The Elliott O’Donnell Supernatural Megapack

by Elliott O'Donnell

  Floated in moonlight; in her streaming locks

  Gleamed starshine; when she looked on me, she knew

  And smiled.”

  And again:

  “The wish has but

  Escaped my lips—and lo! once more it streams

  In liquid lapse upon the fairy winds

  That guard each slightest note with jealous care,

  And bring them hither, even as angels might

  To the beloved to whom they minister.”

  In reference to phantom music heard at sea, Mr Dyer, in his “Ghost World,” p. 413, quotes the following lines:

  “A low sound of song from the distance I hear,

  In the silence of night, breathing sad on my ear,

  Whence comes it? I know not—unearthly the note,

  Yet it sounds like the lay that my mother once sung,

  As o’er her first-born in his cradle she hung.”

  As I have already stated, the Banshee is not infrequently heard at sea, either singing or weeping, hence, in all probability, the author of these lines, whose name, by the way, Mr Dyer does not divulge, had the Banshee in mind when he wrote them. But, perhaps, the best known, as well as the most direct reference to this ghost in verse is that made by Ireland’s popular poet, Thomas Moore, in one of the most famous of his “Irish Melodies.” I append the poem, not only for the reference it contains, but also on account of its general beauty.

  “How oft has the Banshee cried!

  How oft has death untied

  Bright bonds that glory wove

  Sweet bonds entwin’d by love.

  Peace to each manly soul that sleepeth!

  Rest to each faithful eye that weepeth!

  Long may the fair and brave

  Sigh o’er the hero’s grave.

  We’re fallen upon gloomy days,

  Star after star decays,

  Every bright name, that shed

  Light o’er the land, is fled.

  Dark falls the tear of him who mourneth

  Lost joy, a hope that ne’er returneth,

  But brightly flows the tear

  Wept o’er the hero’s bier.

  Oh, quenched are our beacon lights

  Thou, of the hundred fights!

  Thou, on whose burning tongue

  Truth, peace, and freedom hung!

  Both mute, but long as valour shineth

  Or Mercy’s soul at war refineth

  So long shall Erin’s pride

  Tell how they lived and died.”

  With the following extracts from the translation of an elegy written by Pierse Ferriter, the Irish poet soldier, who fought bravely in the Cromwellian wars, I must now terminate these references to the Banshee in poetry:

  “When I heard lamentations

  And sad, warning cries

  From the Banshees of many

  Broad districts arise.

  Aina from her closely hid

  Nest did awake

  The woman of wailing

  From Gur’s voicy lake;

  From Glen Fogradh of words

  Came a mournful whine,

  And all Kerry’s Banshees

  Wept the lost Geraldine.[14]

  The Banshees of Youghal

  And of stately Mo-geely

  Were joined in their grief

  By wide Imokilly.

  Carah Mona in gloom

  Of deep sorrow appears,

  And all Kinalmeaky’s

  Absorbed into tears.

  ····

  The Banshee of Dunquin

  In sweet song did implore

  To the spirit that watches

  O’er dark Dun-an-oir,

  And Ennismare’s maid

  By the dark, gloomy wave

  With her clear voice did mourn

  The fall of the brave.

  On stormy Slieve Mish

  Spread the cry far and wide,

  From steeply Finnaleun

  The wild eagle replied.

  ’Mong the Reeks, like the

  Thunder peal’s echoing rout,

  It burst—and deep moaning

  Bright Brandon gives out,

  Oh Chief! whose example

  On soft-minded youth

  Like the signet impressed

  Honour, glory, and truth.

  The youth who once grieved

  If unnoticed passed by,

  Now deplore thee in silence

  With sorrow-dimmed eye,

  O! woman of tears,

  Who, with musical hands,

  From your bright golden hair

  Hath combed out the long bands,

  Let those golden strings loose,

  Speak your thoughts—let your mind

  Fling abroad its full light,

  Like a torch to the wind.”

  In fiction no writer has, I think, dealt more freely with the subject of the Banshee than Thomas Crofton Croker, the translator of the abovementioned elegy. In his “Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland,” he gives the most inimitable accounts of it; and for the benefit of those of my readers who are unacquainted with his works, as well as for the purpose of presenting the Banshee as seen by such an unrivalled portrayer of Irish ghost and fairy lore, I will give a brief résumé of two of his stories.

  The one I will take first relates to the Rev. Charles Bunworth, who about the middle of the eighteenth century was rector of Buttevant, County Cork. Mr Bunworth was greatly beloved and esteemed, not only on account of his piety—for pious people are by no means always popular—but also on account of his charity. He used to give pecuniary aid, often when he could ill afford it, to all and any, no matter to what faith they belonged, whom he really believed were in need; and being particularly fond of music, especially the harp, he entertained, in a most generous and hospitable manner, all the poor Irish harpers that came to his house. At the time of his death, no fewer than fifteen harps were found in the loft of his granary, presents, one is led to infer, from strolling harpers, in token of their gratitude for his repeated acts of kindness to them.

  About a week prior to his decease, and at an early hour in the evening, several of the occupants of his house heard a strange noise outside the hall door, which they could only liken to the shearing of sheep. No very serious attention, however, was paid to it, and it was not until some time afterwards, when other queer things happened, that it was recalled and associated with the supernatural. Later on, at about seven o’clock in the evening, Kavanagh, the herdman, returned from Mallow, whither he had been dispatched for some medicine. He appeared greatly agitated, and, in response to Miss Bunworth’s questions as to what was the matter, could only ejaculate:

  “The master, Miss, the master! He is going from us.”

  Miss Bunworth, thinking he had been drinking, sternly reproved him, whereupon he responded:

  “Miss, as I hope mercy hereafter, neither bite nor sup has passed my lips since I left this house; but the master——” Here he broke down, only adding with an effort, “We will lose him—the master.” He then began to weep and wring his hands.

  Miss Bunworth, who, during this strange recital, was growing more and more bewildered, now exclaimed impatiently:

  “What is it you mean? Do explain yourself.”

  Kavanagh was silent, but, as she persisted, commanding him to speak, he at length said:

  “The Banshee has come for him, Miss; and ’tis not I alone who have heard her.”

  But Miss Bunworth only laughed and rebuked him for being superstitious.

  “Maybe I am superstitious,” he retorted,
“but as I came through the glen of Ballybeg she was along with me, keening, and screeching, and clapping her hands by my side, every step of the way, with her long white hair falling about her shoulders, and I could hear her repeat the master’s name every now and then, as plain as ever I hear it. When I came to Old Abby, she parted from me there, and turned into pigeon field next the berrin’-ground, and, folding her cloak about her, down she sat under the tree that was struck by lightning, and began keening so bitterly that it went through one’s heart to hear it.”

  Miss Bunworth listened more attentively now, but told Kavanagh that she was sure he was mistaken, as her father was very much better and quite out of danger. However, she spoke too soon, for that very night her father had a relapse and was soon in a very critical condition. His daughters nursed him with the utmost devotion, but at length, overcome with the strain of many hours of sleepless watchfulness, they were obliged to take a rest and allow a certain old friend of theirs, temporarily, to take their place.

  It was night; without the house everything was still and calm; within the aged watcher was seated close beside the sick man’s bed, the head of which had been placed near the window, so that the sufferer could, in the daylight, steal a glimpse at the fields and trees he loved so much. In an adjoining room, and in the kitchen, were a number of friends and dependents who had come from afar to inquire after the condition of the patient. Their conversation had been carried on for some time in whispers, and then, as if infected by the intense hush outside, they had gradually ceased talking, and all had become absolutely hushed. Suddenly the aged watcher heard a sound outside the window. She looked, but though there was a brilliant moonlight, which rendered every object far and near strikingly conspicuous, she could perceive nothing—nothing at least that could account for the disturbance. Presently the noise was repeated; a rose tree near the window rustled and seemed to be pulled violently aside. Then there was the sound like the clapping of hands and of breathing and blowing close to the window-panes.

  At this, the old watcher, who was now getting nervous, arose and went into the next room, and asked those assembled there if they had heard anything. Apparently, they had not, but they all went out and searched the grounds, particularly in the vicinity of the rose tree, but could discover no clue as to the cause of the noises, and although the ground was soft with recent rain, there were no footprints to be seen anywhere. After they had made an exhaustive examination, and had settled down again indoors, the clapping at once recommenced, and was accompanied this time by moanings, which the whole party of investigators now heard. The sounds went on for some time, apparently till close to dawn, when the reverend gentleman died.

  The other story concerns the MacCarthys, of whom Mr Croker remarks, “being an old, and especially an old Catholic family, they have, of course, a Banshee.”

  Charles MacCarthy in 1749 was the only surviving son of a very numerous family. His father died when he was twenty, leaving him his estate, and being very gay, handsome, and thoughtless, he soon got into bad company and made an unenviable reputation for himself. Going from one excess to another he at length fell ill, and was soon in such a condition that his life was finally despaired of by the doctor. His mother never left him. Always at his bedside, ready to administer to his slightest want, she showed how truly devoted she was to him, although she was by no means blind to his faults. Indeed, so acutely did she realise the danger in which his soul stood, that she prayed most earnestly that should he die, he should at least be spared long enough to be able to recover sufficiently to see the enormity of his offences, and repent accordingly. To her utmost sorrow, however, instead of his mind clearing a little, as so often happens after delirium and before death, he gradually fell into a state of coma, and presented every appearance of being actually dead. The doctor was sent for, and the house and grounds were speedily filled with a crowd of people, friends, tenants, fosterers, and poor relatives; one and all anxious to learn the exact condition of the sick man. With tremendous excitement they awaited the exit of the doctor from the house, and, when he at length emerged, they clustered round him and listened for his verdict.

  “It’s all over, James,” he said to the man who was holding his steed, and with those few brief words he climbed into his saddle and rode away. Then the women who were standing by gave a shrill cry, which developed into a continuous, plaintive and discordant groaning, interrupted every now and again by the deep sobbing and groaning, and clapping of hands of Charles’ foster-brother, who was moving in and out the crowd, distracted with grief.

  All the time Mrs MacCarthy was sitting by the body of her son, the tears streaming from her eyes. Presently some women entered the room and inquired about directions for the ceremony of waking, and providing the refreshments necessary for the occasion. Mournfully the widow gives them the instructions they need, and then continues her solitary vigil, crying with all her soul, and yet quite unaware of the tears that kept pouring from her eyes. So, on and on, with brief intervals only, all through the loud and boisterous lamentations of the visitors over her beloved one, far into the stillness of the night. In one of the interludes, in which she has removed into an inner room to pray, she suddenly hears a low murmuring, which is speedily succeeded by a wild cry of horror, and then, out from the room in which the deceased lies, pour, like some panic-stricken sheep, the entire crowd of those that have participated in the Wake. Nothing daunted, Mrs MacCarthy rushes into the apartment they have quitted, and sees, sitting up on the bed, the light from the candles casting a most unearthly glare on his features, the body of her son. Falling on her knees before it and clasping her hands she at once commences praying; but hearing the word “mother,” she springs forward, and, clutching the figure by the arm, shrieks out:

  “Speak, in the name of God and His Saints, speak! Are you alive?”

  The pale lips move, and finally exclaim:

  “Yes, my mother, alive, but sit down and collect yourself.”

  And then, to the startled and bewildered mother he, whom she had been mourning all this time as dead, unfolded the following remarkable tale.

  He declared he remembered nothing of the preliminary stages of his illness, all of which was a blank, and was only cognisant of what was happening when he found himself in another world, standing in the presence of his Creator, Who had summoned him for judgment.

  “The dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence,” he dramatically stated, “was printed on his brain in characters indelible.” What would have happened he dreaded to think, had it not been for his guardian saint, that holy spirit his mother had always taught him to pray to, who was standing by his side, and who pleaded with Him “that one year and one month might be given him on the earth again, in which he should have the opportunity of doing penance and atonement.”

  After a terribly anxious wait, in which his whole fate—his fate for eternity—hung in the balance, the progress of his kindly intercessor succeeded, and the Great and Awful Judge pronounced these words:

  “Return to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him Who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for repentance; when these are ended thou shalt again stand here, to be saved or lost for ever.”

  Charles saw and heard no more; everything became a void, until he suddenly became once again conscious of light and found himself lying on the bed.

  He told this experience as if it were no dream, but, as he really believed it to be, an actual reality, and, on his gradually regaining health and strength, he showed the effect it had had on him by completely changing his mode of life. Though not altogether shunning his former companions in folly, he never went to any excess with them, but, on the contrary, often exercised a restraining influence over them, and so, by degrees, came to be looked upon as a person of eminent prudence and wisdom.

  The years passed by till at last the third anniversary of the wonderful recovery
drew near. As Charles still adhered to his belief that what he had experienced had been no mere dream or wandering of the mind, but an actual visit to spirit land, so nervous did his mother become, as the time drew near for the expiration of the lease of life he declared had been allotted to him, that she wrote to Mrs Barry, a friend of hers, begging her to come with her two girls and stay with her for a few days, until, in fact, the actual day of the third anniversary should have passed.

  Unfortunately, Mrs Barry, instead of getting to Spring House, where Mrs MacCarthy lived, on the Wednesday, the day specified in the invitation, was not able to commence the journey till the following Friday, and she then had to leave her eldest daughter behind and bring only the younger one.

  What ultimately happened is very graphically described in a letter from the younger girl to the elder. In brief it was this: She and her mother set out in a jaunting-car driven by their man Leary. The recent rains made the road so heavy that they found it impossible to make other than very slow progress, and had to put up for the first night at the house of a Mr Bourke, a friend of theirs, who kept them until late the following day. Indeed, it was evening when they left his premises, with a good fifteen miles to cover before they arrived at Spring House.

  The weather was variable, at times the moon shone clear and bright, whilst at others it was covered with thick, black, fast-scudding clouds. The farther they progressed, the more ominous did the elements become, the clouds collected in vast masses, the wind grew stronger and stronger, and presently the rain began to fall. Slow as their progress had been before, it now became slower; at every step the wheels of their car either plunged into a deep slough, or sank almost up to the axle in thick mud.

  At last, so impossible did it become, that Mrs Barry inquired of Leary how far they were from Mr Bourke’s, the house they had recently left.

  “’Tis about ten spades from this to the cross,” was the reply, “and we have then only to turn to the left into the avenue, ma’am.”

  “Very well, then,” answered Mrs Barry, “turn up to Mr Bourke’s as soon as you reach the crossroads.”