As soon as he had uttered the word, the corpse stretched out suddenly its left hand that had been tightened round his neck, and kept it pointing out, showing him the road he ought to follow. Teig went in the direction that the fingers were stretched, and pa.s.sed out of the churchyard. He found himself on an old rutty, stony road, and he stood still again, not knowing where to turn. The corpse stretched out its bony hand a second time, and pointed out to him another road--not the road by which he had come when approaching the old church. Teig followed that road, and whenever he came to a path or road meeting it, the corpse always stretched out its hand and pointed with its fingers, showing him the way he was to take.
Many was the cross-road he turned down, and many was the crooked _boreen_ he walked, until he saw from him an old burying-ground at last, beside the road, but there was neither church nor chapel nor any other building in it. The corpse squeezed him tightly, and he stood.
"Bury me, bury me in the burying-ground," said the voice.
Teig drew over towards the old burying-place, and he was not more than about twenty yards from it, when, raising his eyes, he saw hundreds and hundreds of ghosts--men, women, and children--sitting on the top of the wall round about, or standing on the inside of it, or running backwards and forwards, and pointing at him, while he could see their mouths opening and shutting as if they were speaking, though he heard no word, nor any sound amongst them at all.
He was afraid to go forward, so he stood where he was, and the moment he stood, all the ghosts became quiet, and ceased moving. Then Teig understood that it was trying to keep him from going in, that they were. He walked a couple of yards forwards, and immediately the whole crowd rushed together towards the spot to which he was moving, and they stood so thickly together that it seemed to him that he never could break through them, even though he had a mind to try. But he had no mind to try it. He went back broken and dispirited, and when he had gone a couple of hundred yards from the burying-ground, he stood again, for he did not know what way he was to go. He heard the voice of the corpse in his ear, saying "Teampoll-Ronan," and the skinny hand was stretched out again, pointing him out the road.
As tired as he was, he had to walk, and the road was neither short nor even. The night was darker than ever, and it was difficult to make his way. Many was the toss he got, and many a bruise they left on his body. At last he saw Teampoll-Ronan from him in the distance, standing in the middle of the burying-ground. He moved over towards it, and thought he was all right and safe, when he saw no ghosts nor anything else on the wall, and he thought he would never be hindered now from leaving his load off him at last. He moved over to the gate, but as he was pa.s.sing in, he tripped on the threshold. Before he could recover himself, something that he could not see seized him by the neck, by the hands, and by the feet, and bruised him, and shook him, and choked him, until he was nearly dead; and at last he was lifted up, and carried more than a hundred yards from that place, and then thrown down in an old d.y.k.e, with the corpse still clinging to him.
He rose up, bruised and sore, but feared to go near the place again, for he had seen nothing the time he was thrown down and carried away.
"You corpse, up on my back," said he, "shall I go over again to the churchyard?"--but the corpse never answered him. "That"s a sign you don"t wish me to try it again," said Teig.
He was now in great doubt as to what he ought to do, when the corpse spoke in his ear, and said "Imlogue-Fada."
"Oh, murder!" said Teig, "must I bring you there? If you keep me long walking like this, I tell you I"ll fall under you."
He went on, however, in the direction the corpse pointed out to him.
He could not have told, himself, how long he had been going, when the dead man behind suddenly squeezed him, and said, "There!"
Teig looked from him, and he saw a little low wall, that was so broken down in places that it was no wall at all. It was in a great wide field, in from the road; and only for three or four great stones at the corners, that were more like rocks than stones, there was nothing to show that there was either graveyard or burying-ground there.
"Is this Imlogue-Fada? Shall I bury you here?" said Teig.
"Yes," said the voice.
"But I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of stones," said Teig.
The corpse did not answer, but stretched out its long fleshless hand, to show Teig the direction in which he was to go. Teig went on accordingly, but he was greatly terrified, for he remembered what had happened to him at the last place. He went on, "with his heart in his mouth," as he said himself afterwards; but when he came to within fifteen or twenty yards of the little low square wall, there broke out a flash of lightning, bright yellow and red, with blue streaks in it, and went round about the wall in one course, and it swept by as fast as the swallow in the clouds, and the longer Teig remained looking at it the faster it went, till at last it became like a bright ring of flame round the old graveyard, which no one could pa.s.s without being burnt by it. Teig never saw, from the time he was born, and never saw afterwards, so wonderful or so splendid a sight as that was. Round went the flame, white and yellow and blue sparks leaping out from it as it went, and although at first it had been no more than a thin, narrow line, it increased slowly until it was at last a great broad band, and it was continually getting broader and higher, and throwing out more brilliant sparks, till there was never a colour on the ridge of the earth that was not to be seen in that fire; and lightning never shone and flame never flamed that was so shining and so bright as that.
Teig was amazed; he was half dead with fatigue, and he had no courage left to approach the wall. There fell a mist over his eyes, and there came a _soorawn_ in his head, and he was obliged to sit down upon a great stone to recover himself. He could see nothing but the light, and he could hear nothing but the whirr of it as it shot round the paddock faster than a flash of lightning.
As he sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once more in his ear, "Kill-Breedya;" and the dead man squeezed him so tightly that he cried out. He rose again, sick, tired, and trembling, and went forwards as he was directed. The wind was cold, and the road was bad, and the load upon his back was heavy, and the night was dark, and he himself was nearly worn out, and if he had had very much farther to go he must have fallen dead under his burden.
At last the corpse stretched out its hand, and said to him, "Bury me there."
"This is the last burying-place," said Teig in his own mind; "and the little grey man said I"d be allowed to bury him in some of them, so it must be this; it can"t be but they"ll let him in here."
The first faint streak of the _ring of day_ was appearing in the east, and the clouds were beginning to catch fire, but it was darker than ever, for the moon was set, and there were no stars.
"Make haste, make haste!" said the corpse; and Teig hurried forward as well as he could to the graveyard, which was a little place on a bare hill, with only a few graves in it. He walked boldly in through the open gate, and nothing touched him, nor did he either hear or see anything. He came to the middle of the ground, and then stood up and looked round him for a spade or shovel to make a grave. As he was turning round and searching, he suddenly perceived what startled him greatly--a newly-dug grave right before him. He moved over to it, and looked down, and there at the bottom he saw a black coffin. He clambered down into the hole and lifted the lid, and found that (as he thought it would be) the coffin was empty. He had hardly mounted up out of the hole, and was standing on the brink, when the corpse, which had clung to him for more than eight hours, suddenly relaxed its hold of his neck, and loosened its shins from round his hips, and sank down with a _plop_ into the open coffin.
Teig fell down on his two knees at the brink of the grave, and gave thanks to G.o.d. He made no delay then, but pressed down the coffin lid in its place, and threw in the clay over it with his two hands; and when the grave was filled up, he stamped and leaped on it with his feet, until it was firm and hard, and then he left the place.
The sun was fast rising as he finished his work, and the first thing he did was to return to the road, and look out for a house to rest himself in. He found an inn at last, and lay down upon a bed there, and slept till night. Then he rose up and ate a little, and fell asleep again till morning. When he awoke in the morning he hired a horse and rode home. He was more than twenty-six miles from home where he was, and he had come all that way with the dead body on his back in one night.
All the people at his own home thought that he must have left the country, and they rejoiced greatly when they saw him come back.
Everyone began asking him where he had been, but he would not tell anyone except his father.
He was a changed man from that day. He never drank too much; he never lost his money over cards; and especially he would not take the world and be out late by himself of a dark night.
He was not a fortnight at home until he married Mary, the girl he had been in love with; and it"s at their wedding the sport was, and it"s he was the happy man from that day forward, and it"s all I wish that we may be as happy as he was.
GLOSSARY.--_Rann_, a stanza; _kailee (ceilidhe)_, a visit in the evening; _wirra (a mhuire)_, "Oh, Mary!" an exclamation like the French _dame_; _rib_, a single hair (in Irish, _ribe_); _a lock (glac)_, a bundle or wisp, or a little share of anything; _kippeen (cipin)_, a rod or twig; _boreen (boithrin)_ a lane; _bodach_, a clown; _soorawn (suaran)_, vertigo. _Avic (a Mhic)_ = son, or rather, Oh, son. Mic is the vocative of Mac.
[Footnote 4: None of Mr. Hyde"s stories here given have been published before. They will be printed in the original Irish in his forthcoming _Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta_ (Gill, Dublin).]
PADDY CORCORAN"S WIFE.
William Carleton.
Paddy Corcoran"s wife was for several years afflicted with a kind of complaint which n.o.body could properly understand. She was sick, and she was not sick; she was well, and she was not well; she was as ladies wish to be who love their lords, and she was not as such ladies wish to be.
In fact n.o.body could tell what the matter with her was. She had a gnawing at the heart which came heavily upon her husband; for, with the help of G.o.d, a keener appet.i.te than the same gnawing amounted to could not be met with of a summer"s day. The poor woman was delicate beyond belief, and had no appet.i.te at all, so she hadn"t, barring a little relish for a mutton-chop, or a "staik," or a bit o" mait, anyway; for sure, G.o.d help her! she hadn"t the laist inclination for the dhry pratie, or the dhrop o" sour b.u.t.termilk along wid it, especially as she was so poorly; and, indeed, for a woman in her condition--for, sick as she was, poor Paddy always was made to believe her in _that_ condition--but G.o.d"s will be done! she didn"t care. A pratie an" a grain o" salt was a welcome to her--glory be to his name!--as the best roast an" boiled that ever was dressed; and why not? There was one comfort: she wouldn"t be long wid him--long troublin" him; it matthered little what she got; but sure she knew herself, that from the gnawin" at her heart, she could never do good widout the little bit o" mait now and then; an", sure, if her own husband begridged it to her, who else had she a better right to expect it from?
Well, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invalid for long enough, trying doctors and quacks of all sorts, s.e.xes, and sizes, and all without a farthing"s benefit, until, at the long run, poor Paddy was nearly brought to the last pa.s.s, in striving to keep her in "the bit o" mait." The seventh year was now on the point of closing, when, one harvest day, as she lay bemoaning her hard condition, on her bed beyond the kitchen fire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in a neat red cloak, comes in, and, sitting down by the hearth, says:--
"Well, Kitty Corcoran, you"ve had a long lair of it there on the broad o" yer back for seven years, an" you"re jist as far from bein" cured as ever."
"Mavrone, ay," said the other; "in throth that"s what I was this minnit thinkin" ov, and a sorrowful thought it"s to me."
"It"s yer own fau"t, thin," says the little woman; "an", indeed, for that matter, it"s yer fau"t that ever you wor there at all."
"Arra, how is that?" asked Kitty; "sure I wouldn"t be here if I could help it? Do you think it"s a comfort or a pleasure to me to be sick and bedridden?"
"No," said the other, "I do not; but I"ll tell you the truth: for the last seven years you have been annoying us. I am one o" the good people; an" as I have a regard for you, I"m come to let you know the raison why you"ve been sick so long as you are. For all the time you"ve been ill, if you"ll take the thrubble to remimber, your childhre threwn out yer dirty wather afther dusk an" before sunrise, at the very time we"re pa.s.sin" yer door, which we pa.s.s twice a-day.
Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it out in a different place, an"
at a different time, the complaint you have will lave you: so will the gnawin" at the heart; an" you"ll be as well as ever you wor. If you don"t follow this advice, why, remain as you are, an" all the art o"
man can"t cure you." She then bade her good-bye, and disappeared.
Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, immediately complied with the injunction of the fairy; and the consequence was, that the next day she found herself in as good health as ever she enjoyed during her life.
CUSHEEN LOO.
TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH BY J. J. CALLANAN.
[This song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of resorting. Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the burthen of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dissolve the enchantment.]
Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees, Stirr"d by the breath of summer breeze, And fairy songs of sweetest note, Around us gently float.