In the great cities we see
so little of the world, we drift into our minority. In the little towns and
villages there are no minorities; people are not numerous enough. You must see
the world there, perforce. Every man is himself a class; every hour carries its
new challenge. When you pass the inn at the end of the village you leave your
favourite whimsy behind you; for you will meet no one who can share it. We
listen to eloquent speaking, read books and write them, settle all the affairs
of the universe. The dumb village multitudes pass on unchanging; the feel of the
spade in the hand is no different for all our talk: good seasons and bad follow
each other as of old. The dumb multitudes are no more concerned with us than is
the old horse peering through the rusty gate of the village pound. The ancient
map-makers wrote across unexplored regions, "Here are lions." Across the
villages of fishermen and turners of the earth, so different are these from us,
we can write but one line that is certain, "Here are ghosts."
My ghosts inhabit the village of H-, in Leinster.
History has in no manner been burdened by this ancient village, with its crooked
lanes, its old abbey churchyard full of long grass, its green background of
small fir-trees, and its quay, where lie a few tarry fishing-luggers. In the
annals of entomology it is well known. For a small bay lies westward a little,
where he who watches night after night may see a certain rare moth fluttering
along the edge of the tide, just at the end of evening or the beginning of dawn.
A hundred years ago it was carried here from Italy by smugglers in a cargo of
silks and laces. If the moth-hunter would throw down his net, and go hunting for
ghost tales or tales of the faeries and such-like children of Lillith, he would
have need for far less patience.
To approach the village at night a timid man
requires great strategy. A man was once heard complaining, "By the cross of
Jesus! how shall I go? If I pass by the hill of Dunboy old Captain Burney may
look out on me. If I go round by the water, and up by the steps, there is the
headless one and another on the quays, and a new one under the old churchyard
wall. If I go right round the other way, Mrs. Stewart is appearing at Hillside
Gate, and the devil himself is in the Hospital Lane."
I never heard which spirit he braved, but feel
sure it was not the one in the Hospital Lane. In cholera times a shed had been
there set up to receive patients. When the need had gone by, it was pulled down,
but ever since the ground where it stood has broken out in ghosts and demons and
faeries. There is a farmer at H-, Paddy B- by name-a man of great strength, and
a teetotaller. His wife and sister-in-law, musing on his great strength, often
wonder what he would do if he drank. One night when passing through the Hospital
Lane, he saw what he supposed at first to be a tame rabbit; after a little he
found that it was a white cat. When he came near, the creature slowly began to
swell larger and larger, and as it grew he felt his own strength ebbing away, as
though it were sucked out of him. He turned and ran.
By the Hospital Lane goes the "Faeries Path."
Every evening they travel from the hill to the sea, from the sea to the hill. At
the sea end of their path stands a cottage. One night Mrs. Arbunathy, who lived
there, left her door open, as she was expecting her son. Her husband was asleep
by the fire; a tall man came in and sat beside him. After he had been sitting
there for a while, the woman said, "In the name of God, who are you?" He got up
and went out, saying, "Never leave the door open at this hour, or evil may come
to you." She woke her husband and told him. "One of the good people has been
with us," said he.
Probably the man braved Mrs. Stewart at Hillside
Gate. When she lived she was the wife of the Protestant clergyman. "Her ghost
was never known to harm any one," say the village people; "it is only doing a
penance upon the earth." Not far from Hillside Gate, where she haunted, appeared
for a short time a much more remarkable spirit. Its haunt was the bogeen, a
green lane leading from the western end of the village. I quote its history at
length: a typical village tragedy. In a cottage at the village end of the bogeen
lived a house-painter, Jim Montgomery, and his wife. They had several children.
He was a little dandy, and came of a higher class than his neighbours. His wife
was a very big woman. Her husband, who had been expelled from the village choir
for drink, gave her a beating one day. Her sister heard of it, and came and took
down one of the window shutters Montgomery was neat about everything, and had
shutters on the outside of every window?and beat him with it, being big and
strong like her sister. He threatened to prosecute her; she answered that she
would break every bone in his body if he did. She never spoke to her sister
again, because she had allowed herself to be beaten by so small a man. Jim
Montgomery grew worse and worse: his wife soon began to have not enough to eat.
She told no one, for she was very proud. Often, too, she would have no fire on a
cold night. If any neighbours came in she would say she had let the fire out
because she was just going to bed. The people about often heard her husband
beating her, but she never told any one. She got very thin. At last one Saturday
there was no food in the house for herself and the children. She could bear it
no longer, and went to the priest and asked him for some money. He gave her
thirty shillings. Her husband met her, and took the money, and beat her. On the
following Monday she got very W, and sent for a Mrs. Kelly. Mrs. Kelly, as soon
as she saw her, said, "My woman, you are dying," and sent for the priest and the
doctor. She died in an hour. After her death, as Montgomery neglected the
children, the landlord had them taken to the workhouse. A few nights after they
had gone, Mrs. Kelly was going home through the bogeen when the ghost of Mrs.
Montgomery appeared and followed her. It did not leave her until she reached her
own house. She told the priest, Father R, a noted antiquarian, and could not get
him to believe her. A few nights afterwards Mrs. Kelly again met the spirit in
the same place. She was in too great terror to go the whole way, but stopped at
a neighbour's cottage midway, and asked them to let her in. They answered they
were going to bed. She cried out, "In the name of God let me in, or I will break
open the door." They opened, and so she escaped from the ghost. Next day she
told the priest again. This time he believed, and said it would follow her until
she spoke to it.
She met the spirit a third time in the bogeen.
She asked what kept it from its rest. The spirit said that its children must be
taken from the workhouse, for none of its relations were ever there before, and
that three masses were to be said for the repose of its soul. "If my husband
does not believe you," she said, "show him that," and touched Mrs. Kelly's wrist
with three fingers. The places where they touched swelled up and blackened. She
then vanished. For a time Montgomery would not believe that his wife had
appeared: "she would not show herself to Mrs. Kelly," he said?"she with
respectable people to appear to." He was convinced by the three marks, and the
children were taken from the workhouse. The priest said the masses, and the
shade must have been at rest, for it has not since appeared. Some time
afterwards Jim Montgomery died in the workhouse, having come to great poverty
I know some who believe they have seen the
headless ghost upon the quay, and one who, when he passes the old cemetery wall
at night, sees a woman with white borders to her cap [FN#2] creep out and follow
him. The apparition only leaves him at his own door. The villagers imagine that
she follows him to avenge some wrong. "I will haunt you when I die" is a
favourite threat. His wife was once half-scared to death by what she considers a
demon in the shape of a dog.
[FN#2] I wonder why she
had white borders to her cap. The old Mayo woman, who has told me so many tales,
has told me that her brother-in- law saw "a woman with white borders to her cap
going around the stacks in a field, and soon after he got a hurt, and he died in
These are a few of the
open-air spirits; the more domestic of their tribe gather within-doors,
plentiful as swallows under southern eaves.
One night a Mrs. Nolan was watching by her dying
child in Fluddy's Lane. Suddenly there was a sound of knocking heard at the
door. She did not open, fearing it was some unhuman thing that knocked. The
knocking ceased. After a little the front-door and then the back-door were burst
open, and closed again. Her husband went to see what was wrong. He found both
doors bolted. The child died. The doors were again opened and closed as before.
Then Mrs. Nolan remembered that she had forgotten to leave window or door open,
as the custom is, for the departure of the soul. These strange openings and
closings and knockings were warnings and reminders from the spirits who attend
The house ghost is usually a harmless and
well-meaning creature. It is put up with as long as possible. It brings good
luck to those who live with it. I remember two children who slept with their
mother and sisters and brothers in one small room. In the room was also a ghost.
They sold herrings in the Dublin streets, and did not mind the ghost much,
because they knew they would always sell their fish easily while they slept in
the "ha'nted" room.
I have some acquaintance among the ghost-seers
of western villages. The Connaught tales are very different from those of
Leinster. These H- spirits have a gloomy, matter-of-fact way with them. They
come to announce a death, to fulfil some obligation, to revenge a wrong, to pay
their bills even?as did a fisherman's daughter the other day and then hasten to
their rest. All things they do decently and in order. It is demons, and not
ghosts, that transform themselves into white cats or black dogs. The people who
tell the tales are poor, serious-minded fishing people, who find in the doings
of the ghosts the fascination of fear. In the western tales is a whimsical
grace, a curious extravagance. The people who recount them live in the most wild
and beautiful scenery, under a sky ever loaded and fantastic with flying clouds.
They are farmers and labourers, who do a little fishing now and then. They do
not fear the spirits too much to feel an artistic and humorous pleasure in their
doings. The ghosts themselves share in their quaint hilarity. In one western
town, on whose deserted wharf the grass grows, these spirits have so much vigour
that, when a misbeliever ventured to sleep in a haunted house, I have been told
they flung him through the window, and his bed after him. In the surrounding
villages the creatures use the most strange disguises. A dead old gentleman robs
the cabbages of his own garden in the shape of a large rabbit. A wicked
sea-captain stayed for years inside the plaster of a cottage wall, in the shape
of a snipe, making the most horrible noises. He was only dislodged when the wall
was broken down; then out of the solid plaster the snipe rushed away whistling.