And with a sudden jerk of the head backwards,
as he applied the whiskey to his lips,
the young man swallowed its steaming contents
at a draught, and deposited the empty
vessel upside down upon the bar.

The gossips in the chimney-corner shook
their heads in silent reprobation of the young
farmer's foolhardiness, and the landlady disappeared
from the bar, to give orders to Pat
Mulligan, the red-headed hostler.

In a few moments Norah Creen, the little
black mare which Mick Teenan averred was
worth her weight `in goold,' was led round to
the door of the cabin, and Mick himself, buttoning
his coat closer to his throat, and giving
his top-boots an encouraging hitch, bade `goodby'
to the occupants of the snug ingle, in spite
of their renewed entreaties that he would not
attempt his lonesome journey home.

`Ye're detarmined, thin, Mick Teenan,'
said an old man who occupied the warmest
spot, removing his short dudheen from between
his lips, with a deprecating puff of smoke,
`ye're detarmined to leave us?'

`Divil smoder me if I'm not, Phil Darley,
an' that's no small oath.'

`Thin hearken to me, avourneen, an' go
round by Pat Doyle's mill, an' don't pass the
Ford o'Darrochdyle. It's no far out uv yer
way, an' by that means ye'll chate the sperit.'

Before Mick Teenan could reply to this adjuration
of the old man, a sudden peal of
thunder shook the walls of the frail roadside-tavern,
and a flash of lightning glimmered
through the windows.

`Whillaloo! what's that?' exclaimed another
of the party, starting to his feet, as the
dismal reverberations died away in the distance.
`Howly vargin, what a crash!'

The door of the tap-room opened, and the
carroty head of Pat Mulligan, the hostler, appeared
in the aperture. His face was white
as chalk, and from his coarse canvass jacket
the rain streamed in a score of little rivulets.
He beckoned nervously to the young farmer.

`Misther Teenan, Norah's conductin' hersilf
very onkindly,' said he. `Divil a bit will she
be aisy at all, plase ye, sir.'

The next moment a shrill neigh from without
attested the truth of Pat Mulligan's deposition.
The bar-room occupants crowded to
the door, cautiously protruding their heads,
with due deference to the big drops of rain
pattering from the eaves; and Mick Teenan
seized the head of his restive mare.

`Who towld ye to tie the crathur, ye omadhown?
' cried the young man, angrily, as he
hastily unfastened the bridle which the hostler
had hitched to a post. `Norah Creen's like
her masther—she'll niver be continted widout
her fraydom. But, good luck to all uv ye,
till we meet again, and don't throuble yersilves
about Mick Teenan.'

So saying, and with another crack of his
whip, the young farmer sprang upon Norab
Creen's back; and then with a loud `hooroo,'
put spurs to the animal, and trotted off into
the stormy darkness. The buxom landlady
and her customers remained at the door as
long as the departing hoofs could be heard in
the distance, and then returned, with anxious
faces and many misgivings, to the ingle-side,
there to speculate upon the rashness of youth,
and to refresh each other's memories by the
recapitulation of a hundred legends of `Petticoat-Loose,
' `The Spirit of the Ford,' and all
the calendar of Irish ghosts and hobgoblins.

All who have travelled in the south of Ireland,
if they have mingled at all with the
peasantry, must be familiar with the numberless
marvellous tales that are recited concerning
the celebrated `Petticoat-Loose,' an evil
spirit, whose destiny, according to popular tradition,
is to inflict harm upon rash or wicked
mortals during a term of centuries in which
she expiates an ill-spent life.

It may be well to remark, in this place, that
it is a popular belief among the peasantry of
the south of Ireland, that the purgatory which
is apportioned to many who die in sin, is often
located near the scene of their carthly crimes.
In other words, it is supposed that the spirit
of a bad person, after his bodily death, remains
upon the earth, wandering up and down,
continually suffering, and constrained to

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

perform certain acts which are at the same time
its punishment and the means of expiating the
sins of a former life. For instance, one spirit
is believed to haunt the spot where a cruel
murder was perpetrated, and there its terrible
destiny is to waylay and murder certain individuals
who are sent and delivered into its
relentless hands. Others, again, are compelled
to remain, viewless and disembodied, between
the heaven and earth, witnessing with
the keenest pangs the miseries and crimes of
their friends and descendants on the earth, and
remorsefully conscious that they have been the
cause of all by their own sins committed while
in mortal life.

`Petticoat-Loose' was, as the belief runs,
once a beautiful maiden, who, in her life-time,
was cursed with a violent and ungovernable
temper. In her height of passion, she would
attack and maltreat an aged mother, beating
her shamefully, until the poor old woman sank
beneath her blows, and prayed that God would
punish her wicked child. Then the right arm
of the young woman became endued with
immense strength, and as the story goes, increased
in weight to several tons. Whoever
she struck, or even laid her hand on, was
crushed immediately, and thus she destroyed
not only her mother, but also her lover and
many of her friends, until at last every one
fled from her, and she perished miserably,
bearing her heavy arm down with her to the
grave.

But her punishment was not even then
complete. While her body mouldered in the
common resting-place of good and bad mortals,
the spirit of the wicked daughter remained
near the scenes of her living crimes, and the
dreadful weight which had been the instrument
of her earthly penance, still remained in her
uncorporeal arm. The curse still clung to
her, and she was condemned for thousands of
years to linger upon the earth, and be the medium
of destruction to sinful mortals. She
was to sit upon a ruined wall, or in some lonely
spot, and there, at certain seasons, power
was given her to crush with her fearful hand
the unfortunate traveller who should cross her
path.

This is one version of the story of `Petticoat-Loose;
' and infinite are the marvellous
stories connected with the exercise of her evil
power. The traditions concerning `The Spirit
of the Ford' are somewhat different, but
the same unholy destiny is prescribed to her—
to destroy human life. Her usual place of
resort was the `Ford of Darrochdyle,' where,
on a particular night in the year, her evil
power was fatal to all who approached the
haunted stream. And it was upon this unlucky
night, that our headstrong young farmer,
Mick Teenan, had resolved, malgre the advice
of his friends, to leave the comfortable tap-room
of Mistress Carney, and betake himself
to his lonesome homeward journey.

For sometime after leaving the tavern door,
the little black mare, Norah Creen, dashed on
through the storm at the very top of her speed,
and Mick, into whose brain the fume of potheen
had ascended, was in a most blessed state of
indifference as to whether it was midnight or
noonday. Norah was familiar with the road;
and her master, sitting firmly in his saddle,
and grasping the reins, indulged himself in all
the amusing fancies and corresponding actions,
which a `drop too much' is calculated to inspire.
He cracked his whip about his head,
shouted `hooroo' in answer to the thunderpeals,
and trolled snatches of every old balled
he could call to mind, to the accompaniment
of his mare's hoof-strokes. Mick was as
happy and uproarous as Tam O'Shanter, before
he reached Kirk Alloway.

But as the potent exhilarator, potheen, began
to lose its virtue under the cold rain which
now was soaking through the young man's
garments, so Mick's ebullitions of mirth began
sensibly to decrease. His whip-snaps subsided
into a sober waving of the lash, his `hooroo'
no longer emulated the thunder, and even his
musical talents were now only developed by a
few sepulchral attempts to whistle `St. Patrick's
Day in the Morning.'

And as the effects of Mistress Carney's

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

whiskey declined, Mick Teenan began to reflect,
and very soon arrived at the conclusion,
that he was not so comfortable as he had previously
supposed himself to be. His great
coat, he became aware, clung to his body with
a weight and coldness that satisfied him of its
being pretty well saturated with Irish fog.
Norah's flanks were smoking with the exertion
of her long gallop, and the little mare
was now indulging herself in a leisurely amable.
The rain had ceased, to be sure, but the
clouds still hung heavy overhead, and the road
was dark and gloomy, and moreover broken
and miry, so that poor Norah was compelled
either to pick her way most delicately, or to
run the risk of sinking fetlock, if not girth
deep, in some unlucky bog-spots. Mick
Teenan's thoughts began to lose the couleur
de rose with which potheen had painted them.

And as the power of the `spirit of whiskey'
departed, the power of `The Spirit of the
Ford' began to fill his mind with uncomfortable
images. He began to recall, one by one,
the thousand stories he had heard in his childhood
of the baleful doings of this Darrochdyle
fiend, and of the numberless unhappy
wights who had been known to set forth upon
the same road which he was himself journeying,
but who never returned to tell their anxious
friends of their adventures. He remembered
how the parish-priest, Father Mulrooney
(`God rest his sowl,' murmured Mick;
`he's dead now), had walked along by the
Ford one Sunday night, with cross and book
in hand, to exorcise the evil spirit, and how
the good father had heard wild, unearthly
shrieks whenever he sprinkled the holy water
about him. He recollected, too, how Will
Carey, the miller's son, who never feared man
nor beast, had gone out with a stout crab-stick
to the Ford, swearing by this and by that, to
have a game of single-stick with the `sperit;'
and how the poor boy had been found next
morning drowned in the stream, and his crab-stick,
the only token, broken to small bits, and
lying by the Ford.

All these reminiscences, it may be imagin
ed, were scarcely calculated to enhance the
agreeableness of Mick's situation, wet to the
skin as he was, and trotting over a muddy
road, at the `witching hour' of one of the
darkest and dreariest nights laid down in the
almanac. He could hardly refrain from picturing
to himself the comforts of Mistress
Carney's tap-room, and it is not to be wondered
at if he wished himself back there, or if
he mentally accused himself of having done
a very foolish thing in leaving such snug
quarters. In fact, poor Mick, as he peered
forward into the darkness, and thought of
Darrochdyle, almost pulled the rein of his
little mare to turn her back towards the roadside-tavern.
But the apprehension of the
well-merited ridicule to which he would be
exposed, should he return to Mistress Carney's,
after his vaporing departure, checked his
hand. Beside, he was already more than
half way home; and, after passing the Ford,
the road was direct and good. But the Ford
itself—there was `the rub.' Poor Mick, as
he neared the haunted vicinity, began to feel
strange misgivings.

Once he thought of the advice of old Phil
Darley, at the tavern, to go round by the mill,
and thus escape the dreaded pass. But, then,
to do that, he must retrace his steps nearly to
the point where he started, and afterwards
pursue a roundabout and lengthy course which
would keep him on the road the entire night,
and completely `beat up' poor Norah Creen
for the next day. At last Mick Teenan, like
a true Irishman, came to the conclusion that
the safest way to get round danger was to go
straight through it, and so, mustering his
courage for the emergency, he gave a `chirrup'
to encourage Norah, cracked his whip to
embolden himself, and away went mare and
master in a smart canter over the road, towards
the Ford of Darrochdyle.

The clouds were now beginning to break
away, and a few small patches of clear sky
were straggling out from the driving masses
of darkness. It was evident that the storm
was completely over, and that the latter

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

portion of the night would be starlight. This
tended somewhat to lighten Mick's apprehension,
as it assured him that if the `sperit' was
visible at all, he could see her better with the
aid of a little light, and so he might have time
to `rayson with her,' as he pleasantly, though
rather feebly, remarked to himself. But at
this moment Norah Creen, the black mare,
suddenly stopped short in her canter, and
Mick Teenan was well-nigh thrown bodily
over head.

`What the divil do ye mane by that?' cried
Mick, apostrophizing his mare, as he recovered
his seat in the saddle.

Norah Creen answered with a shrill neigh,
and planting her fore-hoofs wide apart, stretched
out her nostrils and began to snuff the air.

`Tunder and turf, what are ye at?' cried
Mick.

`Don't swear, Michael Teenan!' said a
voice, which seemed to proceed from some one
by his side. But he saw nothing. The
mare's eyes, however, were dilated, and a cold
sweat broke from her neck.

`Howly vargin presarve us!' ejaculated
the young farmer.

`Bless yourself three times, Michael Teenan,
and you'll see a friend,' said the voice.

Mick did as he was directed. He crossed
himself reverently thrice, shutting his eyes
all the time. When he opened them at last,
he beheld a white horse standing beside his
own black mare. Astride of it sat the figure
of a man, and Mick Teenan trembled in every
joint, for in the face of that man he recognized
that of an old friend long since dead. It was
that of Andrew Boyne, at whose death-bed
he had himself watched years before in the
north of Ireland.

`Do you know me, Michael?' asked the
stranger.

`I do, Andrew Boyne! In the name of
God, what are you?'

`I am a spirit, Michael, and I have learned
this night that the life of an old friend was
in peril. I have come from the far off north
to save you, Michael Teenan. And now I
say to you, go back from this place.'

Mick had been gazing in the face of him
who had been his friend, and a strange feeling
had come over him. The fear which had at
first oppressed him was gone, and it seemed
as if he were face to face with the living instead
of the dead.

`You have come to save me, Andrew,'
said he, `what must I go back for?'

`The Spirit of the Ford of Darrochdyle is
powerful for evil this night,' answered the
strange voice of him of the white horse.

`I fear not, Andrew, if you ride with me
beyont the Ford.'

`That I cannot do,' said the shape, sorrowfully.

`Then I will ride alone,' cried Mick Teenan,
spurring his mare. But Norah Creen
stirred not; she only neighed shrilly.

`Michael! you are, as of old, obstinate and
headstrong—but, nevertheless, I will save you
this night. Listen to me, and obey my
words.'

And while Mick Teenan, with a strange
awe creeping over his heart, watched the
countenance of his ghostly friend, the shape
drew from its bosom a long, bright-bladed knife,
with a black horn handle.

`Take this knife,' said the spirit of the
north, in a solemn, voice, `place it in your
bosom, and ride forward. You will reach the
Ford, and there you will behold a woman
seated by the water. She will ask you to
permit her to ride with you. Speak no word
in reply, but draw this knife, and plunge it
into her bosom. She will cry to you, `Draw,
and strike again!' but as you value your life,
heed her not; for if you draw the weapon she
will regain her strength and destroy you.
But spur your horse, Michael Teenan, and
spare not whip nor rein. You ride for your
life; and either you or your horse, or both,
must die to-night.'

Mick Teenan heard the last words of his
spirit-friend sounding in his ears. He felt the
black handle of the knife within his grasp.
But the white horse and phantom rider were
visible no more.

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

Nick crossed himself once more, while the
cold drops stood upon his forehead. Then,
placing the knife within his breast, he spurred
Norah Creen, and gallopped forward.

The heavy clouds were now scudding away
before a strong breeze, and the rising moon
began to appear dimly working her way upward
from the horizon. Wide streaks of
light and shadow began to be developed over
the face of the country, and it appeared probable
that by the time Mick Teenan should
have reached the Ford, the clear light of a
cloudless sky would enable him to discern
whatever good or evil might be in his path.

The young man, though his head was bent
upon his horse's neck, his brow rigid, and his
teeth set, as if in intense thought, was yet
almost unconscious of what he was about.
His mind was a confused chaos of strange
phantasma, in which no object was clearly
distinct, yet a thousand were vividly present.
The events of the evening, his tavern companions,
his mysterious interview with the
dead, his lonely ride, all were mingled together,
and wrapped in a maze of unreality. Only
one idea gleamed palpably forth, and that was
of the act—the blow—by which his life was
to be saved. He nervously clutched the
black handle of the spirit's knife, and bending
on the mane of Norah Creen rode on towards
the Ford. He reached it.

The stream was swollen and turbid, and as
Norah Creen dashed in and breasted the
water, her feet touched not the sand. The
storm had fed the mountain streams, and the
Ford was no longer passable save by swimming.
The black mare snorted and blew the
muddy water from her nostrils; but she
stemmed the current gallantly, and reached
the opposite bank.

There sat a pale-faced, weeping woman,
with a thin shawl wrapped about her fragile
form, dripping with thick drops of rain. Norah
Creen stood still upon the banks and
neighed. Her eyes were inflamed and dilated
with fright. Mick Teenan clutched the
black handle of his knife.

The moon now burst brilliantly from behind
a frowning cloud. Her rays feel brightly upon
the rushing water and over the wet sward of
the banks. They fell, too, upon the white,
melancholy countenance of the lonely woman,
sitting upon a stone by the bank of the
stream. The woman's eyes were blue, and
tears were gushing from them thickly and
fast. Mick Teenan's heart sank within him.

`I am weary—I am sick,' spoke the woman,
in a low, sweet voice, like music. `May
I ride with you, friend, to the nearest village?
'

Mick Teenan, as he listened to that voice of
singular melody, half rose in his stirrups, and
stretched forth his hand to lift the woman to
the saddle. But Norah Creen, at this moment
neighed, and struck the earth with her
hoof, and at the same moment the black handle
of the spirit's knife glowed beneath the
young man's grasp like fire. Mick Teenan
called on the name of God, and raised the
glittering steel. It descended into the bosom
of the weeping woman.

`Draw—and strike again!'

But Michael Teenan released his clutch of
the knife, and plunged his rowels in the side
of Norah Creen. The gallant mare stretched
forth her neck. She snuffed the breeze and
sprang away like a cross-bolt.

Then sounded a shriek amid that lonely
place, as if a thousand souls were expiring in
agony. Its horrible, unearthly sound was
echoed and re-echoed from the hills. The
terrible chorus, mingled and prolonged, froze
the blood and maddened the brain of the
young man.

Then, from afar—from afar off among the
snows of the north, came an answering shriek.
It was the cry of an evil spirit coming to the
rescue of his fallen sister.

Norah Creen, with breast distended, with
blood-shot eyes and streaming mane, fleeked
with streaks of foram, dashed forward. And
her master, bending down, hugged the neck of
his brave mare. On they swept, clattering
through the solitudes; and behind, on the

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

wings of the north wind, came the far-off
spirit to release his sister.

Mick Teenan raised his head and gazed
forward with straining eyes. He beheld in
the distance his own cottage, shining in the
moonlight. Norah Creen beheld it, too, and
snorted wildly as she bounded on.

On—on with headlong speed, and look!
Look, Michael Teenan—the stable doors fly
open! Look! beyond the threshold stands a
black steed, and beside it the Phantom of the
Dead.

Norah Creen pants and leaps forward.

`Throw yourself from the saddle, Michael
Teenan, or your die!'

Mick heard the voice of his spirit friend
and flung himself from the back of his faithful
mare. The next instant he had crossed
the threshold of the stable, and the doors were
closed behind him. He sank senseless upon
the floor.

In the early morning, when the mother and
the family of Mick Teenan arose, they discovered
the young man sleeping upon the
stable floor, whilst just without the great
doors lay Norah Creen—dead. Mick related
to his awe-struck audience his fearful story,
and then, arousing the priest and the neighbors,
he led them back over the road that he
had traversed at the speed of life or death.
They reached the Ford of Darrochdyle, and
closely examined the spot where Mick had
stabbed the weeping woman.

The black-handled knife was there—its
blade sunk deep in a mass of crimson matter
which melted and disappeared when they
drew the weapon forth.

Reader.—

And what became of the black-handled
knife?'