Chapter 5

Seated in this clear-obscure of domestic light--which, after all, gives the heart a finer and more touching notion of enjoyment than the glitter of the theatre or the blaze of the saloon--might be found first, Andy Morrow,* the juryman of the quarter-sessions, sage and important in the consciousness of legal knowledge, and somewhat dictatorial withal in its application to such knotty points as arose out of the subjects of their nocturnal debates. Secondly, Bob Gott, who filled the foreign and military departments, and related the wonderful history of the ghost which appeared to him on the night after the battle of Bunker's-hill. To him succeeded Tom M'Roarkin, the little asthmatic anecdotarian of half the country,--remarkable for chuckling at his own stories. Then came old M'Kinny, poacher and horse-jockey; little, squeaking, thin-faced Alick M'Kinley, a facetious farmer of substance; and Shane Fadh, who handed down, traditions and fairy tales. Enthroned on one hob sat Pat Frayne, the schoolmaster with the short arm, who read and explained the newspaper for “old Square Colwell,” and was looked upon as premier to the aforesaid cabinet; Ned himself filled the opposite seat of honor.

One night, a little before the Christmas holidays in the year 18--, the personages just described were seated around Ned's fire, some with their chirping pints of ale or porter, and others with their quantum of _Hugh Traynor_, or mountain-dew, and all with good humor, and a strong tendency to happiness, visible in their faces. The night was dark, close, and misty; so dark, indeed, that, as Nancy said, “you could hardly see your finger before you.” Ned himself was full of fun, with a pint of porter beside him, and a pipe in his mouth, just in his glory for the night. Opposite to him was Pat Frayne, with an old newspaper on his knee, which he had just perused for the edification of his audience; beside him was, Nancy, busily employed in knitting a pair of sheep's-grey stockings for Ned; the remaining personages formed a semicircular ring about the hearth. Behind, on the kitchen-table sat Paddy Smith, the servant-man, with three or four of the _gorsoons_ of the village about him, engaged in an under-plot of their own. On the other, a little removed from the light, sat Ned's two nieces, Biddy and Bessy Connolly, former with Atty Johnson's mouth within whisper-reach of her ear, and the latter seated close to her professed admirer, Billy Fulton, her uncle's shopman.* This group; was completely abstracted from the entertainment which was going forward in the circle round the fire.

* Each pair have been since married, and live not more happily than I wish them. Fulton still lives in Ned's house at the Cross-roads.

“I wondher,” said Andy Morrow, “what makes Joe M'Crea throw down that fine ould castle of his, in Aughentain?”

“I'm tould,” said M'Roarkin, “that he expects money; for they say there's a lot of it buried somewhere about the same building.”

“Jist as much as there's in my wig,” replied Shane Fadh, “and there's ne'er a pocket to it yet. Why, bless your sowl, how could there be money in it, whin the last man of the Grameses that owned it--I mane of the ould stock, afore it went into Lord Mountjoy's hands--sould it out, ran through the money, and died begging afther'? Did none of you ever hear of--

'---- ---- ---- ---- Ould John Grame, That swally'd the castle of Aughentain?'”

“That was long afore my time,” said the poacher; “but I know that the rabbit-burrow between that and Jack Appleden's garden will soon be run out.”

“Your time!” responded Shane Fadh, with contempt; “ay, and your father's afore you: my father doesn't remimber more nor seeing his funeral, and a merry one it was; for my grandfather, and some of them that had a respect for the family and his forbarers, if they hadn't it for himself, made up as much money among them as berried him dacently any how,--ay, and gave him a rousin' wake into the bargain, with lashins of whiskey, stout beer, and ale; for in them times--God be with them every farmer brewed his own ale and beer;--more betoken, that one pint of it was worth a keg of this wash of yours, Ned.”

“Wasn't it he that used to _appear?_” inquired M'Roarkin.

“Sure enough he did, Tom.”

“Lord save us,” said Nancy, “what could trouble him, I dunna?”

“Why,” continued Shane Fadh, “some said one thing, and some another; but the upshot of it was this: when the last of the Grameses sould the estate, castle, and all, it seems he didn't resave all the purchase money; so, afther he had spint what he got, he applied to the purchaser for the remainder--him that the Mountjoy family bought it from; but it seems he didn't draw up writings, or sell it according to law, so that the thief o' the world baffled him from day to day, and wouldn't give him a penny--bekase he knew, the blaggard, that the Square was then as poor as a church mouse, and hadn't money enough to thry it at law with him; but the Square was always a simple asy-going man. One day he went to this fellow, riding on an ould garran, with a shoe loose--the only baste he had in the world--and axed him, for God's sake, to give him of what he owed him, if it was ever so little; 'for,' says he, 'I huve not as much money betune me and death as will get a set of shoes for my horse.'”

“'Well,' says the nager, 'if-you're not able to keep your horse shod, I would jist recommend you to sell him, and thin his shoes won't cost you any thing,' says he.

“The ould Square went away with tears in his eyes,--for he loved the poor brute, bekase they wor the two last branches of the ould stock.”

“Why,” inquired M'Kinley, in his small squeaking voice, “was the horse related to the family?”

“I didn't say he was related to the fam----

“Get out, you _shingaun!_” (* Fairy-like, or connected to the fairies) returned the old man, perceiving by the laugh that now went round, the sly tendency of the question--“no, nor to your family either, for he had nothing of the ass in him--eh? will you put that in your pocket, my little _skinadhre_ (* A thin, fleshless, stunted person.)--ha! ha! ha!”

The laugh was now turned against M'Kinley.

Shane Fadh proceeded: “The ould Square, as I was tellin yez, cried to find himself an' the poor baste so dissolute; but when he had gone a bit from the fellow, he comes back to the vagabone--'Now,' says he, 'mind my words--if you happen to live afther me, you need never expect a night's pace; for I here make a serous an' solemn vow, that as long as my property's in your possession, or in any of your seed, breed, or gineration's, I'll never give over hauntin' you an' them, till you'll rue to the back-bone your dishonesty an' chathery to me an' this poor baste, that hasn't a shoe to his foot.'

“'Well,' says the nager, 'I'll take chance of that, any way.'”

“I'm tould, Shane,” observed the poacher, “that the Square was a fine man in his time, that wouldn't put up with sich treatment from anybody.”

“Ay, but he was ould now,” Shane replied, “and too wakely to fight.--A fine man, Bill!--he was the finest man, 'cepting ould Square Storey, that ever was in this counthry. I hard my granfather often say that he was six feet four, and made in proportion--a handsome, black-a-vis'd man, with great dark whiskers. Well! he spent money like sklates, and so he died miserable--but had a merry birrel, as I said.”

“But,” inquired Nancy, “did he ever appear to the rogue that chated him?”

“Every night in the year, Nancy, exceptin' Sundays; and what was more, the horse along with him--for he used to come ridin' at midnight upon the same garran; and it was no matther what place or company the other 'ud be in, the ould Square would come reglarly, and crave him for what he owed him.”

“So it appears that horses have sowls,” observed M'Roarkin, philosophically, giving, at the same time, a cynical chuckle at the sarcasm contained in his own conceit.

“Whether they have sowls or bodies,” replied the narrator, “what I'm tellin' you is truth; every night in the year the ould chap would come for what was indue him; find as the two went along, the noise of the loose shoe upon the horse would be hard rattlin', and seen knockin' the fire out of the stones, by the neighbors and the thief that chated him, even before the Square would appeal at all at all.”

“Oh, wurrah!” exclaimed Nancy, shuddering with terror. “I wouldn't take anything and be out now on the _Drumfarrar road_*, and nobody with me but myself.”

*A lonely mountain-road, said to have been haunted. It is on this road that the coffin scenes mentioned in the Party fight and Funeral is laid.

“I think if you wor,” said M'Kinley, “the light weights and short measures would be comin' acrass your conscience.”

“No, in troth, Alick, wouldn't they; but may be if you wor, the promise you broke to Sally Mitchell might trouble you a bit: at any rate, I've a prayer, and if I only repated it wanst, I mightn't be afeard of all the divils in hell.”

“Throth, but it's worth havin', Nancy: where did you get it?” asked M'Kinley.

“Hould your wicked tongue, you thief of a heretic,” said Nancy, laughing, “when will _you_ larn anything that's good? I got it from one that wouldn't have it if it _wasn't_ good--Darby M'Murt, the pilgrim, since you must know.”

“Whisht!” said Frayne: “upon my word, I blieve the old Square's comin' to pay tis a visit; does any of yez hear a horse trottin' with a shoe loose?”

“I sartinly hear it,” observed Andy Morrow.

“And I,” said Ned himself.

There was now a general pause, and in the silence a horse, proceeding from the moors in the direction of the house, was distinctly heard; and nothing could be less problematical than that one of his shoes was loose.

“Boys, take care of yourselves,” said Shane Fadh, “if the Square comes, he won't be a pleasant customer--he was a terrible fellow in his day: I'll hould goold to silver that he'll have the smell of brimstone about him.”

“Nancy, where's your prayer now?” said M'Kinley, with a grin: “I think you had betther out with it, and thry if it keeps this old brimstone Square on the wrong side of the house.”

“Behave yourself, Alick; it's a shame for you to be sich a hardened crathur: upon my sannies, I blieve your afeard of neither God nor the divil--the Lord purtect and guard us from the dirty baste!”

“You mane particklarly them that uses short measures and light weights,” rejoined M'Kinley.

There was another pause, for the horseman was within a few perches of the crossroads. At this moment an unusual gust of wind, accompanied by torrents of rain, burst against the house with a violence that made its ribs creak; and the stranger's horse, the shoe still clanking, was distinctly heard to turn in from the road to Ned's door, where it stopped, and the next moment a loud knocking intimated the horseman's intention to enter. The company now looked at each other, as if uncertain what to do. Nancy herself grew pale, and, in the agitation of the moment, forgot to think of her protecting prayer. Biddy and Bessy Connolly started from the settle on which they had been sitting with their sweethearts, and sprung beside their uncle, on the hob. The stranger was still knocking with great violence, yet there was no disposition among the company to admit him, notwithstanding the severity of the night--blowing, as it really did, a perfect hurricane. At length a sheet of lightning flashed through the house, followed by an amazing loud clap of thunder; while, with a sudden push from without, the door gave way, and in stalked a personage Whose stature was at least six feet four, with dark eyes and complexion, and coal-black whiskers of an enormous size, the very image of the Squire they had been describing. He was dressed in a long black surtout, which him appear even taller than he actually was, had a pair of heavy boots upon and carried a tremendous whip, large enough to fell an ox. He was in a rage on entering; and the heavy, dark, close-knit-brows, from beneath which a pair of eyes, equally black, shot actual fire, whilst the Turk-like whiskers, which curled themselves up, as it were, in sympathy with his fury, joined to his towering height, gave him altogether, when we consider the frame of mind in which he found the company, an appalling and almost supernatural appearance.

“Confound you, for a knot of lazy scoundrels,” exclaimed the stranger, “why do you sit here so calmly, while any being craves admittance on such a night as this? Here, you lubber in the corner, with a pipe in your mouth, come and put up this horse of mine until the night settles.”

“May the blessed mother purtect us!” exclaimed Nancy, in a whisper, to Andy Morrow, “if I blieve he's a right thing!--would it be the ould Square? Did you ever set your eyes upon sich a”--

“Will you bestir yourself, you boor, and' not keep my horse and saddle out under such a torrent?” he cried, “otherwise I must only bring him into the house, and then you may say for once that you've had the devil under your roof.”

“Paddy Smith, you lazy spalpeen,” said Nancy, winking at Ned to have nothing to do with the horse, “why don't you fly and put up the gintleman's horse? And you, Atty, avourneen, jist go out with him, and hould the candle while he's doin' it: be quick now, and I'll give you glasses a-piece when you come in.”

“Let them put him up quickly; but I say, you Caliban,” added the stranger, addressing Smith, “don't be rash about him except you can bear fire and brimstone; get him, at all events, a good feed of oats. Poor Satan!” he continued, patting the horse's head, which was now within the door, “you've had a hard night of it, my poor Satan, as well as myself. That's my dark spirit--my brave chuck, that fears neither man nor devil.”

This language was by no means calculated to allay the suspicions of those who were present, particularly of Nancy and her two nieces. Ned sat in astonishment, with the pipe in his hand, which he had, in the surprise of the moment, taken from his mouth, his eyes fixed upon the stranger, and his mouth open. The latter noticed him, and stretching over the heads of the circle, tapped him on the shoulder with his whip:--

“I have a few words to say to you, sir,” he said.

“To me, your honor!” exclaimed Ned, without stirring, however.

“Yes,” replied the other, “but you seem to be fastened to your seat: come this way.”

“By all manner of manes, sir,” said Ned, starting up, and going over to the dresser, against which the stranger stood.

When the latter had got him there, he very coolly walked up, and secured Ned's comfortable seat on the hob, at the same time observing--

“You hadn't the manners to ask me to sit down; but I always make it a point of conscience to take care of myself, landlord.”

There was not a man about the fire who did not stand up, as if struck with a sudden recollection, and offer him a seat.

“No,” said he, “thank you, my good fellows, I am very well as it is: I suppose, mistress, you are the landlady,” addressing Nancy; “if you be, I'll thank you to bring me a gill of your best whiskey,--your best, mind. Let it be as strong as an evil spirit let loose, and as hot as fire; for it can't be a jot too ardent such a night as this, for a being that rides the devil.”

Nancy started up instinctively, exclaiming, “Indeed, plase your honor's reverence, I am the landlady, as you say, sir, sure enough; but, the Lawk save and guard us! won't a gallon of raw whiskey be too much for one man to drink?”

“A gallon! I only said a gill, my good hostess; bring me a gill--but I forget--I believe you have no such measure in this country; bring me a pint, then.”

Nancy now went into the bar, whither she gave Ned a wink to follow her; and truly was glad of an opportunity of escaping from the presence of the visitor. When there, she ejaculated--

“May the holy Mother keep and guard us, Ned, but I'm afeard that's no Christian crathur, at all at all! Arrah, Ned, aroon, would he be that ould Square Grame, that Shane Fadh, maybe, angered, by spakin' of him?”

“Troth,” said Ned, “myself doesn't know what he is; he bates any mortal I ever seen.”

“Well, hould agra! I have it: we'll see whether he'll drink this or not, any how.”

“Why, what's that you're doin'?” asked Ned.

“Jist,” replied Nancy, “mixin' the smallest taste in the world of holy wather with the whiskey, and if he drinks that, you know he can be nothing that's bad.” *

* The efficacy of holy water in all Roman Catholic countries, but especially in Ireland, is supposed to be very great. It is kept in the house, or, in certain cases, about the person, as a safeguard against evil spirits, fairies, or sickness. It is also used to allay storms and quench conflagrations; and when an Irishman or Irishwoman is about to go a journey, commence labor or enter upon any other important undertaking, the person is sure to be sprinkled with holy water, under the hope that the journey or undertaking will prosper.

Nancy, however, did not perceive that the trepidation of her hand was such as to incapacitate her from making nice distinctions in the admixture. She now brought the spirits to the stranger, who no sooner took a mouthful of it, than he immediately stopped it on its passage, and fixing his eyes earnestly on herself, squirted it into the fire, and the next moment the whiskey was in a blaze that seemed likely to set the chimney in flames.

“Why, my honest hostess,” he exclaimed, “do you give this to me for whiskey? Confound me, but two-thirds of it is water; and I have no notion to pay for water when I want spirits: have the goodness to exchange this, and get me some better stuff, if you have it.”

He again put the jug to his mouth, and having taken a little, swallowed it:--“Why, I tell you, woman, you must have made some mistake; one-half of it is water.”

Now, Nancy, from the moment he refused to swallow the liquor, had been lock-jawed; the fact was, she thought that the devil himself, or old Squire Graham, had got under her roof; and she stood behind Ned, who was nearly as terrified as herself, with her hands raised, her tongue clinging to the roof of her mouth, and the perspiration falling from her pale face in large drops. But as soon as she saw him swallow a portion of that liquid, which she deemed beyond the deglutition of ghost or devil, she instantly revived--her tongue resumed its accustomed office--her courage, as well as her good-humor, returned, and she went up to him with great confidence, saying,

“Why, then, your Reverence's honor, maybe I did make a bit of a mistake, sir”--taking up the jug, and tasting its contents: “Hut! bad scran to me, but I did, beggin' your honor's pardon; how-an-diver, I'll soon rightify that, your Reverence.”

So saying, she went and brought him a pint of the stoutest the house afforded. The stranger drank a glass of it, and then ordered hot water and sugar, adding--

“My honest friends here about the fire will have no objection to help me with this; but, on second consideration, you had better get us another quart, that as the night is cold, we may have a jorum at this pleasant fire, that will do our hearts good; and this pretty girl here,” addressing Biddy, who really deserved the epithet, “will sit beside me, and give us a song.”

It was surprising what an effect the punch even in perspective, had upon the visual organs of the company; second-sight was rather its precursor than its attendant; for, with intuitive penetration, they now discovered various good qualities in his ghost-ship, that had hitherto been beyond their ken; and those very personal properties, which before struck them dumb with terror, already called forth their applause.

“What a fine man he is!” one would whisper, loud enough, however, to be heard by the object of his panegyric.

“He is, indeed, and a rale gintleman,” another would respond in the same key.

“Hut! he's none of your proud, stingy upsthart bodagahs*--none of your beggarly half-sirs*,” a third would remark: “he's the dacent thing entirely--you see he hasn't his heart in a thrifle.”

* A person vulgar, but rich, without any pretensions but those of wealth to the character of a gentleman; a churl. Half-sir; the same as above.

“And so sign's on him,” a fourth would add, with comic gravity, “he wasn't bred to shabbiness, as you may know by his fine behavior and his big whiskers.”

When the punch was made, and the kitchen-table placed endwise towards the fire, the stranger, finding himself very comfortable, inquired if he could be accommodated with a bed and supper, to which Nancy replied in the affirmative.

“Then, in that case,” said he, “I will be your guest for the night.”

Shane Fadh now took courage to repeat the story of old Squire Graham and his horse with the loose shoe; informing the stranger, at the same time, of the singular likeness which he bore to the subject of the story, both in face and size, and dwelling upon the remarkable coincidence in the time and manner of his approach.

“Tut, man!” said the stranger, “a far more extraordinary adventure happened to one of my father's tenants, which, if none of you have any objection, I will relate.”

There was a buzz of approbation at this; and they all thanked his honor, expressing the strongest desire to hear his story. He was just proceeding to gratify them, when another rap came to the door, and, before any of the inmates had time to open it, Father Ned Deleery and his curate made their appearance, having been on their way home from a conference held in the town of ----, eighteen miles from the scene of our present story.

It may be right here to inform the reader, that about two hundred yards from Ned's home stood a place of Roman Catholic worship, called “the Forth,” * from the resemblance it bore to the _Forts_ or _Baths_, so common in Ireland. It was a small green, perfectly circular, and about twenty yards in diameter. Around it grew a row of old overspreading hawthorns, whose branches formed a canopy that almost shaded it from sun and storm. Its area was encompassed by tiers of seats, one raised above another, and covered with the flowery grass. On these the congregation used to sit--the young men chatting or ogling their sweethearts on the opposite side; the old ones in little groups, discussing the politics of the day, as retailed by Mick M'Caffry.** the politician; while, up near the altar, hemmed in by a ring of old men and women, you might perceive a _voteen_, repeating some new prayer or choice piece of devotion--or some other, in a similar circle, perusing, in a loud voice. Dr. Gallagher's Irish Sermons, Pastorini's History of the Christian Church, or Columbkill's Prophecy--and, perhaps, a strolling pilgrim, the centre of a third collection, singing the _Dies irae_, in Latin, or the Hermit of Killarney, in English.

* This very beautiful but simple place of worship does not now exist. On its site is now erected a Roman Catholic chapel.

** Mick was also a schoolmaster, and the most celebrated village politician of his day. Every Sunday found him engaged as in the text.