Daniel Crowley and the Ghosts (part one)
this tale appeared first in The Gael April 1899 and was reprinted in A Treasury of Irish Folklore edited by Padraic Colum in 1967
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Now sure and there lived in a man in Cork who went by the name of Daniel Crowley, a coffin-maker by trade and bachelor by profession. He was a foresightful man, prosperous and merry with a many coffin laid by ready-made that his apprentice might sell whilst he was out and about on business.
It happened one day that Daniel Crowley was told of a man dead at the end of town, so down he took a coffin and delivered it to the wakehouse. The corpse was laid out on the table nigh by the kitchen, washed and ready and waiting for the wake. Five, six women kept watch, and the kitchen itself was crowded with those gathered to remember the man and to celebrate the life he'd had. Daniel Crowley was invited to join them, to sit and commence to making the night pass shorter.
A tumbler of drink was found and Daniel Crowley began into telling tales and singing songs, he and others there in the wakehouse but Daniel Crowley was a fine, upright man, with a trade and a fortune and no wife to share it with. A widow with three daughters looked upon him and thought herself that she'd found a good match for the eldest thereof. She sent a friend to sound out Daniel Crowley, to act as go-between for the match.
"It's fine, beautiful girl I've in view, Daniel," says she, "well worth the marrying of a man of means such as your own self."
Daniel Crowley had no wish to insult but less to marry and he turned her offer with soft words.
"Ah now, then, Daniel, you cannot be seriousl You're not getting any younger, you know, and warm, new bride will do wonders to making a cold bed warm. At your age, you may never have such a chance again."
At this, Daniel Crowley stood, in great anger, and he spurned her off saying, "There isn't a woman wearing clothes I'd marry. There isn't a woman born that could bring me to make two halves of my loaf for her."
Now the mother of three daughters was insulted her ownself and she began to abuse Crowley, calling him names and issuing curses. "Bad luck to you, you hairy little scoundrel," says she, "and you old enough to be grandfather to my child. You are not fit to clean the shoes on her feet. You have only dead people for company day and night; 'tis by them you make your living."
"Oh then," says Daniel Crowley, "I'd prefer the dead to the living any day if all the living were like you. Besides, I have nothing against the dead. I am getting employment by them, and not by the living, for 'tis the dead that want coffins."
"Bad luck to you, 'tis with the dead you ought to be, and not with the living; 'twould be fitter for you to go out of this altogether and go to your dead people."
"I'd go if I knew how to go to them," snapped Crowley.
"So why don't you invite them to supper?" retorted the mother.
Now Daniel Crowley had told tales and sung songs and many a time that night his whistle had been well wetted with punch and other things of a liquid refreshment and her suggestion seemed good to him. So he rose up then and went out of the house and called in a great, ringing voice, "Men, women, children; soldiers, sailors and all manner of folk that I have encoffined, I invite you to-night to my house, and I'll spend what is needed in giving a feast."
The people who were watching the dead man on the table saw him smile when the invitation rang out. They ran from the room in a fright, and out of the kitchen, and their fear was light to the sweep of a cold wind, blowing the drink from Crowley's head and replacing it with the cold fright of realisation. Daniel Crowley hurried away to his shop as fast as his donkey could carry him. On the way, he came to a public-house and went in, to buy a pint bottle of whiskey, for fear left his heart cold and clay within his chest and he thought to warm himself with that. This he put into his pocket and continued the way home.
to be continued
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Now sure and there lived in a man in Cork who went by the name of Daniel Crowley, a coffin-maker by trade and bachelor by profession. He was a foresightful man, prosperous and merry with a many coffin laid by ready-made that his apprentice might sell whilst he was out and about on business.
It happened one day that Daniel Crowley was told of a man dead at the end of town, so down he took a coffin and delivered it to the wakehouse. The corpse was laid out on the table nigh by the kitchen, washed and ready and waiting for the wake. Five, six women kept watch, and the kitchen itself was crowded with those gathered to remember the man and to celebrate the life he'd had. Daniel Crowley was invited to join them, to sit and commence to making the night pass shorter.
A tumbler of drink was found and Daniel Crowley began into telling tales and singing songs, he and others there in the wakehouse but Daniel Crowley was a fine, upright man, with a trade and a fortune and no wife to share it with. A widow with three daughters looked upon him and thought herself that she'd found a good match for the eldest thereof. She sent a friend to sound out Daniel Crowley, to act as go-between for the match.
"It's fine, beautiful girl I've in view, Daniel," says she, "well worth the marrying of a man of means such as your own self."
Daniel Crowley had no wish to insult but less to marry and he turned her offer with soft words.
"Ah now, then, Daniel, you cannot be seriousl You're not getting any younger, you know, and warm, new bride will do wonders to making a cold bed warm. At your age, you may never have such a chance again."
At this, Daniel Crowley stood, in great anger, and he spurned her off saying, "There isn't a woman wearing clothes I'd marry. There isn't a woman born that could bring me to make two halves of my loaf for her."
Now the mother of three daughters was insulted her ownself and she began to abuse Crowley, calling him names and issuing curses. "Bad luck to you, you hairy little scoundrel," says she, "and you old enough to be grandfather to my child. You are not fit to clean the shoes on her feet. You have only dead people for company day and night; 'tis by them you make your living."
"Oh then," says Daniel Crowley, "I'd prefer the dead to the living any day if all the living were like you. Besides, I have nothing against the dead. I am getting employment by them, and not by the living, for 'tis the dead that want coffins."
"Bad luck to you, 'tis with the dead you ought to be, and not with the living; 'twould be fitter for you to go out of this altogether and go to your dead people."
"I'd go if I knew how to go to them," snapped Crowley.
"So why don't you invite them to supper?" retorted the mother.
Now Daniel Crowley had told tales and sung songs and many a time that night his whistle had been well wetted with punch and other things of a liquid refreshment and her suggestion seemed good to him. So he rose up then and went out of the house and called in a great, ringing voice, "Men, women, children; soldiers, sailors and all manner of folk that I have encoffined, I invite you to-night to my house, and I'll spend what is needed in giving a feast."
The people who were watching the dead man on the table saw him smile when the invitation rang out. They ran from the room in a fright, and out of the kitchen, and their fear was light to the sweep of a cold wind, blowing the drink from Crowley's head and replacing it with the cold fright of realisation. Daniel Crowley hurried away to his shop as fast as his donkey could carry him. On the way, he came to a public-house and went in, to buy a pint bottle of whiskey, for fear left his heart cold and clay within his chest and he thought to warm himself with that. This he put into his pocket and continued the way home.
to be continued