id="LAGHT-E-OURIA"/>LAGHT-E-OURIA.

“The longest way round is often the shortest way home.”—Old Proverb.

I was not more than eight or nine years old when the following anecdote was related to me by the actor or sufferer, whichever he might be called, himself. He was a fine stately old gentleman. His family had once been powerful; but in the troubles with which the page of Ireland’s history is filled and darkened, they had been reduced, and he, fleeced by a treacherous guardian of the last remnant of the property, had been compelled to accept the influence of friends in procuring him a commission in the civil service (for in war he would not serve them) of a government which he loathed.

He was of a stern and rather gloomy disposition, and rarely condescended to social or pleasant conversation, much less to notice children; but sometimes the genial fire within would thaw the icy surface, and diffuse life and light around. The bow could not be kept ever bent: the garrison was too feeble to keep constant watch and ward, and a view would be sometimes gained, through an open door, of a heart fitted by nature to give and receive all sublunary happiness. I heard his history long after his career had closed. But it has nothing to do with the present story—another time for it.

I had been playing marbles with my cousin and playfellows; we quarrelled, and were proceeding to blows, when Mr M——, who was sitting, unobserved by us, on a stone bench, and had witnessed our dispute, called to us both to approach him. He took one on each knee, and looking alternately at us, said, in a tone so mild and different from his usual harsh commanding voice, that we could scarcely think it was the same man who spoke, “Boys, beware of sudden ungovernable passion; under its influence you might commit, in one moment, an act which would embitter, with remorse and vain regret, all your subsequent life.

“When a young man, I once suffered so keenly the consequence of my ungovernable temper, that were I to live a thousand years, I could not forget it. I see that your curiosity is excited, and you would like to hear the circumstance; but it is connected with a ghost story, and I must tell you all.” “Oh! do, Mr M——,” said I, “for papa says there are no such things as ghosts or fairies, and nurse says there are; and nurse never tells lies, and certainly papa would not, and I do not know what to think between them.” “Well,” said he, “I shall tell you the story, and it will help you to form your judgment.

From the high road between Cork and Cloyne, and about three miles from the latter, a small by-road, or ‘borheen,’ branches off. It is of very ancient date, belonging to times when men were guided by the position of the sun during the day, and the stars at night, and when, consequently, their track lay over mountain and hollow, through wood and bog, as the avoidance of impediments (except to a very short distance) would have thrown them quite out of their reckoning, and toil was much less regarded then than in these degenerate days. The road by Laght-e-Ouria is decidedly a shorter way to Cloyne than the high road from which it diverges; but a saying has arisen since it was made, ‘the longest way round is the shortest way home,’ that has been so often used as a conclusion to a debate upon ‘which of the roads should be taken,’ that the wisdom of our ancestors is voted folly, and their ways are no longer trodden.

Other reasons than the unevenness of its surface are however not wanting, and many a headstrong drunken farmer, upon whom all other argument had been tried in vain, has been induced to turn his horse’s head to the new road, by the soft voice of the ‘Vanitha’ whispering in his ear that ‘it would be midnight ere they passed Laght-e-Ouria.’

Laght, in Irish, signifies a heap of stones, and it is customary in Ireland, wherever a murder has been committed, for every passer-by to throw a stone upon the spot. A heap, or ‘laght,’ is thus soon formed, and it receives the cognomen of the unfortunate individual whose untimely end it commemorates.

In the beginning of the month of October 1775, when residing in Cork, I received a note from the Earl of Inchiquin, desiring me to meet him at Cloyne between five and six o’clock on the following morning, on most pressing and important business. I immediately ordered my horse, determining to dine with a particular friend who resided about half way, to jog quietly on in the evening, and have, what I always relished, a night’s repose on the spot where my morning’s business awaited me.

Mr Ahern was one of a class well known in the south as ‘gentlemen farmers,’ being mostly reduced gentlemen who farmed a portion of the grounds that once belonged to their ancestors, in many instances to themselves.

Hospitality, the virtue they most prided themselves upon, they carried to a fault; and my friend Ahern, in common with the rest, made it a rule, without an exception, that a bottle either of wine or whisky once opened, should be finished on the spot. Upon this occasion, however, I felt it necessary to demur. The last bottle of whisky having been opened without my consent, and feeling that, although I was still capable of proceeding on my journey, the half of what remained would put it completely out of the question, I positively refused to take another drop except the ‘Dhuch-an-dhurrish,’ or parting glass, and resisting all his importunities to stay the night, not relishing a ride of a dark morning, I took my departure about an hour before midnight.

I never was a believer in ghosts or fairies, or any class of idle, mischievous, disembodied creatures; but upon this occasion, whether from melancholy or loneliness, or the darkness, which was so intense as to force me to proceed very slowly, or from my friend’s stirrup-cup having slightly obnubilated my reasoning faculties without producing the usual valour, I know not. Certain it is, I did not feel comfortable, and wished most fervently for just as much light as would enable me to urge my horse forward at a quicker pace, but the more I wished for light the darker it became, until my eyes ached in endeavouring to penetrate the gloom.

A row of tall trees ran along at each side of the road, and nearly met at top, and the fitful breeze just agitating the leaves, or occasionally moving the branches so as to cause a low, moaning, creaking noise, jarred my nerves, and made me feel still more and more unpleasant. At length, when I had arrived at an intolerable pitch of nervous excitement, the darkness became less intense, and I could just distinguish a breach in the row of trees upon the right, which marked the locality of the ‘laght.’ Taking advantage of the opportunity, I pressed my horse. He seemed to have become as nervous as myself, for he answered to the slight touch of the spur with a loud snort and a violent spring, which I considered so totally uncalled for, as to give me a very fair excuse for being in a passion, and venting my irritability, which I proceeded to do with my whip, as giving my muscles more action than the spur; but instead of plunging along at a mad gallop, as I expected, my horse reared, and turning sharply round, attempted a flight back. Again and again I turned his head to the road, but onward he would not go; this was very strange, for he never shied or started. At length I tried the soothing system; for I must confess that the general belief that horses see what is hidden from the eyes of man, occurred to me, and I coaxed and patted him, and spoke gently and encouragingly to him, but he kept sidling, and tramping, attempting to turn, and answering every word or pat with a long snore, whilst I could perceive by his forward pricked ears and the direction of his head, that his eyes were rivetted upon the heap of stones. Whilst thus engaged, and having somewhat quieted his terror, I heard a sound like the rattling of chains. Round