Ghost Stories of Chapelizod
Ghost Stories of Chapelizod (1851) is a collection of three stories set in a village outside Dublin:
The Village Bully, The Sexton's Adventure, and The Spectre Lovers
Martin Haverty, illustration from The History of Ireland, 1884
Take my word for it, there is no such thing as an ancient village,especially if it has seen better days, unillustrated by its legends ofterror. You might as well expect to find a decayed cheese without mites,or an old house without rats, as an antique and dilapidated town withoutan authentic population of goblins. Now, although this class ofinhabitants are in nowise amenable to the police authorities, yet, astheir demeanor directly affects the comforts of her Majesty's subjects, Icannot but regard it as a grave omission that the public have hithertobeen left without any statistical returns of their numbers, activity,etc., etc. And I am persuaded that a Commission to inquire into andreport upon the numerical strength, habits, haunts, etc., etc., ofsupernatural agents resident in Ireland, would be a great deal moreinnocent and entertaining than half the Commissions for which the countrypays, and at least as instructive. This I say, more from a sense of duty,and to deliver my mind of a grave truth, than with any hope of seeing thesuggestion adopted. But, I am sure, my readers will deplore with me thatthe comprehensive powers of belief, and apparently illimitable leisure,possessed by parliamentary commissions of inquiry, should never have beenapplied to the subject I have named, and that the collection of thatspecies of information should be confided to the gratuitous and desultorylabours of individuals, who, like myself, have other occupations toattend to. This, however, by the way.Among the village outposts of Dublin, Chapelizod once held aconsiderable, if not a foremost rank. Without mentioning its connexionwith the history of the great Kilmainham Preceptory of the Knights of St.John, it will be enough to remind the reader of its ancient andcelebrated Castle, not one vestige of which now remains, and of the factthat it was for, we believe, some centuries, the summer residence of theViceroys of Ireland. The circumstance of its being up, we believe, to theperiod at which that corps was disbanded, the headquarters of the RoyalIrish Artillery, gave it also a consequence of an humbler, but not lesssubstantial kind. With these advantages in its favour, it is notwonderful that the town exhibited at one time an air of substantial andsemi-aristocratic prosperity unknown to Irish villages in modern times.A broad street, with a well-paved footpath, and houses as lofty as wereat that time to be found in the fashionable streets of Dublin; a goodlystone-fronted barrack; an ancient church, vaulted beneath, and with atower clothed from its summit to its base with the richest ivy; an humbleRoman Catholic chapel; a steep bridge spanning the Liffey, and a greatold mill at the near end of it, were the principal features of the town.These, or at least most of them, remain still, but the greater part in avery changed and forlorn condition. Some of them indeed are superseded,though not obliterated by modern erections, such as the bridge, thechapel, and the church in part; the rest forsaken by the order whooriginally raised them, and delivered up to poverty, and in some cases toabsolute decay.The village lies in the lap of the rich and wooded valley of the Liffey,and is overlooked by the high grounds of the beautiful Phoenix Park onthe one side, and by the ridge of the Palmerstown hills on the other. Itssituation, therefore, is eminently picturesque; and factory-fronts andchimneys notwithstanding, it has, I think, even in its decay, a sort ofmelancholy picturesqueness of its own. Be that as it may, I mean torelate two or three stories of that sort which may be read with very goodeffect by a blazing fire on a shrewd winter's night, and are all directlyconnected with the altered and somewhat melancholy little town I havenamed. The first I shall relate concerns
The Village BullyAbout thirty years ago there lived in the town of Chapelizod anill-conditioned fellow of herculean strength, well known throughout theneighbourhood by the title of Bully Larkin. In addition to his remarkablephysical superiority, this fellow had acquired a degree of skill as apugilist which alone would have made him formidable. As it was, he wasthe autocrat of the village, and carried not the sceptre in vain.Conscious of his superiority, and perfectly secure of impunity, he lordedit over his fellows in a spirit of cowardly and brutal insolence, whichmade him hated even more profoundly than he was feared.Upon more than one occasion he had deliberately forced quarrels upon menwhom he had singled out for the exhibition of his savage prowess; and inevery encounter his over-matched antagonist had received an amount of"punishment" which edified and appalled the spectators, and in someinstances left ineffaceable scars and lasting injuries after it.Bully Larkin's pluck had never been fairly tried. For, owing to hisprodigious superiority in weight, strength, and skill, his victories hadalways been certain and easy; and in proportion to the facility withwhich he uniformly smashed an antagonist, his pugnacity and insolencewere inflamed. He thus became an odious nuisance in the neighbourhood,and the terror of every mother who had a son, and of every wife who had ahusband who possessed a spirit to resent insult, or the smallestconfidence in his own pugilistic capabilities.Now it happened that there was a young fellow named Ned Moran--betterknown by the soubriquet of "Long Ned," from his slender, lathyproportions--at that time living in the town. He was, in truth, a merelad, nineteen years of age, and fully twelve years younger than thestalwart bully. This, however, as the reader will see, secured for him noexemption from the dastardly provocations of the ill-conditionedpugilist. Long Ned, in an evil hour, had thrown eyes of affection upon acertain buxom damsel, who, notwithstanding Bully Larkin's amorousrivalry, inclined to reciprocate them.I need not say how easily the spark of jealousy, once kindled, is blowninto a flame, and how naturally, in a coarse and ungoverned nature, itexplodes in acts of violence and outrage."The bully" watched his opportunity, and contrived to provoke Ned Moran,while drinking in a public-house with a party of friends, into analtercation, in the course of which he failed not to put such insultsupon his rival as manhood could not tolerate. Long Ned, though a simple,good-natured sort of fellow, was by no means deficient in spirit, andretorted in a tone of defiance which edified the more timid, and gave hisopponent the opportunity he secretly coveted.Bully Larkin challenged the heroic youth, whose pretty face he hadprivately consigned to the mangling and bloody discipline he was himselfso capable of administering. The quarrel, which he had himself contrivedto get up, to a certain degree covered the ill blood and malignantpremeditation which inspired his proceedings, and Long Ned, being full ofgenerous ire and whiskey punch, accepted the gauge of battle on theinstant. The whole party, accompanied by a mob of idle men and boys, andin short by all who could snatch a moment from the calls of business,proceeded in slow procession through the old gate into the Phoenix Park,and mounting the hill overlooking the town, selected near its summit alevel spot on which to decide the quarrel.The combatants stripped, and a child might have seen in the contrastpresented by the slight, lank form and limbs of the lad, and the muscularand massive build of his veteran antagonist, how desperate was the chanceof poor Ned Moran."Seconds" and "bottle-holders"--selected of course for their love of thegame--were appointed, and "the fight" commenced.I will not shock my readers with a description of the cool-bloodedbutchery that followed. The result of the combat was what anybody mighthave predicted. At the eleventh round, poor Ned refused to "give in"; thebrawny pugilist, unhurt, in good wind, and pale with concentrated and asyet unslaked revenge, had the gratification of seeing his opponent seatedupon his second's knee, unable to hold up his head, his left armdisabled; his face a bloody, swollen, and shapeless mass; his breastscarred and bloody, and his whole body panting and quivering with rageand exhaustion."Give in, Ned, my boy," cried more than one of the bystanders."Never, never," shrieked he, with a voice hoarse and choking.Time being "up," his second placed him on his feet again. Blinded withhis own blood, panting and staggering, he presented but a helpless markfor the blows of his stalwart opponent. It was plain that a touch wouldhave been sufficient to throw him to the earth. But Larkin had no notionof letting him off so easily. He closed with him without striking a blow(the effect of which, prematurely dealt, would have been to bring him atonce to the ground, and so put an end to the combat), and getting hisbattered and almost senseless head under his arm, fast in that peculiar"fix" known to the fancy pleasantly by the name of "chancery," he heldhim firmly, while with monotonous and brutal strokes he beat his fist, asit seemed, almost into his face. A cry of "shame" broke from the crowd,for it was plain that the beaten man was now insensible, and supportedonly by the herculean arm of the bully. The round and the fight ended byhis hurling him upon the ground, falling upon him at the same time withhis knee upon his chest.The bully rose, wiping the perspiration from his white face with hisblood-stained hands, but Ned lay stretched and motionless upon the grass.It was impossible to get him upon his legs for another round. So he wascarried down, just as he was, to the pond which then lay close to the oldPark gate, and his head and body were washed beside it. Contrary to thebelief of all he was not dead. He was carried home, and after some monthsto a certain extent recovered. But he never held up his head again, andbefore the year was over he had died of consumption. Nobody could doubthow the disease had been induced, but there was no actual proof toconnect the cause and effect, and the ruffian Larkin escaped thevengeance of the law. A strange retribution, however, awaited him.After the death of Long Ned, he became less quarrelsome than before, butmore sullen and reserved. Some said "he took it to heart," and others,that his conscience was not at ease about it. Be this as it may, however,his health did not suffer by reason of his presumed agitations, nor washis worldly prosperity marred by the blasting curses with which poorMoran's enraged mother pursued him; on the contrary he had rather risenin the world, and obtained regular and well-remunerated employment fromthe Chief Secretary's gardener, at the other side of the Park. He stilllived in Chapelizod, whither, on the close of his day's work, he used toreturn across the Fifteen Acres.It was about three years after the catastrophe we have mentioned, andlate in the autumn, when, one night, contrary to his habit, he did notappear at the house where he lodged, neither had he been seen anywhere,during the evening, in the village. His hours of return had been so veryregular, that his absence excited considerable surprise, though, ofcourse, no actual alarm; and, at the usual hour, the house was closed forthe night, and the absent lodger consigned to the mercy of the elements,and the care of his presiding star. Early in the morning, however, he wasfound lying in a state of utter helplessness upon the slope immediatelyoverlooking the Chapelizod gate. He had been smitten with a paralyticstroke: his right side was dead; and it was many weeks before he hadrecovered his speech sufficiently to make himself at all understood.He then made the following relation:--He had been detained, it appeared,later than usual, and darkness had closed before he commenced hishomeward walk across the Park. It was a moonlit night, but masses ofragged clouds were slowly drifting across the heavens. He had notencountered a human figure, and no sounds but the softened rush of thewind sweeping through bushes and hollows met his ear. These wild andmonotonous sounds, and the utter solitude which surrounded him, did not,however, excite any of those uneasy sensations which are ascribed tosuperstition, although he said he did feel depressed, or, in his ownphraseology, "lonesome." Just as he crossed the brow of the hill whichshelters the town of Chapelizod, the moon shone out for some momentswith unclouded lustre, and his eye, which happened to wander by theshadowy enclosures which lay at the foot of the slope, was arrested bythe sight of a human figure climbing, with all the haste of one pursued,over the churchyard wall, and running up the steep ascent directlytowards him. Stories of "resurrectionists" crossed his recollection, ashe observed this suspicious-looking figure. But he began, momentarily,to be aware with a sort of fearful instinct which he could not explain,that the running figure was directing his steps, with a sinisterpurpose, towards himself.The form was that of a man with a loose coat about him, which, as he ran,he disengaged, and as well as Larkin could see, for the moon was againwading in clouds, threw from him. The figure thus advanced until withinsome two score yards of him, it arrested its speed, and approached with aloose, swaggering gait. The moon again shone out bright and clear, and,gracious God! what was the spectacle before him? He saw as distinctly asif he had been presented there in the flesh, Ned Moran, himself, strippednaked from the waist upward, as if for pugilistic combat, and drawingtowards him in silence. Larkin would have shouted, prayed, cursed, fledacross the Park, but he was absolutely powerless; the apparition stoppedwithin a few steps, and leered on him with a ghastly mimicry of thedefiant stare with which pugilists strive to cow one another beforecombat. For a time, which he could not so much as conjecture, he was heldin the fascination of that unearthly gaze, and at last the thing,whatever it was, on a sudden swaggered close up to him with extendedpalms. With an impulse of horror, Larkin put out his hand to keep thefigure off, and their palms touched--at least, so he believed--for athrill of unspeakable agony, running through his arm, pervaded his entireframe, and he fell senseless to the earth.Though Larkin lived for many years after, his punishment was terrible. Hewas incurably maimed; and being unable to work, he was forced, forexistence, to beg alms of those who had once feared and flattered him. Hesuffered, too, increasingly, under his own horrible interpretation of thepreternatural encounter which was the beginning of all his miseries. Itwas vain to endeavour to shake his faith in the reality of theapparition, and equally vain, as some compassionately did, to try topersuade him that the greeting with which his vision closed was intended,while inflicting a temporary trial, to signify a compensatingreconciliation."No, no," he used to say, "all won't do. I know the meaning of it wellenough; it is a challenge to meet him in the other world--in Hell, whereI am going--that's what it means, and nothing else."And so, miserable and refusing comfort, he lived on for some years, andthen died, and was buried in the same narrow churchyard which containsthe remains of his victim.I need hardly say, how absolute was the faith of the honest inhabitants,at the time when I heard the story, in the reality of the preternaturalsummons which, through the portals of terror, sickness, and misery, hadsummoned Bully Larkin to his long, last home, and that, too, upon thevery ground on which he had signalised the guiltiest triumph of hisviolent and vindictive career.I recollect another story of the preternatural sort, which made no smallsensation, some five-and-thirty years ago, among the good gossips of thetown; and, with your leave, courteous reader, I shall relate it.
The Sexton's AdventureThose who remember Chapelizod a quarter of a century ago, or more, maypossibly recollect the parish sexton. Bob Martin was held much in awe bytruant boys who sauntered into the churchyard on Sundays, to read thetombstones, or play leap frog over them, or climb the ivy in search ofbats or sparrows' nests, or peep into the mysterious aperture under theeastern window, which opened a dim perspective of descending stepslosing themselves among profounder darkness, where lidless coffins gapedhorribly among tattered velvet, bones, and dust, which time andmortality had strewn there. Of such horribly curious, and otherwiseenterprising juveniles, Bob was, of course, the special scourge andterror. But terrible as was the official aspect of the sexton, andrepugnant as his lank form, clothed in rusty, sable vesture, his small,frosty visage, suspicious grey eyes, and rusty, brown scratch-wig, mightappear to all notions of genial frailty; it was yet true, that BobMartin's severe morality sometimes nodded, and that Bacchus did notalways solicit him in vain.Bob had a curious mind, a memory well stored with "merry tales," andtales of terror. His profession familiarized him with graves and goblins,and his tastes with weddings, wassail, and sly frolics of all sorts. Andas his personal recollections ran back nearly three score years into theperspective of the village history, his fund of local anecdote wascopious, accurate, and edifying.As his ecclesiastical revenues were by no means considerable, he was notunfrequently obliged, for the indulgence of his tastes, to arts whichwere, at the best, undignified.He frequently invited himself when his entertainers had forgotten to doso; he dropped in accidentally upon small drinking parties of hisacquaintance in public houses, and entertained them with stories, queeror terrible, from his inexhaustible reservoir, never scrupling to acceptan acknowledgment in the shape of hot whiskey-punch, or whatever elsewas going.There was at that time a certain atrabilious publican, called PhilipSlaney, established in a shop nearly opposite the old turnpike. This manwas not, when left to himself, immoderately given to drinking; but beingnaturally of a saturnine complexion, and his spirits constantly requiringa fillip, he acquired a prodigious liking for Bob Martin's company. Thesexton's society, in fact, gradually became the solace of his existence,and he seemed to lose his constitutional melancholy in the fascination ofhis sly jokes and marvellous stories.This intimacy did not redound to the prosperity or reputation of theconvivial allies. Bob Martin drank a good deal more punch than was goodfor his health, or consistent with the character of an ecclesiasticalfunctionary. Philip Slaney, too, was drawn into similar indulgences, forit was hard to resist the genial seductions of his gifted companion; andas he was obliged to pay for both, his purse was believed to havesuffered even more than his head and liver.Be this as it may, Bob Martin had the credit of having made a drunkard of"black Phil Slaney"--for by this cognomen was he distinguished; and PhilSlaney had also the reputation of having made the sexton, if possible, a"bigger bliggard" than ever. Under these circumstances, the accounts ofthe concern opposite the turnpike became somewhat entangled; and it cameto pass one drowsy summer morning, the weather being at once sultry andcloudy, that Phil Slaney went into a small back parlour, where he kepthis books, and which commanded, through its dirty window-panes, a fullview of a dead wall, and having bolted the door, he took a loaded pistol,and clapping the muzzle in his mouth, blew the upper part of his skullthrough the ceiling.This horrid catastrophe shocked Bob Martin extremely; and partly on thisaccount, and partly because having been, on several late occasions, foundat night in a state of abstraction, bordering on insensibility, upon thehigh road, he had been threatened with dismissal; and, as some said,partly also because of the difficulty of finding anybody to "treat" himas poor Phil Slaney used to do, he for a time forswore alcohol in all itscombinations, and became an eminent example of temperance and sobriety.Bob observed his good resolutions, greatly to the comfort of his wife,and the edification of the neighbourhood, with tolerable punctuality. Hewas seldom tipsy, and never drunk, and was greeted by the better part ofsociety with all the honours of the prodigal son.Now it happened, about a year after the grisly event we have mentioned,that the curate having received, by the post, due notice of a funeral tobe consummated in the churchyard of Chapelizod, with certain instructionsrespecting the site of the grave, despatched a summons for Bob Martin,with a view to communicate to that functionary these official details.It was a lowering autumn night: piles of lurid thunder-clouds, slowlyrising from the earth, had loaded the sky with a solemn and boding canopyof storm. The growl of the distant thunder was heard afar off upon thedull, still air, and all nature seemed, as it were, hushed and coweringunder the oppressive influence of the approaching tempest.It was past nine o'clock when Bob, putting on his official coat of seedyblack, prepared to attend his professional superior."Bobby, darlin'," said his wife, before she delivered the hat she held inher hand to his keeping, "sure you won't, Bobby, darlin'--you won't--youknow what.""I don't know what," he retorted, smartly, grasping at his hat."You won't be throwing up the little finger, Bobby, acushla?" she said,evading his grasp."Arrah, why would I, woman? there, give me my hat, will you?""But won't you promise me, Bobby darlin'--won't you, alanna?""Ay, ay, to be sure I will--why not?--there, give me my hat, andlet me go.""Ay, but you're not promisin', Bobby, mavourneen; you're not promisin'all the time.""Well, divil carry me if I drink a drop till I come back again," said thesexton, angrily; "will that do you? And now will you give me my hat?""Here it is, darlin'," she said, "and God send you safe back."And with this parting blessing she closed the door upon his retreatingfigure, for it was now quite dark, and resumed her knitting till hisreturn, very much relieved; for she thought he had of late been oftenertipsy than was consistent with his thorough reformation, and feared theallurements of the half dozen "publics" which he had at that time to passon his way to the other end of the town.They were still open, and exhaled a delicious reek of whiskey, as Bobglided wistfully by them; but he stuck his hands in his pockets andlooked the other way, whistling resolutely, and filling his mind with theimage of the curate and anticipations of his coming fee. Thus he steeredhis morality safely through these rocks of offence, and reached thecurate's lodging in safety.He had, however, an unexpected sick call to attend, and was not at home,so that Bob Martin had to sit in the hall and amuse himself with thedevil's tattoo until his return. This, unfortunately, was very longdelayed, and it must have been fully twelve o'clock when Bob Martin setout upon his homeward way. By this time the storm had gathered to apitchy darkness, the bellowing thunder was heard among the rocks andhollows of the Dublin mountains, and the pale, blue lightning shone uponthe staring fronts of the houses.By this time, too, every door was closed; but as Bob trudged homeward,his eye mechanically sought the public-house which had once belonged toPhil Slaney. A faint light was making its way through the shutters andthe glass panes over the doorway, which made a sort of dull, foggy haloabout the front of the house.As Bob's eyes had become accustomed to the obscurity by this time, thelight in question was quite sufficient to enable him to see a man in asort of loose riding-coat seated upon a bench which, at that time, wasfixed under the window of the house. He wore his hat very much over hiseyes, and was smoking a long pipe. The outline of a glass and a quartbottle were also dimly traceable beside him; and a large horse saddled,but faintly discernible, was patiently awaiting his master's leisure.There was something odd, no doubt, in the appearance of a travellerrefreshing himself at such an hour in the open street; but the sextonaccounted for it easily by supposing that, on the closing of the housefor the night, he had taken what remained of his refection to the placewhere he was now discussing it al fresco.At another time Bob might have saluted the stranger as he passed with afriendly "good night"; but, somehow, he was out of humour and in nogenial mood, and was about passing without any courtesy of the sort,when the stranger, without taking the pipe from his mouth, raised thebottle, and with it beckoned him familiarly, while, with a sort of lurchof the head and shoulders, and at the same time shifting his seat to theend of the bench, he pantomimically invited him to share his seat andhis cheer. There was a divine fragrance of whiskey about the spot, andBob half relented; but he remembered his promise just as he began towaver, and said:"No, I thank you, sir, I can't stop to-night."The stranger beckoned with vehement welcome, and pointed to the vacantspace on the seat beside him."I thank you for your polite offer," said Bob, "but it's what I'm toolate as it is, and haven't time to spare, so I wish you a good night."The traveller jingled the glass against the neck of the bottle, as if tointimate that he might at least swallow a dram without losing time. Bobwas mentally quite of the same opinion; but, though his mouth watered, heremembered his promise, and shaking his head with incorruptibleresolution, walked on.The stranger, pipe in mouth, rose from his bench, the bottle in one hand,and the glass in the other, and followed at the sexton's heels, his duskyhorse keeping close in his wake.There was something suspicious and unaccountable in this importunity.Bob quickened his pace, but the stranger followed close. The sexton beganto feel queer, and turned about. His pursuer was behind, and stillinviting him with impatient gestures to taste his liquor."I told you before," said Bob, who was both angry and frightened, "that Iwould not taste it, and that's enough. I don't want to have anything tosay to you or your bottle; and in God's name," he added, more vehemently,observing that he was approaching still closer, "fall back and don't betormenting me this way."These words, as it seemed, incensed the stranger, for he shook the bottlewith violent menace at Bob Martin; but, notwithstanding this gesture ofdefiance, he suffered the distance between them to increase. Bob,however, beheld him dogging him still in the distance, for his pipe sheda wonderful red glow, which duskily illuminated his entire figure likethe lurid atmosphere of a meteor."I wish the devil had his own, my boy," muttered the excited sexton, "andI know well enough where you'd be."The next time he looked over his shoulder, to his dismay he observed theimportunate stranger as close as ever upon his track."Confound you," cried the man of skulls and shovels, almost besidehimself with rage and horror, "what is it you want of me?"The stranger appeared more confident, and kept wagging his head andextending both glass and bottle toward him as he drew near, and BobMartin heard the horse snorting as it followed in the dark."Keep it to yourself, whatever it is, for there is neither grace norluck about you," cried Bob Martin, freezing with terror; "leave mealone, will you."And he fumbled in vain among the seething confusion of his ideas for aprayer or an exorcism. He quickened his pace almost to a run; he was nowclose to his own door, under the impending bank by the river side."Let me in, let me in, for God's sake; Molly, open the door," he cried,as he ran to the threshold, and leant his back against the plank. Hispursuer confronted him upon the road; the pipe was no longer in hismouth, but the dusky red glow still lingered round him. He uttered someinarticulate cavernous sounds, which were wolfish and indescribable,while he seemed employed in pouring out a glass from the bottle.The sexton kicked with all his force against the door, and cried at thesame time with a despairing voice."In the name of God Almighty, once for all, leave me alone."His pursuer furiously flung the contents of the bottle at Bob Martin;but instead of fluid it issued out in a stream of flame, which expandedand whirled round them, and for a moment they were both enveloped in afaint blaze; at the same instant a sudden gust whisked off thestranger's hat, and the sexton beheld that his skull was roofless. Foran instant he beheld the gaping aperture, black and shattered, and thenhe fell senseless into his own doorway, which his affrighted wife hadjust unbarred.I need hardly give my reader the key to this most intelligible andauthentic narrative. The traveller was acknowledged by all to have beenthe spectre of the suicide, called up by the Evil One to tempt theconvivial sexton into a violation of his promise, sealed, as it was, byan imprecation. Had he succeeded, no doubt the dusky steed, which Bob hadseen saddled in attendance, was destined to have carried back a doubleburden to the place from whence he came.As an attestation of the reality of this visitation, the old thorn treewhich overhung the doorway was found in the morning to have been blastedwith the infernal fires which had issued from the bottle, just as if athunder-bolt had scorched it.The moral of the above tale is upon the surface, apparent, and, so tospeak, self-acting--a circumstance which happily obviates thenecessity of our discussing it together. Taking our leave, therefore, ofhonest Bob Martin, who now sleeps soundly in the same solemn dormitorywhere, in his day, he made so many beds for others, I come to a legendof the Royal Irish Artillery, whose headquarters were for so long a timein the town of Chapelizod. I don't mean to say that I cannot tell agreat many more stories, equally authentic and marvellous, touching thisold town; but as I may possibly have to perform a like office for otherlocalities, and as Anthony Poplar is known, like Atropos, to carry ashears, wherewith to snip across all "yarns" which exceed reasonablebounds, I consider it, on the whole, safer to despatch the traditions ofChapelizod with one tale more.Let me, however, first give it a name; for an author can no more despatcha tale without a title, than an apothecary can deliver his physic withouta label. We shall, therefore, call it--
The Spectre LoversThere lived some fifteen years since in a small and ruinous house, littlebetter than a hovel, an old woman who was reported to have considerablyexceeded her eightieth year, and who rejoiced in the name of Alice, orpopularly, Ally Moran. Her society was not much courted, for she wasneither rich, nor, as the reader may suppose, beautiful. In addition to alean cur and a cat she had one human companion, her grandson, PeterBrien, whom, with laudable good nature, she had supported from the periodof his orphanage down to that of my story, which finds him in histwentieth year. Peter was a good-natured slob of a fellow, much moreaddicted to wrestling, dancing, and love-making, than to hard work, andfonder of whiskey-punch than good advice. His grandmother had a highopinion of his accomplishments, which indeed was but natural, and also ofhis genius, for Peter had of late years begun to apply his mind topolitics; and as it was plain that he had a mortal hatred of honestlabour, his grandmother predicted, like a true fortuneteller, that he wasborn to marry an heiress, and Peter himself (who had no mind to foregohis freedom even on such terms) that he was destined to find a pot ofgold. Upon one point both agreed, that being unfitted by the peculiarbias of his genius for work, he was to acquire the immense fortune towhich his merits entitled him by means of a pure run of good luck. Thissolution of Peter's future had the double effect of reconciling bothhimself and his grandmother to his idle courses, and also of maintainingthat even flow of hilarious spirits which made him everywhere welcome,and which was in truth the natural result of his consciousness ofapproaching affluence.It happened one night that Peter had enjoyed himself to a very late hourwith two or three choice spirits near Palmerstown. They had talkedpolitics and love, sung songs, and told stories, and, above all, hadswallowed, in the chastened disguise of punch, at least a pint of goodwhiskey, every man.It was considerably past one o'clock when Peter bid his companionsgoodbye, with a sigh and a hiccough, and lighting his pipe set forth onhis solitary homeward way.The bridge of Chapelizod was pretty nearly the midway point of his nightmarch, and from one cause or another his progress was rather slow, and itwas past two o'clock by the time he found himself leaning over its oldbattlements, and looking up the river, over whose winding current andwooded banks the soft moonlight was falling.The cold breeze that blew lightly down the stream was grateful to him. Itcooled his throbbing head, and he drank it in at his hot lips. The scene,too, had, without his being well sensible of it, a secret fascination.The village was sunk in the profoundest slumber, not a mortal stirring,not a sound afloat, a soft haze covered it all, and the fairy moonlighthovered over the entire landscape.In a state between rumination and rapture, Peter continued to lean overthe battlements of the old bridge, and as he did so he saw, or fancied hesaw, emerging one after another along the river bank in the littlegardens and enclosures in the rear of the street of Chapelizod, thequeerest little white-washed huts and cabins he had ever seen therebefore. They had not been there that evening when he passed the bridge onthe way to his merry tryst. But the most remarkable thing about it wasthe odd way in which these quaint little cabins showed themselves. Firsthe saw one or two of them just with the corner of his eye, and when helooked full at them, strange to say, they faded away and disappeared.Then another and another came in view, but all in the same coy way, justappearing and gone again before he could well fix his gaze upon them; ina little while, however, they began to bear a fuller gaze, and he found,as it seemed to himself, that he was able by an effort of attention tofix the vision for a longer and a longer time, and when they waxed faintand nearly vanished, he had the power of recalling them into light andsubstance, until at last their vacillating indistinctness became less andless, and they assumed a permanent place in the moonlit landscape."Be the hokey," said Peter, lost in amazement, and dropping his pipe intothe river unconsciously, "them is the quarist bits iv mud cabins I everseen, growing up like musharoons in the dew of an evening, and poppin' uphere and down again there, and up again in another place, like so manywhite rabbits in a warren; and there they stand at last as firm and fastas if they were there from the Deluge; bedad it's enough to make a mana'most believe in the fairies."This latter was a large concession from Peter, who was a bit of afree-thinker, and spoke contemptuously in his ordinary conversation ofthat class of agencies.Having treated himself to a long last stare at these mysterious fabrics,Peter prepared to pursue his homeward way; having crossed the bridge andpassed the mill, he arrived at the corner of the main-street of thelittle town, and casting a careless look up the Dublin road, his eye wasarrested by a most unexpected spectacle.This was no other than a column of foot soldiers, marching with perfectregularity towards the village, and headed by an officer on horseback.They were at the far side of the turnpike, which was closed; but much tohis perplexity he perceived that they marched on through it withoutappearing to sustain the least check from that barrier.On they came at a slow march; and what was most singular in the matterwas, that they were drawing several cannons along with them; some heldropes, others spoked the wheels, and others again marched in front of theguns and behind them, with muskets shouldered, giving a stately characterof parade and regularity to this, as it seemed to Peter, most unmilitaryprocedure.It was owing either to some temporary defect in Peter's vision, or tosome illusion attendant upon mist and moonlight, or perhaps to some othercause, that the whole procession had a certain waving and vapourycharacter which perplexed and tasked his eyes not a little. It was likethe pictured pageant of a phantasmagoria reflected upon smoke. It was asif every breath disturbed it; sometimes it was blurred, sometimesobliterated; now here, now there. Sometimes, while the upper part wasquite distinct, the legs of the column would nearly fade away or vanishoutright, and then again they would come out into clear relief, marchingon with measured tread, while the cocked hats and shoulders grew, as itwere, transparent, and all but disappeared.Notwithstanding these strange optical fluctuations, however, the columncontinued steadily to advance. Peter crossed the street from the cornernear the old bridge, running on tip-toe, and with his body stooped toavoid observation, and took up a position upon the raised footpath in theshadow of the houses, where, as the soldiers kept the middle of the road,he calculated that he might, himself undetected, see them distinctlyenough as they passed."What the div--, what on airth," he muttered, checking the irreligiousejaculation with which he was about to start, for certain queermisgivings were hovering about his heart, notwithstanding the factitiouscourage of the whiskey bottle. "What on airth is the manin' of all this?is it the French that's landed at last to give us a hand and help us inairnest to this blessed repale? If it is not them, I simply ask who thediv--, I mane who on airth are they, for such sogers as them I neverseen before in my born days?"By this time the foremost of them were quite near, and truth to say theywere the queerest soldiers he had ever seen in the course of his life.They wore long gaiters and leather breeches, three-cornered hats, boundwith silver lace, long blue coats, with scarlet facings and linings,which latter were shewn by a fastening which held together the twoopposite corners of the skirt behind; and in front the breasts were inlike manner connected at a single point, where and below which theysloped back, disclosing a long-flapped waistcoat of snowy whiteness; theyhad very large, long cross-belts, and wore enormous pouches of whiteleather hung extraordinarily low, and on each of which a little silverstar was glittering. But what struck him as most grotesque and outlandishin their costume was their extraordinary display of shirt-frill in front,and of ruffle about their wrists, and the strange manner in which theirhair was frizzled out and powdered under their hats, and clubbed up intogreat rolls behind. But one of the party was mounted. He rode a tallwhite horse, with high action and arching neck; he had a snow-whitefeather in his three-cornered hat, and his coat was shimmering all overwith a profusion of silver lace. From these circumstances Peter concludedthat he must be the commander of the detachment, and examined him as hepassed attentively. He was a slight, tall man, whose legs did not halffill his leather breeches, and he appeared to be at the wrong side ofsixty. He had a shrunken, weather-beaten, mulberry-coloured face, carrieda large black patch over one eye, and turned neither to the right nor tothe left, but rode on at the head of his men, with a grim, militaryinflexibility.The countenances of these soldiers, officers as well as men, seemed allfull of trouble, and, so to speak, scared and wild. He watched in vainfor a single contented or comely face. They had, one and all, amelancholy and hang-dog look; and as they passed by, Peter fancied thatthe air grew cold and thrilling.He had seated himself upon a stone bench, from which, staring with allhis might, he gazed upon the grotesque and noiseless procession as itfiled by him. Noiseless it was; he could neither hear the jingle ofaccoutrements, the tread of feet, nor the rumble of the wheels; and whenthe old colonel turned his horse a little, and made as though he weregiving the word of command, and a trumpeter, with a swollen blue nose andwhite feather fringe round his hat, who was walking beside him, turnedabout and put his bugle to his lips, still Peter heard nothing, althoughit was plain the sound had reached the soldiers, for they instantlychanged their front to three abreast."Botheration!" muttered Peter, "is it deaf I'm growing?"But that could not be, for he heard the sighing of the breeze and therush of the neighbouring Liffey plain enough."Well," said he, in the same cautious key, "by the piper, this bangsBanagher fairly! It's either the Frinch army that's in it, come to takethe town iv Chapelizod by surprise, an' makin' no noise for feard ivwakenin' the inhabitants; or else it's--it's--what it's--somethin' else.But, tundher-an-ouns, what's gone wid Fitzpatrick's shop across the way?"The brown, dingy stone building at the opposite side of the street lookednewer and cleaner than he had been used to see it; the front door of itstood open, and a sentry, in the same grotesque uniform, with shoulderedmusket, was pacing noiselessly to and fro before it. At the angle of thisbuilding, in like manner, a wide gate (of which Peter had no recollectionwhatever) stood open, before which, also, a similar sentry was gliding,and into this gateway the whole column gradually passed, and Peterfinally lost sight of it."I'm not asleep; I'm not dhramin'," said he, rubbing his eyes, andstamping slightly on the pavement, to assure himself that he was wideawake. "It is a quare business, whatever it is; an' it's not alone that,but everything about town looks strange to me. There's Tresham's housenew painted, bedad, an' them flowers in the windies! An' Delany's house,too, that had not a whole pane of glass in it this morning, and scarce aslate on the roof of it! It is not possible it's what it's dhrunk I am.Sure there's the big tree, and not a leaf of it changed since I passed,and the stars overhead, all right. I don't think it is in my eyes it is."And so looking about him, and every moment finding or fancying new foodfor wonder, he walked along the pavement, intending, without furtherdelay, to make his way home.But his adventures for the night were not concluded. He had nearlyreached the angle of the short land that leads up to the church, when forthe first time he perceived that an officer, in the uniform he had justseen, was walking before, only a few yards in advance of him.The officer was walking along at an easy, swinging gait, and carriedhis sword under his arm, and was looking down on the pavement with anair of reverie.In the very fact that he seemed unconscious of Peter's presence, anddisposed to keep his reflections to himself, there was somethingreassuring. Besides, the reader must please to remember that our hero hada quantum sufficit of good punch before his adventure commenced, and wasthus fortified against those qualms and terrors under which, in a morereasonable state of mind, he might not impossibly have sunk.The idea of the French invasion revived in full power in Peter's fuddledimagination, as he pursued the nonchalant swagger of the officer."Be the powers iv Moll Kelly, I'll ax him what it is," said Peter, with asudden accession of rashness. "He may tell me or not, as he plases, buthe can't be offinded, anyhow."With this reflection having inspired himself, Peter cleared his voiceand began--"Captain!" said he, "I ax your pardon, captain, an' maybe you'd be socondescindin' to my ignorance as to tell me, if it's plasin' to yerhonour, whether your honour is not a Frinchman, if it's plasin' to you."This he asked, not thinking that, had it been as he suspected, not oneword of his question in all probability would have been intelligible tothe person he addressed. He was, however, understood, for the officeranswered him in English, at the same time slackening his pace and movinga little to the side of the pathway, as if to invite his interrogator totake his place beside him."No; I am an Irishman," he answered."I humbly thank your honour," said Peter, drawing nearer--for theaffability and the nativity of the officer encouraged him--"but maybeyour honour is in the sarvice of the King of France?""I serve the same King as you do," he answered, with a sorrowfulsignificance which Peter did not comprehend at the time; and,interrogating in turn, he asked, "But what calls you forth at this hourof the day?""The day, your honour!--the night, you mane.""It was always our way to turn night into day, and we keep to it still,"remarked the soldier. "But, no matter, come up here to my house; I have ajob for you, if you wish to earn some money easily. I live here."As he said this, he beckoned authoritatively to Peter, who followedalmost mechanically at his heels, and they turned up a little lane nearthe old Roman Catholic chapel, at the end of which stood, in Peter'stime, the ruins of a tall, stone-built house.Like everything else in the town, it had suffered a metamorphosis. Thestained and ragged walls were now erect, perfect, and covered withpebble-dash; window-panes glittered coldly in every window; the greenhall-door had a bright brass knocker on it. Peter did not know whether tobelieve his previous or his present impressions; seeing is believing, andPeter could not dispute the reality of the scene. All the records of hismemory seemed but the images of a tipsy dream. In a trance ofastonishment and perplexity, therefore, he submitted himself to thechances of his adventure.The door opened, the officer beckoned with a melancholy air of authorityto Peter, and entered. Our hero followed him into a sort of hall, whichwas very dark, but he was guided by the steps of the soldier, and, insilence, they ascended the stairs. The moonlight, which shone in at thelobbies, showed an old, dark wainscoting, and a heavy, oak banister. Theypassed by closed doors at different landing-places, but all was dark andsilent as, indeed, became that late hour of the night.Now they ascended to the topmost floor. The captain paused for a minuteat the nearest door, and, with a heavy groan, pushing it open, enteredthe room. Peter remained at the threshold. A slight female form in asort of loose, white robe, and with a great deal of dark hair hangingloosely about her, was standing in the middle of the floor, with herback towards them.The soldier stopped short before he reached her, and said, in a voice ofgreat anguish, "Still the same, sweet bird--sweet bird! still the same."Whereupon, she turned suddenly, and threw her arms about the neck of theofficer, with a gesture of fondness and despair, and her frame wasagitated as if by a burst of sobs. He held her close to his breast insilence; and honest Peter felt a strange terror creep over him, as hewitnessed these mysterious sorrows and endearments."To-night, to-night--and then ten years more--ten long years--anotherten years."The officer and the lady seemed to speak these words together; her voicemingled with his in a musical and fearful wail, like a distant summerwind, in the dead hour of night, wandering through ruins. Then he heardthe officer say, alone, in a voice of anguish--"Upon me be it all, for ever, sweet birdie, upon me."And again they seemed to mourn together in the same soft and desolatewail, like sounds of grief heard from a great distance.Peter was thrilled with horror, but he was also under a strangefascination; and an intense and dreadful curiosity held him fast.The moon was shining obliquely into the room, and through the windowPeter saw the familiar slopes of the Park, sleeping mistily under itsshimmer. He could also see the furniture of the room with tolerabledistinctness--the old balloon-backed chairs, a four-post bed in a sort ofrecess, and a rack against the wall, from which hung some militaryclothes and accoutrements; and the sight of all these homely objectsreassured him somewhat, and he could not help feeling unspeakably curiousto see the face of the girl whose long hair was streaming over theofficer's epaulet.Peter, accordingly, coughed, at first slightly, and afterward moreloudly, to recall her from her reverie of grief; and, apparently, hesucceeded; for she turned round, as did her companion, and both, standinghand in hand, gazed upon him fixedly. He thought he had never seen suchlarge, strange eyes in all his life; and their gaze seemed to chill thevery air around him, and arrest the pulses of his heart. An eternity ofmisery and remorse was in the shadowy faces that looked upon him.If Peter had taken less whisky by a single thimbleful, it is probablethat he would have lost heart altogether before these figures, whichseemed every moment to assume a more marked and fearful, though hardlydefinable, contrast to ordinary human shapes."What is it you want with me?" he stammered."To bring my lost treasure to the churchyard," replied the lady, in asilvery voice of more than mortal desolation.The word "treasure" revived the resolution of Peter, although a coldsweat was covering him, and his hair was bristling with horror; hebelieved, however, that he was on the brink of fortune, if he could butcommand nerve to brave the interview to its close."And where," he gasped, "is it hid--where will I find it?"They both pointed to the sill of the window, through which the moon wasshining at the far end of the room, and the soldier said--"Under that stone."Peter drew a long breath, and wiped the cold dew from his face,preparatory to passing to the window, where he expected to secure thereward of his protracted terrors. But looking steadfastly at the window,he saw the faint image of a new-born child sitting upon the sill in themoonlight, with its little arms stretched toward him, and a smile soheavenly as he never beheld before.At sight of this, strange to say, his heart entirely failed him, helooked on the figures that stood near, and beheld them gazing on theinfantine form with a smile so guilty and distorted, that he felt as ifhe were entering alive among the scenery of hell, and shuddering, hecried in an irrepressible agony of horror--"I'll have nothing to say with you, and nothing to do with you; I don'tknow what yez are or what yez want iv me, but let me go this minute,every one of yez, in the name of God."With these words there came a strange rumbling and sighing aboutPeter's ears; he lost sight of everything, and felt that peculiar andnot unpleasant sensation of falling softly, that sometimes supervenesin sleep, ending in a dull shock. After that he had neither dream norconsciousness till he wakened, chill and stiff, stretched between twopiles of old rubbish, among the black and roofless walls of theruined house.We need hardly mention that the village had put on its wonted air ofneglect and decay, or that Peter looked around him in vain for traces ofthose novelties which had so puzzled and distracted him upon theprevious night."Ay, ay," said his grandmother, removing her pipe, as he ended hisdescription of the view from the bridge, "sure enough I remember myself,when I was a slip of a girl, these little white cabins among the gardensby the river side. The artillery sogers that was married, or had not roomin the barracks, used to be in them, but they're all gone long ago."The Lord be merciful to us!" she resumed, when he had described themilitary procession, "It's often I seen the regiment marchin' into thetown, jist as you saw it last night, acushla. Oh, voch, but it makes myheart sore to think iv them days; they were pleasant times, sure enough;but is not it terrible, avick, to think it's what it was the ghost of therigiment you seen? The Lord betune us an' harm, for it was nothing else,as sure as I'm sittin' here."When he mentioned the peculiar physiognomy and figure of the old officerwho rode at the head of the regiment--"That," said the old crone, dogmatically, "was ould Colonel Grimshaw, theLord presarve us! he's buried in the churchyard iv Chapelizod, and well Iremember him, when I was a young thing, an' a cross ould floggin' fellowhe was wid the men, an' a devil's boy among the girls--rest his soul!""Amen!" said Peter; "it's often I read his tombstone myself; but he's along time dead.""Sure, I tell you he died when I was no more nor a slip iv a girl--theLord betune us and harm!""I'm afeard it is what I'm not long for this world myself, afther seeingsuch a sight as that," said Peter, fearfully."Nonsinse, avourneen," retorted his grandmother, indignantly, though shehad herself misgivings on the subject; "sure there was Phil Doolan, theferryman, that seen black Ann Scanlan in his own boat, and what harm everkem of it?"Peter proceeded with his narrative, but when he came to the descriptionof the house, in which his adventure had had so sinister a conclusion,the old woman was at fault."I know the house and the ould walls well, an' I can remember the timethere was a roof on it, and the doors an' windows in it, but it had a badname about being haunted, but by who, or for what, I forget intirely.""Did you ever hear was there goold or silver there?" he inquired."No, no, avick, don't be thinking about the likes; take a fool's advice,and never go next to near them ugly black walls again the longest day youhave to live; an' I'd take my davy, it's what it's the same word thepriest himself id be afther sayin' to you if you wor to ax his raverenceconsarnin' it, for it's plain to be seen it was nothing good you seenthere, and there's neither luck nor grace about it."Peter's adventure made no little noise in the neighbourhood, as thereader may well suppose; and a few evenings after it, being on an errandto old Major Vandeleur, who lived in a snug old-fashioned house, close bythe river, under a perfect bower of ancient trees, he was called on torelate the story in the parlour.The Major was, as I have said, an old man; he was small, lean, andupright, with a mahogany complexion, and a wooden inflexibility of face;he was a man, besides, of few words, and if he was old, it followsplainly that his mother was older still. Nobody could guess or tell howold, but it was admitted that her own generation had long passed away,and that she had not a competitor left. She had French blood in herveins, and although she did not retain her charms quite so well as Ninonde l'Enclos, she was in full possession of all her mental activity, andtalked quite enough for herself and the Major."So, Peter," she said, "you have seen the dear, old Royal Irish again inthe streets of Chapelizod. Make him a tumbler of punch, Frank; and Peter,sit down, and while you take it let us have the story."Peter accordingly, seated, near the door, with a tumbler of the nectarianstimulant steaming beside him, proceeded with marvellous courage,considering they had no light but the uncertain glare of the fire, torelate with minute particularity his awful adventure. The old ladylistened at first with a smile of good-natured incredulity; hercross-examination touching the drinking-bout at Palmerstown had beenteazing, but as the narrative proceeded she became attentive, and atlength absorbed, and once or twice she uttered ejaculations of pity orawe. When it was over, the old lady looked with a somewhat sad and sternabstraction on the table, patting her cat assiduously meanwhile, and thensuddenly looking upon her son, the Major, she said--"Frank, as sure as I live he has seen the wicked Captain Devereux."The Major uttered an inarticulate expression of wonder."The house was precisely that he has described. I have told you the storyoften, as I heard it from your dear grandmother, about the poor younglady he ruined, and the dreadful suspicion about the little baby. She,poor thing, died in that house heart-broken, and you know he was shotshortly after in a duel."This was the only light that Peter ever received respecting hisadventure. It was supposed, however, that he still clung to the hope thattreasure of some sort was hidden about the old house, for he was oftenseen lurking about its walls, and at last his fate overtook him, poorfellow, in the pursuit; for climbing near the summit one day, his holdinggave way, and he fell upon the hard uneven ground, fracturing a leg and arib, and after a short interval died, and he, like the other heroes ofthese true tales, lies buried in the little churchyard of Chapelizod.
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