as he was, could not close
his--they began to glide slowly but regularly towards him, bending their
line into the form of a crescent, so as to environ him on all sides. In
vain he fled to the door; its massive folds resisted mortal might. In
vain he cast his eyes around in quest of a loophole of retreat--there was
none. Closer and closer pressed on the slowly-moving phalanx, and the
uplifted croziers threatened soon to put their sentence into execution.
Supplication was all that remained--and Larry sunk upon his knees. "Ah!
then," said he, "gintlemin and ancient ould saints as you are, don't kill
the father of a large small family, who never did hurt to you or yours.
Sure, if 'tis your will that I should go to--no matter who, for there's
no use in naming his name--might I not as well make up my mind to go
there, alive and well, stout and hearty, and able to face him,--as with
my head knocked into bits, as if I had been after a fair or a patthern?"
"You say right," said St. Patrick, checking with a motion of his crozier
the advancing assailants, who returned to their seats. "I am glad to see
you coming to reason. Prepare for your journey." "And how, plase your
Saintship, am I to go?" asked Larry. "Why," said St. Patrick, "as Colman
here has guided you so far, he may guide you further. But as the journey
is into foreign parts, where you arn't likely to be known, you had better
take this letter of introduction, which may be of use to you." "And here,
also, Lawrence," said a Dublin Saint--perhaps Michan--"take you this box
also, and make use of it as he to whom you speak shall suggest." "Take a
hold, and a firm one," said St. Colman, "Lawrence, of my cassock, and we'
ll start." "All right behind?" cried St. Patrick. "All right!" was the
reply. In an instant!--vault--table--saints--bell--church, faded into air;
a rustling hiss of wings was all that was heard; and Larry felt his cheek
swept by a current, as if a covey of birds of enormous size were passing
him. (It was, in all probability, the flight of the saints returning to
heaven, but on that point nothing certain has reached us up to the
present time of writing.) He had not a long time to wonder at the
phenomenon, for he himself soon began to soar, dangling in mid sky at the
skirt of the cassock of his sainted guide. Earth, and all that appertains
thereto, speedily passed from his eyes, and they were alone in the midst
of circumfused ether, glowing with a sunless light. Above, in immense
distance, was fixed the firmament, fastened up with bright stars, fencing
around the world with its azure wall. They fled far, before any
distinguishable object met their eyes. At length a long, white streak,
shining like silver in the moonbeam, was visible to their sight. "That,"
said St. Colman, "is the Limbo which adjoins the earth, and is the
highway for ghosts departing the world. It is called in Milton, a book
which I suppose, Larry, you never have read"--"And how could I, plase
your worship," said Larry, "seein' I don't know a B from a bull's foot!"
"Well, it is called in Milton the Paradise of Fools: and if it were indeed
peopled by all of that tribe who leave the world, it would contain the
best company that ever figured on the earth. To the north, you see a
bright speck?" "I do." "That marks the upward path,--narrow and hard to
find. To the south you may see a darksome road--broad, smooth, and easy
of descent; that is the lower way. It is thronged with the great ones of
the world; you may see their figures in the gloom. Those who are soaring
upwards are wrapt in the flood of light flowing perpetually from that
single spot, and you cannot see them. The silver path on which we enter
is the Limbo. Here I part with you. You are to give your letter to the
first person you meet. Do your best;--be courageous, but observe
particularly that you profane no holy name, or I will not answer for the
consequences."
His guide had scarcely vanished, when Larry heard the tinkling of a bell
in the distance, and turning his eyes in the quarter whence it proceeded,
he saw a grave-looking man in black, with eyes of fire, driving before
him a flock of ghosts with a switch, as you see turkeys driven on the
western road, at the approach of Christmas. They were on the highway to
Purgatory. The ghosts were shivering in the thin air, which pinched them
severely, now that they had lost the covering of their bodies. Among the
group, Larry recognised his old master, by the same means that Ulysses,
Aeneas, and others, recognised the bodiless forms of their friends in the
regions of Acheron. "What brings a living person," said the man in black,
"on this pathway? I shall make legal capture of you, Larry Sweeney, for
trespassing. You have no business here." "I have come," said Larry,
plucking up courage, "to bring your honour's glory a letter from a
company of gintlemin with whom I had the pleasure of spending the evening,
underneath the ould church of Inistubber." "A letter," said the man in
black, "where is it?" "Here, my lord," said Larry. "Ho!" cried the black
gentleman, on opening it, "I know the handwriting. It won't do, however,
my lad,--I see they want to throw dust in my eyes." "Whew," thought Larry,
"that's the very thing. 'Tis for that the ould Dublin boy gave me the box.
I'd lay a tinpenny to a brass farthing that it's filled with Lundy Foot."
Opening the box, therefore, he flung its contents right into the fiery
eyes of the man in black, while he was still occupied with reading the
letter,--and the experiment was successful. "Curses--tche-tche-tche,--
Curses on it," exclaimed he, clapping his hand before his eyes, and
sneezing most lustily.--"Run, you villians, run," cried Larry, to the
ghosts--"run, you villians, now that his eyes are off of you--O master,
master! Sir Theodore, jewel! run to the right-hand side, make for the
bright speck, and God give you luck."
He had forgotten his injunction. The moment the word was uttered he felt
the silvery ground sliding from under him; and with the swiftness of
thought he found himself on the flat of his back, under the very niche of
the old church wall whence he had started, dizzy and confused with a
measureless tumble. The emancipated ghosts floated in all directions,
emitting their shrill and stridulous cries in the gleaming expanse. Some
were again gathered by their old conductor; some scudding about at
random, took the right hand path, others the left. Into which of them Sir
Theodore struck, is not recorded; but as he had heard the direction, let
us hope that he made the proper choice. Larry had not much time given him
to recover from his fall, for almost in an instant he heard an angry
snorting rapidly approaching, and looking up, whom should he see but the
gentleman in black, with eyes gleaming more furiously than ever, and his
horns (for, in his haste, he had let his hat fall) relieved in strong
shadow against the moon. Up started Larry--away ran his pursuer after him.
The safest refuge was, of course, the church,--thither ran our hero--and
after him--fiercer than the shark, swifter than the hounds--fled the
black gentleman. The church is cleared; the chancel entered; and the hot
breath of his pursuer glows upon the outstretched neck of Larry. Escape
is impossible--the extended talons of the fiend have clutched him by the
hair. "You are mine," cried the demon,--"if I have lost any of my flock,
I have at last got you." "Oh, St. Patrick!" exclaimed our hero, in horror,
--"Oh, St. Patrick have mercy upon me, and save me!" "I tell you what,
cousin Larry," said Kinaley, chucking him up from behind a gravestone,
where he had fallen--"all the St. Patricks that ever were born would not
have saved you from ould Tom Picton, if he caught you sleeping on your
post as I've caught you now. By the word of an ould soldier, he'd have
had the provost-marshal upon you, and I'd not give two-pence for the loan
of your life. And then, too, I see you have drunk every drop in the
bottle. What can you say for yourself?" "Nothing at all," said Larry,
scratching his head,--"but it was an unlucky dream, and I'm glad it's
over."--_Literary Souvenir._
* * * * *
Ancient Roman Festivals.