The Liverpool Standard and General Commercial Advertiser.
Liverpool, Merseyside, England, 1842-09-27 00:00:00

evenin' Misther O'Neil and the priest, and the hard man,'
and her mother, and all, persuaded Miss Mary to plight a
troth—she had no right to plight—that same night the cry
was heard more than once about the place, sharper and clearer
than before. Who heard it besides she could not tell ; she
only knew she heard it, and would swear she did, to her
dying hour.

~
And it was nearer, you say ?"
" Nearer and sharper—too near, as some will find ; it
can't be for her mother, and if it was for her father, I can't
see the sense of its houlding on when its she that's acting.
The first time I heard it, it wound through the air like a
misty cloud creeping up a mountain—it was a soft, sor-
rowful wail; the second time, it was bitter and angry."
" And the third time, avourneen ; what was it like the
third time ?"
" I've not heard it the third time—yet," answered Nelly
solemnly ; " and I don't care if I'm longer so—that's all.
The fine ould families are fading out of the counthry intirely
—going away like chaff—and such spirits will have no call to
the new people. My father, God rest his soul! used to say,
that, from what he knew, he was sure they would soon quit
the counthry. Maybe so ; but anyhow, we'll be lonesome
when they go, for it's hard wanting the knowledge that
we're cared for by something besides the bare flesh and
blood !"
" And when will the wedding be, Nelly ; sure a wedding's
a God-send these hard times; it's hard if we don't get full
and plenty at the bridal of the heiress !"
"Ah 1' said the other. " To-morrow week, agra! and
there'll be heaps of quality in it ; besides lashins of eople
from far and near ; and all the ancient customs kep' up—
all!_so it will be worth the going to, these hard times."

Although the bride could not be said to give any symptoms
of repenting her new betrothment, she took little seeming
interest in the proceedings; perhaps she had been taunted
with the vulgar reproach of old-maidenhood—led to believe
it would be wrong for the last of her line to go down unmated
to the grave ; and this, added to the doubts that had gained
strength with years, and the unaccountable fact of her having
received no tidings of her former lover, conspired to seal her
destiny. . .

It was not the custom at the period to which we refer for
the bride and bridegroom to absent themselves immediately
after their marriage ;, and the wedding was solemnised after
the usual Irish fashion—the bride remaining to do the
honours and receive the guests ; as was also the practice, at
that time, the window-curtains were allowed to remain
undrawn, so that the crowd without could feast their eyes on
the crowd within, whose movements they observed and com-
mented on ; and when anything particular pleased them, they
testified their sympathy by a wild " hooroo."
The two women whose observations we have recorded were
also there ; their withered faces pressed occasionally against
the glass. the more perfectly to observe what was going on ;
occasionally they abused those who pressed too closely on
them from behind, and vented their spleen in bitter words
and curses. Suddenly, Nelly, whose reputation for fore-
knowledge had gained her anything but a pleasant popularity,
crushed her bony fingers round her crony's' arm—' Whist,
did ye hear nothin' ? "
" Nothin', dear, but the boys hoorooing, because the bride
is making her curtshey' to another stranger."
" Ye'r a deaf fool! " exclaimed Nelly, throwing the arm
from her.
The bride had risen to meet a strange guest who, unknown
and unannounced, had entered the large parlour where the
feast went forward ; without returning her salutation, he
asked her for a drink. She proceeded to do the duties of
Irish hospitality, and with her own hands presented to him
a goblet of wine ; this he refused to touch, requesting her to
exchange it for water, which, he declared, was his only be-
verage. She then presented him with the water, which he
drank ; but she observed that as he returned the vessel, he
dropped something into it : before she could ascertain what
it was, he had disappeared amid the crowd. Ere she replaced
the goblet, however, she took from it her own ring; she
knew it well, and instantly ;—it was the same she had given
her betrothed, at their parting. No doubt remained on her
mind as to her having seen her former lover. She was
greatly moved by the circumstance, and yet had sufficient
presence of mind to keep it to herself, and the feast went on.
After the lapse of about an hour, a woman rushed into the
room to seek the priest ; terror was impressed upon her
countenance. She said that a stranger who had asked for
shelter beneath her roof, and who seemed labouring under
strong emotion, had dropped—she feared dead, upon her
hearth ; and that she had come for " the clergy," and advice
as to what she was to do.

The truth now burst upon the bride. He did, indeed,
really and truly love her. Forgetting her ill-advised mar-
riage, and clinging to the hope that he was yet alive, she
proceeded to the woman's dwelling. As she crossed the
threshold of her father's door, although the night was calm
and mild, a fierce and mighty wind rushed round the house;
all paused and trembled at the cry—the well-known wail of
the Banshee, so full, and then so agonising in its dying fall.
" That 's music for false footsteps," muttered Nelly.
" Yet, be he dead or living, that wail is not for him."
But the bride flew on—the only one of the terror-stricken
revellers who did not pause or pray. She flung herself on
her knees beside him—pressed her hand on his heart—there
was no motion. She called him by his name—there was no
reply ; stooping down, she kissed his lips—there was no
return ; then well she knew that he was dead. In the pre-
sence of her kindred and her husband, she tore the silver
riband from her hair, and burst forth into a wild death-cry
of her land and name—a mournful keen over the dead body
of her lover.

The impetuous feelings of her girlhood seemed to have
returned with tenfold strength ; and as she uttered the last
line, she fell dead upon the body of him who had loved her
even unto death. " Her heart," to use the figurative lan-
guage of her people, " was split asunder." In death was
fulfilled the pledge of love. They were laid side by side—
the wedding feast furnishing the funeral. Once more, and
in a few weeks after this lovers' tragedy, the Banshee cried
again : it was for the father of Mary O'Neil—the last of his
line in that part of the country, where two trees are still
shown as heading the grave of those who " in death were not
divided."