No one was more skilful or active in removing every iron
implement from the kitchen where these ceremonies were usually performed
by the credulous and terrified dupes of her wizardry, lest, instead of
the form of a comely youth exhibiting a ring on his white finger, an
headless figure should stalk to the rack, (_Anglicè_, dresser), take
down a long spit, or, in default of that, snatch a poker from the
fire-side, and mercilessly take measure with its iron length of the
sleeper for a coffin. No one, in short, knew better how to torment or
terrify her victims into a belief of that power which may and has
reduced the strongest minds to the level of the weakest; and under the
influence of which the cultivated sceptic, Lord Lyttleton, yelled and
gnashed and writhed in his last hours, like the poor girl who, in the
belief of the horrible visitation of the vampire, shrieked aloud, that
her grandfather was sucking her vital blood while she slept, and expired
under the influence of imaginary horror. Such was the being to whom old
Melmoth had committed his life, half from credulity, and (_Hibernicè_
speaking) _more than half_ from avarice. Among this groupe John
advanced,--recognising some,--disliking more,--distrusting all. The old
housekeeper received him with cordiality;--he was always her
“whiteheaded boy,” she said,--(_imprimis_, his hair was as black as
jet), and she tried to lift her withered hand to his head with an action
between a benediction and a caress, till the difficulty of the attempt
forced on her the conviction that that head was fourteen inches higher
than her reach since she had last patted it. The men, with the national
deference of the Irish to a person of superior rank, all rose at his
approach, (their stools chattering on the broken flags) and wished his
honor “a thousand years and long life to the back of that; and would not
his honor take something to keep the grief out of his heart;” and so
saying, five or six red and bony hands tendered him glasses of whiskey
all at once. All this time the Sybil sat silent in the ample
chimney-corner, sending redoubled whiffs out of her pipe. John gently
declined the offer of spirits, received the attentions of the old
housekeeper cordially, looked askance at the withered crone who occupied
the chimney corner, and then glanced at the table, which displayed other
cheer than he had been accustomed to see in his “honor’s time.” There
was a wooden dish of potatoes, which old Melmoth would have considered
enough for a week’s subsistence. There was the salted salmon, (a luxury
unknown even in London. _Vide_ Miss Edgeworth’s Tales, “The Absentee”). There was the _slink-veal_, flanked with tripe; and, finally, there were
lobsters and _fried_ turbot enough to justify what the author of the
tale asserts, “suo periculo,” that when his great grandfather, the Dean
of Killala, hired servants at the deanery, they stipulated that they
should not be required to eat turbot or lobster more than twice a-week. There were also bottles of Wicklow ale, long and surreptitiously
borrowed from his “honor’s” cellar, and which now made their first
appearance on the kitchen hearth, and manifested their impatience of
further constraint, by hissing, spitting, and bouncing in the face of
the fire that provoked its animosity. But the whiskey (genuine
illegitimate potsheen, smelling strongly of weed and smoke, and
breathing defiance to excisemen) appeared, the “veritable Amphitryon” of
the feast; every one praised, and drank as deeply as he praised. John, as he looked round the circle, and thought of his dying uncle, was
forcibly reminded of the scene at Don Quixote’s departure, where, in
spite of the grief caused by the dissolution of the worthy knight, we
are informed that “nevertheless the niece eat her victuals, the
housekeeper drank to the repose of his soul, and even Sancho cherished
his little carcase.” After returning, “as he might,” the courtesies of
the party, John asked how his uncle was. “As bad as he can be;”--“Much
better, and many thanks to your honor,” was uttered in such rapid and
discordant unison by the party, that John turned from one to the other,
not knowing which or what to believe. “They say his honor has had a
fright,” said a fellow, upwards of six feet high, approaching by way of
whispering, and then bellowing the sound six inches above John’s head. “But then his honor has had _a cool_ since,” said a man who was quietly
swallowing the spirits that John had refused. At these words the Sybil
who sat in the chimney corner slowly drew her pipe from her mouth, and
turned towards the party: The oracular movements of a Pythoness on her
tripod never excited more awe, or impressed for the moment a deeper
silence. “It’s not _here_,” said she, pressing her withered finger on
her wrinkled forehead, “nor _here_,--nor _here_;” and she extended her
hand to the foreheads of those who were near her, who all bowed as if
they were receiving a benediction, but had immediate recourse to the
spirits afterwards, as if to ensure its effects.--“It’s all _here_--it’s
all _about the heart_;” and as she spoke she spread and pressed her
fingers on her hollow bosom with a force of action that thrilled her
hearers.--“It’s all _here_,” she added, repeating the action, (probably
excited by the effect she had produced), and then sunk on her seat,
resumed her pipe, and spoke no more. At this moment of involuntary awe
on the part of John, and of terrified silence on that of the rest, an
unusual sound was heard in the house, and the whole company started as
if a musket had been discharged among them:--it was the unwonted sound
of old Melmoth’s bell. His domestics were so few, and so constantly near
him, that the sound of his bell startled them as much as if he had been
ringing the knell for his own interment. “He used always to _rap down_
for me,” said the old housekeeper, hurrying out of the kitchen; “he said
pulling the bells wore out the ropes.”

The sound of the bell produced its full effect. The housekeeper rushed
into the room, followed by a number of women, (the Irish præficæ), all
ready to prescribe for the dying or weep for the dead,--all clapping
their hard hands, or wiping their dry eyes. These hags all surrounded
the bed; and to witness their loud, wild, and desperate grief, their
cries of “Oh! he’s going, his honor’s going, his honor’s going,” one
would have imagined their lives were bound up in his, like those of the
wives in the story of Sinbad the Sailor, who were to be interred alive
with their deceased husbands.