and the echo over from the gray rock across the river giving back every word as plainly as it was spoken. But nothing could Mick see, and the shouting and hallooing following him every step of the way till he got up to Jack Brien’s door; and he was certain, too, he heard the clack of old Hanlon’s mill going, through all the clatter. To be sure, he ran as fast as fear and his legs could carry him, and never once looked behind him, well knowing that the Duhallow hounds were out in quite another quarter that day, and that nothing good could come out of the noise of Hanlon’s mill.

Well, Michael Noonan got his brogues, and well heeled they were, and well pleased was he with them; when who should be seated at Jack Brien’s before him, but a gossip of his, one Darby Haynes, a mighty decent man, that had a horse and car of his own, and that used to be travelling with it, taking loads like the royal mail coach between Cork and Limerick; and when he was at home, Darby was a near neighbour of Michael Noonan’s.

“Is it home you’re going with the brogues this blessed night?” said Darby to him.

“Where else would it be?” replied Mick: “but, by my word, ’tis not across the Inch back again I’m going, after all I heard coming here; ’tis to no good that old Hanlon’s mill is busy again.”

“True, for you,” said Darby; “and may be you’d take the horse and car home for me, Mick, by way of company, as ’tis along the road you go. I’m waiting here to see a sister’s son of mine that I expect from Kilcoleman.” “That same I’ll do,” answered Mick, “with a thousand welcomes.” So Mick drove the car fair and easy, knowing that the poor beast had come off a long journey; and Mick—God reward him for it—was always tender-hearted and good to the dumb creatures.

The night was a beautiful one; the moon was better than a quarter old; and Mick, looking up at her, could not help bestowing a blessing on her beautiful face, shining down so sweetly upon the gentle Awbeg. He had now got out of the open road, and had come to where the trees grew on each side of it: he proceeded for some space in the chequered light which the moon gave through them. At one time, when a big old tree got between him and the moon, it was so dark, that he could hardly see the horse’s head; then, as he passed on, the moonbeams would stream through the open boughs and variegate the road with light and shade. Mick was lying down in the car at his ease, having got clear of the plantation, and was watching the bright piece of a moon in a little pool at the road-side, when he saw it disappear all of a sudden as if a great cloud came over the sky. He turned round on his elbow to see if it was so; but how was Mick astonished at finding, close alongside of the car, a great high black coach drawn by six black horses, with long black tails reaching almost down to the ground, and a coachman dressed all in black sitting up on the box. But what surprised Mick the most was, that he could see no sign of a head either upon coachman or horses. It swept rapidly by him, and he could perceive the horses raising their feet as if they were in a fine slinging trot, the coachman touching them up with his long whip, and the wheels spinning round like hoddy-doddies; still he could hear no noise, only the regular step of his gossip Darby’s horse, and the squeaking of the gudgeons of the car, that were as good as lost entirely for want of a little grease.

Poor Mick’s heart almost died within him, but he said nothing, only looked on; and the black coach swept away and was soon lost among some distant trees. Mick saw nothing more of it, or, indeed, of any thing else. He got home just as the moon was going down behind Mount Hillery—took the tackling off the horse, turned the beast out in the field for the night, and got to his bed.

Next morning, early, he was standing at the road-side, thinking of all that had happened the night before, when he saw Dan Madden, that was Mr. Wrixon’s huntsman, coming on the master’s best horse down the hill, as hard as ever he went at the tail of the hounds. Mick’s mind instantly misgave him that all was not right, so he stood out in the very middle of the road, and caught hold of Dan’s bridle when he came up.

“Mick, dear—for the love of heaven! don’t stop me,” cried Dan.

“Why, what’s the hurry?” said Mick.

“Oh, the master!—he’s off,—he’s off—he’ll never cross a horse again till the day of judgment!”

“Why, what would ail his honour?” said Mick; “sure it is no later than yesterday morning that I was talking to him, and he stout and hearty; and says he to me, Mick, says he—”

“Stout and hearty was he?” answered Madden; “and was he not out with me in the kennel last night, when I was feeding the dogs; and didn’t he come out to the stable, and give a ball to Peg Pullaway with his own hand, and tell me he’d ride the old General to-day; and sure,” said Dan, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, “who’d have thought that the first thing I’d see this morning was the mistress standing at my bed-side, and bidding me get up and ride off like fire for Doctor Galway; for the master had got a fit, and”—poor Dan’s grief choked his voice—“oh, Mick! if you have a heart in you, run over yourself, or send the gossoon for Kate Finnigan, the midwife; she’s a cruel skilful woman, and may be she might save the master, till I get the doctor.”

Dan struck his spurs into the hunter, and Michael Noonan flung off his newly-mended brogues, and cut across the fields to Kate Finnigan’s; but neither the doctor nor Katty was of any avail, and the next night’s moon saw Ballygibblin—and more’s the pity—a house of mourning.

THE DEATH COACH.
XXVIII.

THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN.
XXIX.

“God speed you, and a safe journey this night to you, Charley,” ejaculated the master of the little sheebeen house at Ballyhooley after his old friend and good customer, Charley Culnane, who at length had turned his face homewards, with the prospect of as dreary a ride and as dark a night as ever fell upon the Blackwater, along the banks of which he was about to journey.

Charley Culnane knew the country well, and, moreover, was as bold a rider as any Mallow-boy that ever rattled a four-year-old upon Drumrue race-course. He had gone to Fermoy in the morning, as well for the purpose of purchasing some ingredients required for the Christmas dinner by his wife, as to gratify his own vanity by having new reins fitted to his snaffle, in which he intended showing off the old mare at the approaching St. Stephen’s day hunt.

Charley did not get out of Fermoy until late; for although he was not one of your “nasty particular sort of fellows” in any thing that related to the common occurrences of life, yet in all the appointments connected with hunting, riding, leaping, in short, in whatever was connected with the old mare, “Charley,” the saddlers said, “was the devil to plase.” An illustration of this fastidiousness was afforded by his going such a distance for his snaffle bridle. Mallow was full twelve miles nearer “Charley’s farm” (which lay just three quarters of a mile below Carrick) than Fermoy; but Charley had quarrelled with all the Mallow saddlers, from hard-working and hard-drinking Tim Clancey, up to Mr. Ryan, who wrote himself “Saddler to the Duhallow Hunt;” and no one could content him in all particulars but honest Michael Twomey of Fermoy, who used to assert—and who will doubt it—that he could stitch a saddle better than the lord-lieutenant, although they made him all as one as king over Ireland.

This delay in the arrangement of the snaffle bridle did not allow Charley Culnane to pay so long a visit as he had at first intended to his old friend and gossip, Con Buckley, of the “Harp of Erin.” Con, however, knew the value of time, and insisted upon Charley making good use of what he had to spare. “I won’t bother you waiting for water, Charley, because I think you’ll have enough of that same before you get home; so drink off your liquor, man. It’s as good parliament as ever a gentleman tasted, ay, and holy church too, for it will bear ‘x waters,’ and carry the bead after that, may be.”

Charley, it must be confessed, nothing loath, drank success to Con, and success to the jolly “Harp of Erin,” with its head of beauty and its strings of the hair of gold, and to their better acquaintance, and so on, from the bottom of his soul, until the bottom of the bottle reminded him that Carrick was at the bottom of the hill on the other side of Castletown Roche, and that he had got no farther on his journey than his gossip’s at Ballyhooley, close to the big gate of Convamore. Catching hold of his oil-skin hat, therefore, whilst Con Buckley went to the cupboard for another bottle of the “real stuff,” he regularly, as it is termed, bolted from his friend’s hospitality, darted to the stable, tightened his girths, and put the old mare into a canter towards home.

The road from Ballyhooley to Carrick follows pretty nearly the course of the Blackwater, occasionally diverging from the river and passing through rather wild scenery, when contrasted with the beautiful seats that adorn its banks. Charley cantered gaily, regardless of the rain, which, as his friend Con had anticipated, fell in torrents: the good woman’s currants and raisins were carefully packed between the folds of his yeomanry cloak, which Charley, who was proud of showing that he belonged to the “Royal Mallow Light Horse Volunteers,” always strapped to the saddle before him, and took care never to destroy the military effect of by putting it on.—Away he went singing like a thrush—

Notwithstanding that the visit to the jolly “Harp of Erin” had a little increased the natural complacency of his mind, the drenching of the new snaffle reins began to disturb him; and then followed a train of more anxious thoughts than even were occasioned by the dreaded defeat of the pride of his long-anticipated turn out on St. Stephen’s day. In an hour of good fellowship, when his heart was warm, and his head not over cool, Charley had backed the old mare against Mr. Jephson’s bay filly Desdemona for a neat hundred, and he now felt sore misgivings as to the prudence of the match. In a less gay tone he continued—

“Keeping” he muttered, as the old mare had reduced her canter to a trot at the bottom of Kilcummer Hill. Charley’s eye fell on the old walls that belonged, in former times, to the Templars: but the silent gloom of the ruin was broken only by the heavy rain which splashed and pattered on the grave-stones. He then looked up at the sky, to see if there was, among the clouds, any hopes for mercy on his new snaffle reins; and no sooner were his eyes lowered, than his attention was arrested by an object so extraordinary as almost led him to doubt the evidence of his senses. The head, apparently, of a white horse, with short cropped ears, large open nostrils and immense eyes, seemed rapidly to follow him. No connexion with body, legs, or rider, could possibly be traced—the head advanced—Charley’s old mare, too, was moved at this unnatural sight, and snorting violently, increased her trot up the hill. The head moved forward, and passed on: Charley, pursuing it with astonished gaze, and wondering by what means, and for what purpose, this detached head thus proceeded through the air, did not perceive the corresponding body until he was suddenly startled by finding it close at his side. Charley turned to examine what was thus so sociably jogging on with him, when a most unexampled apparition presented itself to his view. A figure, whose height (judging as well as the obscurity of the night would permit him) he computed to be at least eight feet, was seated on the body and legs of a white horse full eighteen hands and a half high. In this measurement Charley could not be mistaken, for his own mare was exactly fifteen hands, and the body that thus jogged alongside he could at once determine, from his practice in horseflesh, was at least three hands and a half higher.

After the first feeling of astonishment, which found vent in the exclamation “I’m sold now for ever!” was over, the attention of Charley, being a keen sportsman, was naturally directed to this extraordinary body; and having examined it with the eye of a connoisseur, he proceeded to reconnoitre the figure so unusually mounted, who had hitherto remained perfectly mute. Wishing to see whether his companion’s silence proceeded from bad temper, want of conversational powers, or from a distaste to water, and the fear that the opening of his mouth might subject him to have it filled by the rain, which was then drifting in violent gusts against them, Charley endeavoured to catch a sight of his companion’s face, in order to form an opinion on that point. But his vision failed in carrying him farther than the top of the collar of the figure’s coat, which was a scarlet single-breasted hunting frock, having a waist of a very old-fashioned cut reaching to the saddle, with two huge shining buttons at about a yard distance behind. “I ought to see farther than this, too,” thought Charley, “although he is mounted on his high horse, like my cousin Darby, who was made barony constable last week, unless ’tis Con’s whiskey that has blinded me entirely.” However, see farther he could not, and after straining his eyes for a considerable time to no purpose, he exclaimed, with pure vexation, “By the big bridge of Mallow, it is no head at all he has!”

“Look again, Charley Culnane,” said a hoarse voice, that seemed to proceed from under the right arm of the figure.

Charley did look again, and now in the proper place, for he clearly saw, under the aforesaid right arm, that head from which the voice had proceeded, and such a head no mortal ever saw before. It looked like a large cream cheese hung round with black puddings; no speck of colour enlivened the ashy paleness of the depressed features; the skin lay stretched over the unearthly surface, almost like the parchment head of a drum. Two fiery eyes of prodigious circumference, with a strange and irregular motion, flashed like meteors upon Charley, and to complete all, a mouth reached from either extremity of two ears, which peeped forth from under a profusion of matted locks of lustreless blackness. This head, which the figure had evidently hitherto concealed from Charley’s eyes, now burst upon his view in all its hideousness. Charley, although a lad of proverbial courage in the county of Cork, yet could not but feel his nerves a little shaken by this unexpected visit from the headless horseman, whom he considered his fellow-traveller must be. The cropped-eared head of the gigantic horse moved steadily forward, always keeping from six to eight yards in advance. The horseman, unaided by whip or spur, and disdaining the use of stirrups, which dangled uselessly from the saddle, followed at a trot by Charley’s side, his hideous head now lost behind the lappet of his coat, now starting forth in all its horror, as the motion of the horse caused his arm to move to and fro. The ground shook under the weight of its supernatural burden, and the water in the pools became agitated into waves as he trotted by them.

On they went—heads without bodies, and bodies without heads.—The deadly silence of night was broken only by the fearful clattering of hoofs, and the distant sound of thunder, which rumbled above the mystic hill of Cecaune a Mona Finnea. Charley, who was naturally a merry-hearted, and rather a talkative fellow, had hitherto felt tongue-tied by apprehension, but finding his companion showed no evil disposition towards him, and having become somewhat more reconciled to the Patagonian dimensions of the horseman and his headless steed, plucked up all his courage, and thus addressed the stranger:—

“Why, then, your honour rides mighty well without the stirrups!”

“Humph,” growled the head from under the horseman’s right arm.

“’Tis not an over civil answer,” thought Charley; “but no matter, he was taught in one of them riding-houses, may be, and thinks nothing at all about bumping his leather breeches at the rate of ten miles an hour. I’ll try him on the other track. Ahem!” said Charley, clearing his throat, and feeling at the same time rather daunted at this second attempt to establish a conversation. “Ahem! that’s a mighty neat coat of your honour’s, although ’tis a little too long in the waist for the present cut.”

“Humph,” growled again the head.

This second humph was a terrible thump in the face to poor Charley, who was fairly bothered to know what subject he could start that would prove more agreeable. “’Tis a sensible head,” thought Charley, “although an ugly one, for ’tis plain enough the man does not like flattery.” A third attempt, however, Charley was determined to make, and having failed in his observations as to the riding and coat of his fellow-traveller, thought he would just drop a trifling allusion to the wonderful headless horse, that was jogging on so sociably beside his old mare; and as Charley was considered about Carrick to be very knowing in horses, besides, being a full private in the Royal Mallow Light Horse Volunteers, which were every one of them mounted like real Hessians, he felt rather sanguine as to the result of his third attempt.

“To be sure, that’s a brave horse your honour rides,” recommenced the persevering Charley.

“You may say that, with your own ugly mouth,” growled the head.

Charley, though not much flattered by the compliment, nevertheless chuckled at his success in obtaining an answer, and thus continued:—

“May be your honour wouldn’t be after riding him across the country?”

“Will you try me, Charley?” said the head, with an inexpressible look of ghastly delight.

“Faith, and that’s what I’d do,” responded Charley, “only I’m afraid, the night being so dark, of laming the old mare, and I’ve every halfpenny of a hundred pounds on her heels.”

This was true enough; Charley’s courage was nothing dashed at the headless horseman’s proposal; and there never was a steeple-chase, nor a fox-chase, riding or leaping in the country, that Charley Culnane was not at it, and foremost in it.

“Will you take my word,” said the man who carried his head so snugly under his right arm, “for the safety of your mare?”

“Done,” said Charley; and away they started, helter skelter, over every thing, ditch and wall, pop, pop, the old mare never went in such style, even in broad daylight: and Charley had just the start of his companion, when the hoarse voice called out, “Charley Culnane, Charley, man, stop for your life, stop!”

Charley pulled up hard. “Ay,” said he, “you may beat me by the head, because it always goes so much before you; but if the bet was neck-and-neck, and that’s the go between the old mare and Desdemona, I’d win it hollow!”

It appeared as if the stranger was well aware of what was passing in Charley’s mind, for he suddenly broke out quite loquacious.

“Charley Culnane,” says he, “you have a stout soul in you, and are every inch of you a good rider. I’ve tried you, and I ought to know; and that’s the sort of man for my money. A hundred years it is since my horse and I broke our necks at the bottom of Kilcummer hill, and ever since I have been trying to get a man that dared to ride with me, and never found one before. Keep, as you have always done, at the tail of the hounds, never balk a ditch, nor turn away from a stone wall, and the headless horseman will never desert you nor the old mare.”

Charley, in amazement, looked towards the stranger’s right arm, for the purpose of seeing in his face whether or not he was in earnest, but behold! the head was snugly lodged in the huge pocket of the horseman’s scarlet hunting-coat. The horse’s head had ascended perpendicularly above them, and his extraordinary companion, rising quickly after his avant-coureur, vanished from the astonished gaze of Charley Culnane.

Charley, as may be supposed, was lost in wonder, delight, and perplexity; the pelting rain, the wife’s pudding, the new snaffle—even the match against squire Jephson—all were forgotten; nothing could he think of, nothing could he talk of, but the headless horseman. He told it, directly that he got home, to Judy; he told it the following morning to all the neighbours; and he told it to the hunt on St. Stephen’s day: but what provoked him after all the pains he took in describing the head, the horse, and the man, was that one and all attributed the creation of the headless horseman to his friend Con Buckley’s “X water parliament.” This, however, should be told, that Charley’s old mare beat Mr. Jephson’s bay filly, Desdemona, by Diamond, and Charley pocketed his cool hundred; and if he didn’t win by means of the headless horseman, I am sure I don’t know any other reason for his doing so.

Dullahan or Dulachan signifies a dark sullen person. The word Durrachan or Dullahan, by which in some places the goblin is known, has the same signification. It comes from Dorr or Durr, anger, or Durrach, malicious, fierce, &c.—MS. communication from the late Mr. Edward O’Reilly.

The correctness of this last etymology may be questioned, as black is evidently a component part of the word.

The Death Coach, or Headless Coach and Horses, is called in Ireland “Coach a bower;” and its appearance is generally regarded as a sign of death, or an omen of some misfortune.

The belief in the appearance of headless people and horses appears to be, like most popular superstitions, widely extended.

In England, see the Spectator (No. 110) for mention of a spirit that had appeared in the shape of a black horse without a head.

In Wales, the apparition of “Fenyw heb un pen,” the headless woman, and “Ceffyl heb un pen,” the headless horse, are generally accredited.—MS. communication from Miss Williams.

“The Irish Dullahan puts me in mind of a spectre at Drumlanrig Castle, of no less a person than the Duchess of Queensberry,—‘Fair Kitty, blooming, young, and gay,’—who, instead of setting fire to the world in mamma’s chariot, amuses herself with wheeling her own head in a wheel-barrow through the great gallery.”—MS. communication from Sir Walter Scott.

In Scotland, so recently as January, 1826, that veritable paper, the Glasgow Chronicle, records, upon the occasion of some silk-weavers being out of employment at Paisley, that “Visions have been seen of carts, caravans, and coaches, going up Gleniffer braes without horses, with horses without heads,” &c.

Cervantes mentions tales of the “Caballo sin cabeça among the cuentos de viejas con que se entretienen al fuego las dilatadas noches del invierno,” &c.

“The people of Basse Brétagne believe, that when the death of any person is at hand, a hearse drawn by skeletons (which they call carriquet au nankon,) and covered with a white sheet, passes by the house where the sick person lies, and the creaking of the wheels may be plainly heard.”—Journal des Sciences, 1826, communicated by Dr. William Grimm.

See also Thiele’s Danske Folkesagn, vol. iv. p. 66, &c.

THE FIR DARRIG.

DIARMID BAWN, THE PIPER
XXX.

One stormy night Patrick Burke was seated in the chimney corner smoking his pipe quite contentedly after his hard day’s work; his two little boys were roasting potatoes in the ashes, while his rosy daughter held a splinter[26] to her mother, who, seated on a siesteen,[27] was mending a rent in Patrick’s old coat; and Judy, the maid, was singing merrily to the sound of her wheel, that kept up a beautiful humming noise, just like the sweet drone of a bagpipe. Indeed they all seemed quite contented and happy; for the storm howled without, and they were warm and snug within, by the side of a blazing turf fire. “I was just thinking,” said Patrick, taking the dudeen from his mouth and giving it a rap on his thumb-nail to shake out the ashes—“I was just thinking how thankful we ought to be to have a snug bit of a cabin this pelting night over our heads, for in all my born days I never heard the like of it.”

“And that’s no lie for you, Pat,” said his wife; “but, whisht! what noise is that I hard?” and she dropped her work upon her knees, and looked fearfully towards the door. “The Vargin herself defend us all!” cried Judy, at the same time rapidly making a pious sign on her forehead, “if ’tis not the banshee!”

“Hold your tongue, you fool,” said Patrick, “it’s only the old gate swinging in the wind;” and he had scarcely spoken, when the door was assailed by a violent knocking. Molly began to mumble her prayers, and Judy proceeded to mutter over the muster-roll of saints; the youngsters scampered off to hide themselves behind the settle-bed; the storm howled louder and more fiercely than ever, and the rapping was renewed with redoubled violence.

“Whisht, whisht!” said Patrick—“what a noise ye’re all making about nothing at all. Judy a-roon, can’t you go and see who’s at the door?” for, notwithstanding his assumed bravery, Pat Burke preferred that the maid should open the door.

“Why, then, is it me you’re speaking to?” said Judy in the tone of astonishment; “and is it cracked mad you are, Mister Burke; or is it, may be, that you want me to be rund away with, and made a horse of, like my grandfather was?—the sorrow a step will I stir to open the door, if you were as great a man again as you are, Pat Burke.”

“Bother you, then! and hold your tongue, and I’ll go myself.” So saying, up got Patrick, and made the best of his way to the door. “Who’s there?” said he, and his voice trembled mightily all the while. “In the name of Saint Patrick, who’s there?” “’Tis I, Pat,” answered a voice which he immediately knew to be the young squire’s. In a moment the door was opened, and in walked a young man, with a gun in his hand, and a brace of dogs at his heels. “Your honour’s honour is quite welcome, entirely,” said Patrick; who was a very civil sort of a fellow, especially to his betters. “Your honour’s honour is quite welcome; and if ye’ll be so condescending as to demean yourself by taking off your wet jacket, Molly can give ye a bran new blanket, and ye can sit forenent the fire while the clothes are drying.” “Thank you, Pat,” said the squire, as he wrapt himself, like Mr. Weld, in the proffered blanket.[28]

“But what made you keep me so long at the door?”

“Why then, your honour, ’twas all along of Judy, there, being so much afraid of the good people; and a good right she has, after what happened to her grandfather—the Lord rest his soul!”

“And what was that, Pat?” said the squire.

“Why, then, your honour must know that Judy had a grandfather; and he was ould Diarmid Bawn, the piper, as personable a looking man as any in the five parishes he was; and he could play the pipes so sweetly, and make them spake to such perfection, that it did one’s heart good to hear him. We never had any one, for that matter, in this side of the country like him, before or since, except James Gandsey, that is own piper to Lord Headley—his honour’s lordship is the real good gentleman—and ’tis Mr. Gandsey’s music that is the pride of Killarney lakes. Well, as I was saying, Diarmid was Judy’s grandfather, and he rented a small mountainy farm; and he was walking about the fields one moonlight night, quite melancholy-like in himself for want of the tobaccy; because why, the river was flooded, and he could not get across to buy any, and Diarmid would rather go to bed without his supper than a whiff of the dudeen. Well, your honour, just as he came to the old fort in the far field, what should he see?—but a large army of the good people, ’coutered for all the world just like the dragoons! ‘Are ye all ready?’ said a little fellow at their head dressed out like a general. ‘No,’ said a little curmudgeon of a chap all dressed in red, from the crown of his cocked hat to the sole of his boot. ‘No, general,’ said he: ‘if you don’t get the Fir darrig a horse he must stay behind, and ye’ll lose the battle.’”

“‘There’s Diarmid Bawn,’ said the general, pointing to Judy’s grandfather, your honour, ‘make a horse of him.’

“So with that master Fir darrig comes up to Diarmid, who, you may be sure, was in a mighty great fright; but he determined, seeing there was no help for him, to put a bold face on the matter; and so he began to cross himself, and to say some blessed words, that nothing bad could stand before.

“‘Is that what you’d be after, you spalpeen?’ said the little red imp, at the same time grinning a horrible grin; ‘I’m not the man to care a straw for either your words or your crossings.’ So, without more to do, he gives poor Diarmid a rap with the flat side of his sword, and in a moment he was changed into a horse, with little Fir darrig stuck fast on his back.

“Away they all flew over the wide ocean, like so many wild geese, screaming and chattering all the time, till they came to Jamaica; and there they had a murdering fight with the good people of that country. Well, it was all very well with them, and they stuck to it manfully, and fought it out fairly, till one of the Jamaica men made a cut with his sword under Diarmid’s left eye. And then, sir, you see, poor Diarmid lost his temper entirely, and he dashed into the very middle of them, with Fir darrig mounted upon his back, and he threw out his heels, and whisked his tail about, and wheeled and turned round and round at such a rate, that he soon made a fair clearance of them, horse, foot, and dragoons. At last Diarmid’s faction got the better, all through his means; and then they had such feasting and rejoicing, and gave Diarmid, who was the finest horse amongst them all, the best of every thing.

“‘Let every man take a hand of tobaccy for Diarmid Bawn,’ said the general; and so they did; and away they flew, for ’twas getting near morning, to the old fort back again, and there they vanished like the mist from the mountain.

“When Diarmid looked about, the sun was rising, and he thought it was all a dream, till he saw a big rick of tobaccy in the old fort, and felt the blood running from his left eye: for sure enough he was wounded in the battle, and would have been kilt entirely, if it wasn’t for a gospel composed by father Murphy that hung about his neck ever since he had the scarlet fever; and for certain, it was enough to have given him another scarlet fever to have had the little red man all night on his back, whip and spur for the bare life. However, there was the tobaccy heaped up in a great heap by his side; and he heard a voice, although he could see no one, telling him, ‘That ’twas all his own, for his good behaviour in the battle; and that whenever Fir darrig would want a horse again he’d know where to find a clever beast, as he never rode a better than Diarmid Bawn.’ That’s what he said, sir.”

“Thank you, Pat,” said the squire; “it certainly is a wonderful story, and I am not surprised at Judy’s alarm. But now, as the storm is over, and the moon shining brightly, I’ll make the best of my way home.” So saying, he disrobed himself of the blanket, put on his coat, and whistling his dogs, set off across the mountain; while Patrick stood at the door, bawling after him, “May God and the blessed Virgin preserve your honour, and keep ye from the good people; for ’twas of a moonlight night like this that Diarmid Bawn was made a horse of, for the Fir darrig to ride.”

TEIGUE OF THE LEE.
XXXI.

“I can’t stop in the house—I won’t stop in it for all the money that is buried in the old castle of Carrigrohan. If ever there was such a thing in the world!—to be abused to my face night and day, and nobody to the fore doing it! and then, if I’m angry, to be laughed at with a great roaring ho, ho, ho! I won’t stay in the house after to-night, if there was not another place in the country to put my head under.” This angry soliloquy was pronounced in the hall of the old manor-house of Carrigrohan by John Sheehan. John was a new servant: he had been only three days in the house, which had the character of being haunted, and in that short space of time he had been abused and laughed at by a voice which sounded as if a man spoke with his head in a cask; nor could he discover who was the speaker, or from whence the voice came. “I’ll not stop here,” said John; “and that ends the matter.”

“Ho, ho, ho! be quiet, John Sheehan, or else worse will happen to you.”

John instantly ran to the hall window, as the words were evidently spoken by a person immediately outside, but no one was visible. He had scarcely placed his face at the pane of glass, when he heard another loud “Ho, ho, ho!” as if behind him in the hall; as quick as lightning he turned his head, but no living thing was to be seen.

“Ho, ho, ho, John!” shouted a voice that appeared to come from the lawn before the house; “do you think you’ll see Teigue?—oh, never! as long as you live! so leave alone looking after him, and mind your business; there’s plenty of company to dinner from Cork to be here to-day, and ’tis time you had the cloth laid.”

“Lord bless us! there’s more of it!—I’ll never stay another day here,” repeated John.

“Hold your tongue, and stay where you are quietly, and play no tricks on Mr. Pratt, as you did on Mr. Jervois about the spoons.”

John Sheehan was confounded by this address from his invisible persecutor, but nevertheless he mustered courage enough to say—“Who are you?—come here, and let me see you, if you are a man;” but he received in reply only a laugh of unearthly derision, which was followed by a “Good-bye—I’ll watch you at dinner, John!”

“Lord between us and harm! this beats all!—I’ll watch you at dinner!—may be you will;—’tis the broad daylight, so ’tis no ghost; but this is a terrible place, and this is the last day I’ll stay in it. How does he know about the spoons?—if he tells it, I’m a ruined man!—there was no living soul could tell it to him but Tim Barrett, and he’s far enough off in the wilds of Botany Bay now, so how could he know it—I can’t tell for the world! But what’s that I see there at the corner of the wall?—’tis not a man!—oh, what a fool I am! ’tis only the old stump of a tree!—But this is a shocking place—I’ll never stop in it, for I’ll leave the house to-morrow; the very look of it is enough to frighten any one.”

The mansion had certainly an air of desolation; it was situated in a lawn, which had nothing to break its uniform level, safe a few tufts of narcissuses and a couple of old trees coeval with the building. The house stood at a short distance from the road; it was upwards of a century old, and Time was doing his work upon it; its walls were weather-stained in all colours, its roof showed various white patches, it had no look of comfort; all was dim and dingy without, and within there was an air of gloom, of departed and departing greatness, which harmonized well with the exterior. It required all the exuberance of youth and of gaiety to remove the impression, almost amounting to awe, with which you trod the huge square hall, paced along the gallery which surrounded the hall, or explored the long rambling passages below stairs. The ball-room, as the large drawing-room was called, and several other apartments, were in a state of decay: the walls were stained with damp; and I remember well the sensation of awe which I felt creeping over me when, boy as I was, and full of boyish life, and wild and ardent spirits, I descended to the vaults; all without and within me became chilled beneath their dampness and gloom—their extent, too, terrified me; nor could the merriment of my two schoolfellows, whose father, a respectable clergyman, rented the dwelling for a time, dispel the feelings of a romantic imagination, until I once again ascended to the upper regions.

John had pretty well recovered himself as the dinner-hour approached, and the several guests arrived. They were all seated at table, and had begun to enjoy the excellent repast, when a voice was heard from the lawn:—

“Ho, ho, ho, Mr. Pratt, won’t you give poor Teigue some dinner? ho, ho, a fine company you have there, and plenty of every thing that’s good; sure you won’t forget poor Teigue?”

John dropped the glass he had in his hand.

“Who is that?” said Mr. Pratt’s brother, an officer of the artillery.

“That is Teigue,” said Mr. Pratt, laughing, “whom you must often have heard me mention.”

“And pray, Mr. Pratt,” inquired another gentleman, “who is Teigue?”

“That,” he replied, “is more than I can tell. No one has ever been able to catch even a glimpse of him. I have been on the watch for a whole evening with three of my sons, yet, although his voice sometimes sounded almost in my ear, I could not see him. I fancied, indeed, that I saw a man in a white frieze jacket pass into the door from the garden to the lawn, but it could be only fancy, for I found the door locked, while the fellow whoever he is, was laughing at our trouble. He visits us occasionally, and sometimes a long interval passes between his visits, as in the present case; it is now nearly two years since we heard that hollow voice outside the window. He has never done any injury that we know of, and once when he broke a plate, he brought one back exactly like it.”

“It is very extraordinary,” said several of the company.

“But,” remarked a gentleman to young Mr. Pratt, “your father said he broke a plate; how did he get it without your seeing him?”

“When he asks for some dinner, we put it outside the window and go away; whilst we watch he will not take it, but no sooner have we withdrawn, than it is gone.”

“How does he know that you are watching?”

“That’s more than I can tell, but he either knows or suspects. One day my brothers Robert and James with myself were in our back parlour, which has a window into the garden, when he came outside and said, ‘Ho, ho, ho! master James, and Robert, and Henry, give poor Teigue a glass of whisky.’ James went out of the room, filled a glass with whisky, vinegar, and salt, and brought it to him. ‘Here Teigue,’ said he, ‘come for it now.’ ‘Well, put it down, then, on the step outside the window.’ This was done, and we stood looking at it. ‘There, now, go away,’ he shouted. We retired, but still watched it. ‘Ho, ho! you are watching Teigue; go out of the room, now, or I won’t take it.’ We went outside the door and returned; the glass was gone, and a moment after we heard him roaring and cursing frightfully. He took away the glass, but the next day the glass was on the stone step under the window, and there were crumbs of bread in the inside, as if he had put it in his pocket; from that time he was not heard till to-day.”

“Oh,” said the colonel, “I’ll get a sight of him; you are not used to these things; an old soldier has the best chance; and as I shall finish my dinner with this wing, I’ll be ready for him when he speaks next.—Mr. Bell, will you take a glass of wine with me?”

“Ho, ho! Mr. Bell,” shouted Teigue. “Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you were a quaker long ago. Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you’re a pretty boy;—a pretty quaker you were; and now you’re no quaker, nor any thing else:—ho, ho! Mr. Bell. And there’s Mr. Parkes: to be sure, Mr. Parkes looks mighty fine to-day, with his powdered head, and his grand silk stockings, and his bran new rakish-red waistcoat.—And there’s Mr. Cole,—did you ever see such a fellow? a pretty company you’ve brought together, Mr. Pratt: kiln-dried quakers, butter-buying buckeens from Mallow-lane, and a drinking exciseman from the Coal-quay, to meet the great thundering artillery-general that is come out of the Indies, and is the biggest dust of them all.”

“You scoundrel!” exclaimed the colonel: “I’ll make you show yourself;” and snatching up his sword from a corner of the room, he sprang out of the window upon the lawn. In a moment a shout of laughter, so hollow, so unlike any human sound, made him stop, as well as Mr. Bell, who with a huge oak stick was close at the colonel’s heels; others of the party followed on the lawn, and the remainder rose and went to the windows. “Come on, colonel,” said Mr. Bell; “let us catch this impudent rascal.”

“Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, here I am—here’s Teigue—why don’t you catch him?—Ho, ho! Colonel Pratt, what a pretty soldier you are to draw your sword upon poor Teigue, that never did any body harm.”

“Let us see your face, you scoundrel,” said the colonel.

“Ho, ho, ho!—look at me—look at me: do you see the wind, colonel Pratt?—you’ll see Teigue as soon; so go in and finish your dinner.”

“If you’re upon the earth I’ll find you, you villain!” said the colonel, whilst the same unearthly shout of derision seemed to come from behind an angle of the building. “He’s round that corner,” said Mr. Bell—“run, run.”

They followed the sound, which was continued at intervals along the garden wall, but could discover no human being; at last both stopped to draw breath, and in an instant, almost at their ears, sounded the shout.

“Ho, ho, ho! colonel Pratt, do you see Teigue now?—do you hear him?—Ho, ho, ho! you’re a fine colonel to follow the wind.”

“Not that way, Mr. Bell—not that way; come here,” said the colonel.

“Ho, ho, ho! what a fool you are; do you think Teigue is going to show himself to you in the field, there? But colonel, follow me if you can:—you a soldier!—ho, ho, ho!” The colonel was enraged—he followed the voice over hedge and ditch, alternately laughed at and taunted by the unseen object of his pursuit—(Mr. Bell, who was heavy, was soon thrown out,) until at length, after being led a weary chase, he found himself at the top of the cliff, over that part of the river Lee, which from its great depth, and the blackness of its water, has received the name of Hell-hole. Here, on the edge of the cliff, stood the colonel out of breath, and mopping his forehead with his handkerchief, while the voice, which seemed close at his feet, exclaimed—“Now, colonel Pratt—now, if you’re a soldier, here’s a leap for you;—now look at Teigue—why don’t you look at him?—Ho, ho, ho! Come along: you’re warm, I’m sure, colonel Pratt, so come in and cool yourself; Teigue is going to have a swim!” The voice seemed as descending amongst the trailing ivy and brushwood which clothes this picturesque cliff nearly from top to bottom, yet it was impossible that any human being could have found footing. “Now, colonel, have you courage to take the leap?—Ho, ho, ho! what a pretty soldier you are. Good-bye—I’ll see you again in ten minutes above, at the house—look at your watch, colonel:—there’s a dive for you!” and a heavy plunge into the water was heard. The colonel stood still, but no sound followed, and he walked slowly back to the house, not quite half a mile from the Crag.

“Well, did you see Teigue?” said his brother, whilst his nephews, scarcely able to smother their laughter, stood by.—“Give me some wine,” said the colonel. “I never was led such a dance in my life: the fellow carried me all round and round, till he brought me to the edge of the cliff, and then down he went into Hell-hole, telling me he’d be here in ten minutes: ’tis more than that now, but he’s not come.”

“Ho, ho, ho! colonel, isn’t he here?—Teigue never told a lie in his life: but, Mr. Pratt, give me a drink and my dinner, and then good night to you all, for I’m tired; and that’s the colonel’s doing.” A plate of food was ordered: it was placed by John, with fear and trembling, on the lawn under the window. Every one kept on the watch, and the plate remained undisturbed for some time.

“Ah! Mr. Pratt, will you starve poor Teigue? Make every one go away from the windows, and master Henry out of the tree, and master Richard off the garden-wall.”

The eyes of the company were turned to the tree and the garden-wall; the two boys’ attention was occupied in getting down: the visiters were looking at them; and “Ho, ho, ho!—good luck to you, Mr. Pratt!—’tis a good dinner, and there’s the plate, ladies and gentlemen—good-bye to you, colonel—good-bye, Mr. Bell!—good-bye to you all!”—brought their attention back, when they saw the empty plate lying on the grass; and Teigue’s voice was heard no more for that evening. Many visits were afterwards paid by Teigue; but never was he seen, nor was any discovery ever made of his person or character.