“When ghosts, as cottage maids believe,
Their pebbled beds permitted leave,
And goblins haunt, from fire or fen,
Or mine or flood, the walks of men.”----COLLINS.
One evening last winter--a holiday evening too--when the western wind was
sweeping on wild pinions from the grey hills of Tipperary, athwart the
rich and level plains of the Queen’s County, when the blast roared down
in the chimney, and the huge rain-drops pattered saucily against the four
tiny panes which constituted the little kitchen window, I was sitting in
the cottage of a neighbouring peasant, amid a small but happy group of
village rustics, and enjoying with them that enlivening mirth and sinless
delight which I have never found any where but at the fireside of an
Irish peasant. The earthen floor was well scrubbed over; the “brullaws
ov furnithure” were arranged with more than usual tidiness, and even the
crockery on the well-scoured dresser reflected the ruddy glare of the red
fire with redoubled brilliancy, and glittered and glistened as merrily as
if they felt conscious of the calm and tranquillity of that happy scene.
And happy indeed was that scene, and happy was that time, and happier
still the hearts of the laughing rustics by whom I was on that occasion
surrounded, and amongst whom I have spent the lightest and happiest hours
of my existence.
It was, as I said, a wild night, but even the violence of the weather
abroad gave an additional relish to the enjoyments within. The blast
whistled fiercely in the bawn and in the haggard, but the huge fire
blazed brightly on the hearth-stone. The rain fell in torrents; but, as
one of the company chucklingly remarked, “the wrong side ov the house was
out,” and I myself mentally exclaimed with Tam o’ Shanter,
“The storm without may roar and rustle,
_We_ do not mind the storm a whustle.”
Whilst, to wind up the climax of our happiness, a gossoon who had been
dispatched for a grey-beard full of “the native,” now returned, and
in a few minutes a huge jug of half and half smoked on the table, and
was circulated around the smiling and expectant ring, with an impetus
of which the peasantry of Ireland will in a short time, from certain
existing causes, have not even the remotest idea.
Well! such an evening as we had, I shall never forget; it would be vain
to attempt a description. Those who have witnessed similar scenes require
none, and to those who have not, any attempt at one would be useless.
All therefore I shall say, is, that such a scene of fun and frolic and
harmless waggery could not be found any where outside that ring which
encircles the Emerald Isle, and even within that bright zone, nowhere but
in the cabin of an Irish “scullogue.”
The songs of our sires, chanted with all that melancholy softness and
pathetic sweetness for which the voices of our wild Irish girls are
remarkable, the wild legend recited with that rich brogue and waggish
humour peculiar alone to the Irish peasant, and the romantic and absurd
fairy tale, told with all the reverential awe and caution which the
solemnity of the subject required, long amused and excited the captivated
auditors; but at length, more’s the pity, the vocalist could sing no
more, having “a mighty great could intirely.” The story-teller was “as
dry as a chip wid all he talked,” and even the sides of most of the
company “war ready to split wid the rale dint of laughin’;” whilst, as if
to afford us another illustration of the truth of the old proverb, “one
trouble never comes alone,” even the old crone who had astonished us with
the richness and extent of her fairy lore, was also knocked up, or rather
knocked _down_, for the quantity of earthly _spirits_ she had put _in_,
entirely put _out_ all memory of _un_-earthly _spirits_, and sent her
disordered fancy, all confused as it was, wool-gathering to the classic
regions of _Their-na-noge_.[3]
Well, what was to be done? It was still young in the night, and, better
than that, a good “slug” still remained in the grey-beard, and as we all
had contributed to procure the stock, so all declared that none should
depart until the very last drop was drained. But how was the interval to
be employed? The singer was hushed, the story-teller was exhausted, and
vollies of wit and waggery had exploded until every one was tired; yet to
remain silent was considered by all as the highest degree of discomfort.
In this dilemma the man of the house scratched his pericranium, and, as
acting by some sudden impulse, started up and handed me an old sooty
book, “hoping that I would read a wollume for the edication of the
company, until it would be time to retire.”
I agreed without hesitation, and on opening the dusty and smoke-begrimed
volume found that it was “Sir Charles Coote’s Statistical Survey of
the Queen’s County,” printed in Dublin by Graisberry and Campbell, and
published by direction of the Dublin Society in the year 1801. Although
well aware that the dry details of a work professedly and almost
exclusively statistical, were little calculated to amuse or interest
_such_ an audience, yet, as the library of an Irish peasant is always
unfortunately scanty, and in this instance, with the exception of a few
trifling works on religious subjects, limited to the book in question, I
determined to make the best I could of it, and for that purpose opened
it at Sir Charles’s description of the immediate district in which we
were situated, namely, the barony of Maryborough West, and town-land of
Killeany. I read on thus:--“On Sir Allen Johnson’s estate stand the ruins
of Killeany Castle; the walls are injudiciously built of very bad stones,
though excellent quarry is contiguous. … Poor-man’s Bridge over the Nore
was lately widened, and is very safe, but I cannot learn the tradition
why it was so called.”
“Read that again, sir,” said a fine grey-headed, patriarchal old man who
was present; “read that again,” said he emphatically. I did so.
“_He_ cannot learn the tradition of Poor-man’s Bridge, _inagh_!” said the
old man with a sneer; “faith, I believe not; I’d take his word for more
nor that. But had he come to me when he was travelling the country making
up his statisticks, I could open his eyes on that subject, and many
others too.”
Some of those present laughed outright at the old man’s gravity of manner
as he made this confident boast.
“You need not laugh--you may shut your potato-traps,” said the old man
indignantly. “Grand as he was, with his gold and silver, his coach and
horses, and servants with gold and scarlet livery, I could enlighten him
more on the ancient history and traditions of our country than all the
_boddaghs_ of squireens whom he visited on his tour through the Queen’s
County.”
These assertions served only to increase the storm of ridicule which was
gathering around the old man’s head; and to put a stop to any bad blood
which the occasion might call forth, I requested of him to tell us the
tradition of “the Boccough Ruadh.”
After some wheedling and flattery he complied, and told a curious story,
of which the following is the substance.
The river Nore flows through a district of the Queen’s County celebrated
for fertility and romantic beauty. From its source amongst the blue hills
of Slievebloom to its termination at New Ross, where its bright ripples
commingle with the briny billows of the Irish sea, many excellent and
even some beautiful bridges span its stream. Until the commencement of
the last century, however, except in the vicinity of towns, there were
but few permanent bridges across this river, and in the country districts
access was gained over it chiefly by means of causeways, or, as they are
termed, “foords,” constructed of stones and huge blocks of timber fixed
firmly in the bed of the river, and extending in irregular succession
from bank to bank. Over this pathway foot passengers crossed easily
enough, but cattle and wheeled carriages were obliged to struggle through
the water as well as they could; but in time of floods, and in the winter
season when the waters were swollen, all communication was cut off except
to pedestrians alone.
One of those “foords,” in former times, crossed the Nore at Shanahoe, a
very pretty neighbourhood, about three miles northwards of the beautiful
and rising town of Abbeyleix, in the Queen’s County. The river here winds
its course through a silent glen, and now several snug cottages and
farm-houses arise above its banks at either side. The country in this
neighbourhood is remarkably beautiful. Several gentlemen’s seats are
scattered along the banks of the river in this vicinity, all elegant and
of modern erection, whilst swelling hills, sloping dales, gloomy groves,
and ruins of church and tower and “castle grey,” ornament and diversify
the scene.
On a gentle eminence on the eastern bank of the river, stood, about a
hundred years ago, the cabin of a man named Neale O’Shea. At that period
there was not another dwelling within a long distance of the “foord,”
and many a time was Neale summoned from his midnight repose to guide the
traveller in his passage over the lonely and dangerous river pathway.
One wild stormy December night, when the huge limestone rocks that formed
the stepping-stones of the ford were lashed and chafed by the angry foam
of the agitated river, Neale O’Shea’s wife fancied she heard, amid the
fitful pausings of the wind, the cry of some mortal in distress. She
immediately aroused her husband, who was stretched asleep on a large
oak stool in the chimney corner, and told him to look out. Neale, ever
willing to relieve a fellow-creature, arose, and, flinging his grey
“trusty” over his expansive shoulders, and seizing a long iron-shod pole
or wattle, the constant companion of his nightly excursions, hastened
down to the river’s brink. He stood a moment at the verge of the ford,
and tried to penetrate through the intense gloom, to see if he could
discover a human form, but he could see nothing.
“Is there any one there?” he shouted in a stentorian voice, which rose
high above the whistling of the blast, and the brawling of the angry and
swift-rushing river.
A voice sounded at the other extremity of the ford, and the stout-hearted
peasant, with steady step, crossed over the slippery stepping-stones.
“Who the devil are you?” roughly exclaimed Neale to a man who lay
extended on the brink of the river, convenient to the entrance of the
ford.
“Whoever I am,” faintly replied the stranger, “you are my good angel,
and it was surely Providence who sent you this night to rescue me from a
watery grave.”
“Whoever you are,” again said Neale, “come along with me, and Kathleen
and the childre will make you welcome in my cabin until morning.”
So saying, he seized the bending form of the wayworn stranger, and
flinging him on his back with herculean strength, trudged over the
stepping-stones, chuckling with delight, and gaily whistling as he went.
The dangerous pass was soon crossed, and arriving at the door, Neale
pushed it before him, and with a smile deposited his trembling burthen
on the warm hearth. A fine fire blazed merrily, and its flickering
beams fell brightly on the face of the stranger. He was a tall, portly
figure, stooped as if from extreme suffering more than age, and had a
wooden leg. His features, which had evidently been handsome in his youth,
were worn, pale, and attenuated, and he might be about fifty years of
age. His clothes were faded and ragged; he was entirely without shoes
or stockings; and his head was covered by a broad-brimmed leathern hat,
under which he wore an enormous red nightcap of coarse woollen cloth.
The good Kathleen now set about preparing supper, and while thus
employed, the stranger gave them a brief account of his bygone life.
He told them that he was a native of the north of Ireland, and that
he had spent several years of his youth at sea; that being wounded
in a fray with smugglers on the coast of France, and losing his leg,
he was discharged from his employment, and sent adrift on the world,
without having one friend on earth, or a penny in his pocket. In this
exigence he had no alternative but to apply to the commiseration of his
fellow-creatures, and had thus for the last twenty years wandered up and
down, entirely dependent on the bounty and charity of the public.
Supper was now ready, and having partaken of a comfortable meal, the
wanderer went to rest in a comfortable “shake-down,” which the good woman
had prepared for him in the chimney corner. The storm died away during
the night, and next morning the watery beams of the winter’s sun shone
faintly yet gaily on the smooth surface of the silvery Nore.
The stranger was up at sunrise, and was preparing to depart, but his kind
host and hostess would not permit him to go. They told him to stop a few
days to rest himself, and in the interim, that he could not do better
than take his stand at the ford, and ask alms of those who passed the
way, as a great many frequented that pass; and as nothing was ever craved
from them there, they would cheerfully extend their charity to an object
worthy of relief.
Acting on their suggestions, the old sailor was soon sitting on a stone
at the western extremity of the ford. With his old caubeen in his hand,
and his head enveloped in the gigantic red nightcap, he craved alms,
in the name of God and the Virgin, from all who passed the way; and
before the sickly beams of the December sun had sunk behind the conical
“Gizebo,” he could show more money than ever he did before, since his
limb was swept off by the shot of the smuggling Frenchman.
The next morning, and every morning after, found the sailor at his post
at the ford: he soon became well known to all the villagers, and from the
circumstance of his always appearing with no other head-gear than the red
nightcap, they nicknamed him the “Boccough Ruadh,”[4] a name by which he
went ever after till his death.
Time passed on as usual, and the one-legged sailor still plied his
lucrative vocation at the river pass. Neale O’Shea’s cabin still
continued to afford him shelter every night, and all his days, from the
crow of the cock to the vesper song of the wood-thrush, were passed at
the ford, seated on that remarkable block of limestone called to this day
the “Clough-na-Boccough.”[5] His hand was stretched to every stranger
for alms, “for the good of their souls,” and very few passed without
giving more or less to the Boccough Ruadh. Thus he acquired considerable
sums of money, but constantly denied having a “keenogue;” but when
bantered by any of the neighbouring urchins on the length of his purse,
he would get into a great rage, and swear, by the cross of his crutch,
that between buying the shough of tobacco and paying for other things he
wanted, he hadn’t as much as would jingle on a tomb-stone, or what would
buy a farthing candle to show light to his poor corpse at the last day.
His food was of the very worst description, and unless supplied by the
kind-hearted Kathleen O’Shea, he would sooner go to bed supperless than
lay out one penny to buy bread. He suffered his clothes to go to rags,
unless when any person in the neighbourhood would give him old clothes
for charity, and he would not pay for soap to wash his shirt once in the
twelvemonth. Yet no one could find out what he did with his money; he did
not spend two-and-sixpence in the year, and it was people’s opinion that
he was hoarding it up to give for the benefit of his soul at his dying
day.
Years rolled away, and Neale O’Shea having now waxed old, died, and
was gathered to his fathers in the adjacent green churchyard of
Shannikill,[6] on the banks of the winding Nore. The Boccough followed
the remains of his kind benefactor to his last earthly resting-place,
and poured his sorrows over his grave in loud and long-continued
lamentations. But though Neale was gone, Kathleen remained, and she
promised that while she lived, neither son nor daughter should ever turn
out the Boccough Ruadh.
It was now forty years since the Boccough first crossed the waters of
the Nore, and still he was constantly to be found from morning till
night on his favourite stone at the river side. In the mean time, all
O’Shea’s children were married, and separated through various parts of
the country, with the exception of Terry, the youngest, a fine stout
fellow, now about thirty-five years of age, who still remained in a state
of single blessedness, and said he would continue so, “until he would
be after laying the last sod on his poor ould mother.” With gigantic
strength, he inherited all his father’s kindness of heart and undaunted
bravery, and he was particularly attentive to the Boccough, whom he
regarded with the same affection as a child would a parent.
One morning in summer, the Boccough was observed to remain in bed longer
than was his custom, and thinking that he might be unwell, Terry went to
his bedside, and demanded why he was not up as usual.
“Ah, Terry, _alanna_,” said the old man sorrowfully, “I will never get up
again until I do upon the bearer.[7] My days are spent, and I know it,
for there is something over me that I cannot describe, and I won’t be
alive in twenty-four hours;” and as he said these words, he heaved a deep
groan, whilst Terry, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, wept
bitterly.
“Will I go for the priest?” demanded Terry, sobbing as if his heart would
break.
“No,” replied the old man sorrowfully, “I do not want him. It is long
since I complied with my religious duties, and now I feel it is useless.”
“There is mercy still,” replied Terry; “you know the ould sayin’,
‘Mercy craved and mercy found
Between the saddle and the ground.’”
The old man replied not, but shook his head, indicating his determination
to die without the consolations of religion, whilst Terry trembled for
his hopeless situation.
“Well, since you won’t have the priest, will you give me some money till
I bring you the doctor?” said Terry.
The old man’s eyes literally flashed fire, his form heaved with rage, and
his countenance displayed demoniac indignation.
“What’s that you say?” he demanded in a ferocious tone.
Terry repeated the question.
“Send for a doctor!--give you money!” echoed the old man. “Where the
devil would I get money to pay a doctor?”
“You have it, and ten times as much,” said Terry, “and you cannot deny
it.”
“If I have as much money as would buy me a coffin,” said the Boccough,
“may my soul never rest quiet in the grave.”
Terry crossed his brow with terror. He knew the unhappy wretch was dying
with a lie on his tongue, but he resolved not to press the matter further.
“You are dying as fast as you can,” remarked Terry; “have you any thing
to say before you go?”
“Nothing,” replied he faintly. “But let me be buried with my red nightcap
on me.”
“Your wish must be granted,” said Terry, and he went to awake his old
mother, who still lay asleep. When he returned, he found the old man
breathing his last. He uttered a convulsive groan, and expired.
He was washed and stretched, and waked, with all the honours, rites,
and ceremonies belonging to a genuine Irish wake; and on the third day
following, being the Sabbath, he was followed to the grave by crowds of
the village peasantry, who remained in the churchyard until they saw his
remains deposited, as they thought for ever, in the rank soil of the
“City of the Dead.”
Many rumours were now current respecting the Boccough’s money. Every one
but Terry believed that the “lob” fell with Terry himself. But Terry, who
knew better, believed and affirmed that “what was got under the devil’s
belly, always goes over his back,” and that the “old boy” had taken the
spoil, and that it lay concealed in some crevice in the bank of the river.
The night following the burial of the old sailor was passed in a very
disturbed and agitated manner by Terry O’Shea: he could not sleep a wink;
and when he fell into a slumber, he started and moaned, and appeared
frightened and annoyed.
“What ails you?” affectionately demanded his old mother, who slept in the
same room, and who was kept awake by her son’s restless and disturbed
manner.
“I don’t know, mother,” said Terry; “I am so frightened and tormented
with dreaming of the Boccough Ruadh, that I am almost out of my natural
senses. Even at this moment I think I see him walking the room before me.”
“Holy Mary, protect us!” ejaculated the old woman. “And it is no wonder
that his misforthunate soul would be star-gazing about--and to die
without the priest, and a curse and a lie in his mouth!”
Terry groaned agitatedly.
“And how does he appear in your dreams?” asked the old woman.
“As he always was,” replied Terry. “But I think I see him pointing to his
red nightcap, and endeavouring to pull it off with his old withered hand.”
“Umph!” said the old woman, in a knowing tone. “Ha! ha! I have it now.
Are you sure that the strings of his nightcap were unloosed before he was
nailed up in the coffin?”
“I don’t know,” was the reply.
“I’ll go bail they weren’t,” said the old woman; “and you know, or at any
rate you ought to know, that a corpse can never rest in the grave when
there is a knot or a tie upon any thing belonging to its grave-dress.”
Terry emitted another deep groan.
“Well, _acushla_,” said the old mother, “go to-morrow, and take a
neighbour with you, and open the grave, and see if any thing be asthray.
If you find the nightcap or any thing else not as it should be, set it to
rights, and close the grave again decently, and he will trouble you no
more.”
“God send,” was Terry’s brief but emphatic response.
Early next morning Terry was at the Boccough’s grave, accompanied by a
man of the neighbourhood. The coffin was opened, the corpse examined,
and, according to the mother’s prediction, the red nightcap was found
knotted tightly under the dead man’s chin. Terry proceeded to unloosen
it, and in the act of doing so, a corner of the nightcap gave way, and
out peeped a shining golden guinea.
“Ah ha!” mentally exclaimed Terry, “that’s no blind nut any how; there’s
more where that was, but I had better keep a hard cheek!” So, without
seeming to appear any way affected, he opened the knot, closed the
coffin, shut up the grave, and departed homewards, without acquainting
his comrade with what he had seen.
The moment Terry entered his own door, he told his mother about the
guinea, and expressed his determination to go that very night, and fetch
the red nightcap home with him, “body and bones and all,” “for,” added
he, “that guinea has its comrade; and I’ll hold you a halfpenny there’s
where the old dog has the ‘lob’ concealed, and that’s what made him order
me to have the red cap buried with him.”
“_Asthore machree_,” said the mother doubtingly, “won’t you be afraid?”
“Afraid!” echoed Terry, “devil a bit--afraid indeed! and my fortune
perhaps in the red nightcap.”
The mother consented, but enjoined him to tell nobody about the matter
for fear of disappointment. Terry vowed implicit obedience, and retired
to his usual avocations in the garden.
Well, at last the night came, and Terry set about preparing for his
strange undertaking. All the arts and prayers and charms of old Kathleen
were put in requisition to preserve him from danger; and about the
witching hour of twelve, with his spade on his shoulder, and his dhudeen
in his mouth, the bold-hearted Terry set forward all alone to the
grave-yard, shaping his course by the winding banks of the glassy river,
and whistling as he went--not “for want of thought,” however, for never
was man’s mind more busily occupied than was Terry’s, in predisposing of
the money which he expected to find in the Boccough Ruadh’s nightcap.
After a short walk, Terry arrived at the precincts of the churchyard.
It was a lovely summer’s night, the full moon shining gloriously, and
myriads of pretty stars blinking and twinkling in the blue expanse, but
all their native lustre was drowned in the borrowed splendour of the
Queen of Heaven. Terry stood a moment to reconnoitre, and, resting on his
spade, looked around with an anxious gaze. He could discover nothing; all
was silent as the departed beneath his feet, except the murmuring of the
river’s surges in the rear, or the barking of some village cur-dog in the
hazy distance. He advanced to the grave of the Boccough, and in a few
minutes the ghastly moonbeams shone full on the pale grim features of the
dead. He snatched the nightcap quickly from the bald head of the corpse,
put it in his pocket, and, notwithstanding the awe and superhuman terror
under which he laboured, he chuckled with delight as he remarked the
“_dead_ weight” of the Boccough’s head-gear. He then closed the coffin,
and as he proceeded to cover it, the clay and stones fell on it with an
appalling and unearthly sound. The grave now covered up, the intrepid
fellow again shouldered his spade, and sought the river’s margin, and as
he strode hurriedly along its banks in the direction of his home, the
splash of the otter and the diving of the water-hen more than once broke
the thread of his lonely musings.
Terry was soon at his mother’s side, who since his departure had been on
her knees, praying for his safe return. The nightcap was ripped up, and
lo! three hundred golden guineas were the reward of Terry’s churchyard
adventure! Stitched carefully in every part of the huge nightcap, the
gold lay secure, so as not to attract the notice of any one, or cause the
least suspicion of its proximity to the old man’s pericranium.
Terry and his mother were in ecstacies. Farms were already purchased
in ideality, cattle bought, houses built, and even Terry began in his
mind to make preparations for his wedding with Onny Kinshellagh, a rich
farmer’s daughter of the neighbourhood, for whom he had breathed many a
hopeless sigh, and who, in addition to her beauty, was possessed of fifty
pounds in hard gold, a couple of good yearlings, and a feather-bed as
broad as the “nine acres.”
The mother and son retired to bed, as happy as the certain possession
of wealth, and the almost as certain expectations of honour and
distinction, could make them. After a long time spent in constructing and
condemning schemes for the future, Terry fell asleep. He had not slept
long, however, when he started up with a loud scream, crying out, “the
Boccough! the Boccough!” “Och, weary’s on him for a Boccough!” exclaimed
the mother; “is he coming for the nightcap and the goold?”
“Oh, no,” said Terry, calmly; “but I was again dreaming of him, and I was
frightened.”
“What did you dream to-night?” asked the old woman.
“I was dreaming that I was going over the foord by moonlight, and that I
saw the Boccough walking on the water towards me; that he stopped at a
certain big stone, and began to examine under with his hands; that I came
up, and asked him what he was searching for, when he looked up with a
frightful phiz, and cried out in a horrible voice, ‘For my red nightcap!’”
“God Almighty never opened one door but he opened two,” exclaimed old
Kathleen. “Examine under that stone to-morrow, and by all the cottoners
in Cork, you’ll find another ‘lob’ of money in it.”
“Faix, maybe so,” replied Terry; “it’s no harm to say ‘Godsend,’ and that
God may make a thief of you before a _liar_.”
“Amen, _achiernah_,” replied Kathleen.
Next morning at daybreak, Terry got up, and proceeded to the identical
stone where he fancied that he had seen the spirit of the Boccough. He
examined it closely, and after a strict search, discovered in the sand
beneath the rock a leathern pouch full of money. He seized it joyfully,
and on counting its contents, found it amounted to upwards of a hundred
pounds, all in silver and copper coins.
“What a lucky born man you are, Terry O’Shea!” cried the overjoyed
gold-finder, “and what a bright day it was for your family that the
Boccough Ruadh crossed over the waters of the Nore.”
“It was not a bright day at all, but a wild, gloomy, stormy night,”
said the old woman, who, unperceived, had followed her son to watch the
success of his expedition.
“No matter for that,” said Terry; “there never was so bright a day in
your seven generations as that dark night; I am now the richest man of my
name, and I would not, this mortal minute, call Lord De Vesci my uncle.”
It is easier for the reader to imagine than for the writer to describe
the manner in which this joyful day was passed by the happy mother and
son. Now counting and examining the gold, and again proposing plans, and
considering the best purposes to which it could be applied, they passed
the hours until the summer sun had long sunk behind the crimson west.
Terry was again in bed, when he started with a wild shriek. “Mother of
mercy!” he frantically vociferated, “here is the Boccough Ruadh; I hear
the tramp of his wooden leg on the floor.”
“Lord save us!” said the old woman in a trembling voice, “what can ail
him now? Maybe it’s more money he has hid somewhere else.”
“Oh, do you hear how he rattles about! Devil a _kippeen_ in the cabin but
he will destroy,” exclaimed poor Terry. “It’s the black day to us that
ever we seen himself or his dirty thrash of money; and if God saves me
till morning, I’ll go back and lave every rap ov id where I got it.”
“That would be a murdher to lave so much fine money moulding in the clay,
and so many in want of it; you shall do no such thing,” said the mother.
“I don’t care a straw for that,” said Terry. “I would not have the ould
sinner, God rest his sowl, stravagin’ every other night about my honest
decent cabin for all the goold in the Queen’s County.”
“Well, then,” says the old woman, “go to the priest in the morning, and
leave him the money, and let him dispose of it as he likes for the good
of the ould vagabond’s misforthunate soul.”
This plan was agreed to, and the conversation dropt. The ghost of the
Boccough still rattled and clanked about the house. He never ceased
stumping about, from the kitchen to the room, and from the room to the
kitchen. Pots and pans, plates and pitchers, were tossed here and there;
the dog was kicked, the cat was mauled, and even the raked-up fire was
lashed out of the “gree-sough.” In fact, Terry declared that if the
devil or Captain Rock was about the place, there couldn’t be more noise
than there was that night with the Boccough’s ghost, and this continued
without intermission until the bell of Abbeyleix castle clock was tolling
the midnight hour.
Terry was up next morning at sunrise, and having packed up the money
which was the cause of all his trouble in his mother’s check apron,
proceeded with a heavy heart to the residence of the priest, about two
miles from the present Poor-man’s Bridge. The priest was not up when
Terry arrived, but being well known to the domestics, he was admitted to
his bed-chamber.
“You have started early,” said the priest; “what troubles you now, Terry?”
Terry gave a full and true account of his troubles, and concluded by
telling him that he brought him the money to dispose of it as he thought
best.
“I won’t have any thing to do with it,” said the Father. “It is not mine,
so you may take it back again the same road.”
“Not a rap of it will ever go my road again,” said Terry. “Can’t you give
it for his unfortunate ould sowl?”
“I’ll have no hand in it,” said the priest.
“Nor I either,” said Terry. “I wouldn’t have the ould miser
_polthogueing_ about my quiet floor another night for the king’s ransom.”
“Well, take it to your landlord; he is a magistrate, and he will have it
put to some public works connected with the county,” said the priest.
“Bad luck to the lord or lady I’ll ever take it to,” said Terry, making a
spring, and bounding down the stairs, leaving the money, apron and all,
on the floor at the priest’s bedside.
“Come back, come back!” shouted the Father in a towering passion.
“Good morning to your ravirince,” said Terry, as he flew with the
swiftness of a mountain deer over the common before the priest’s door.
“Ay, go back, indeed; catch ould birds with chaff. You have the money
now, and you may make a bog or a dog of it, whichever you plaise.”
In an hour after, the priest’s servant man was on the road to
Maryborough, mounted on the priest’s own black gelding, with a sealed
parcel containing the Boccough’s money strapped in a portmanteau behind
him, and a letter to the treasurer of the Queen’s County grand jury,
detailing the curious circumstances by which it came into his possession,
and recommending him to convert it to whatever purpose the gentlemen of
the county should deem most expedient.
The summer assizes came on in a few days, and the matter was brought
before the grand jury, who agreed to expend the money in constructing a
stone bridge over the ford where it was collected.
Before that day twelvemonth, the ford had disappeared, and a noble bridge
of seven arches spanned the sparkling waters of the Nore, which is here
pretty broad and of considerable depth. From that day to this it is
called the “Poor-man’s Bridge,” and I never cross it without thinking of
the strange circumstances which led to its erection.
The spirit of the Boccough Ruadh never troubled Terry O’Shea after, but
often, as people say, amid the gloom of a winter’s night, or the grey
haze of a summer’s evening, may the figure of a wan and decrepid old
man with his head enveloped in a red nightcap, be seen wandering about
Poor-man’s Bridge, or walking quite “natural” over the glassy waters of
the transparent Nore.
[3] That imaginary region under ground, supposed by the peasantry to be
the residence of spirits and fairies.
[4] The red beggarman.
[5] Anglice, the Stone of the Cripple, or the stone of the beggarman.
This stone lay for many years in the position it occupied in the days of
the “Boccough,” but is now incorporated in the stonework of the parapet
of the bridge. It was believed to be enchanted, and the peasantry of the
neighbourhood used to affirm that it descended to the river to drink,
every night at the hour of twelve o’clock. This belief is now almost
exploded, but however it is affirmed to be the identical stone on which
the Boccough collected his wealth.
[6] This is a very ancient churchyard, situated on a gentle eminence
overhanging the western bank of the river Nore, and about half a mile
from Poor-man’s Bridge. The ruins of a church or monastic establishment
still remain in the centre of the grave-yard. It is said to have been
erected by St Comgall, from whom it took the name of Cell-Comgall, though
_now_ called Shankill, or Shannakill. St Comgall was born in Ulster in
516, and was educated under St Fintan, in the monastery of Clonenagh,
near Mountrath, in the Queen’s County. He died on the 10th of May 601.
[7] The bier or hand-carriage on which the dead are borne to the grave.
* * * * *
AN EXCUSE.--Miravaux was one day accosted by a sturdy beggar, who asked
alms of him. “How is this,” inquired Miravaux, “that a lusty fellow like
you is unemployed?” “Ah!” replied the beggar, looking very piteously at
him, “if you did but know how lazy I am!” The reply was so ludicrous and
unexpected, that Miravaux gave the varlet a piece of silver.
* * * * *
AN INCIDENT.--At the time Commodore Elliot commanded the navy at Norfolk
(I think it was), happening to be conducting a number of ladies and
gentlemen who were visiting the yard, he chanced to see a little boy who
had a basket full of chips, which he had gathered in the yard; probably
to show his importance he saluted him, and asked where he got the chips.
“In the yard,” replied the boy. “Then drop them,” said the brave man. The
little boy dropped the chips as he was ordered, and after gaining a safe
distance, turning round with his thumb to his nose, said, “That is the
first prize you ever took, any how!”
* * * * *
Solon enacted, that children who did not maintain their parents in old
age, when in want, should be branded with infamy, and lose the privilege
of citizens; he, however, excepted from the rule those children whom
their parents had taught no trade, nor provided with other means of
procuring a livelihood. It was a proverb of the Jews, that he who did not
bring up his son to a trade, brought him up as a thief.
* * * * *
If there be a lot on earth worthy of envy, it is that of a man, good
and tender-hearted, who beholds his own creation in the happiness
of all those who surround him. Let him who would be happy strive to
encircle himself with happy beings. Let the happiness of his family be
the incessant object of his thoughts. Let him divine the sorrows and
anticipate the wishes of his friends.
* * * * *
A cheerful heart paints the world as it finds it, like a sunny landscape;
the morbid mind depicts it like a sterile wilderness, palled with thick
vapours, and dark as “the shadow of death.” It is the mirror, in short,
on which it is caught, which lends to the face of nature the aspect of
its own turbulence or tranquillity.
* * * * *
The lazy, the dissipated, and the fearful, should patiently see the
active and the bold pass by them in the course. They must bring down
their pretensions to the level of their talents. Those who have not
energy to work must learn to be humble.--_Sharp’s Essays._
* * * * *
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