J. S. Le Fanus Ghostly Tales, Volume 4 | Page 2

and are all
directly connected with the altered and somewhat melancholy little
town I have named. The first I shall relate concerns

The Village Bully
About thirty years ago there lived in the town of Chapelizod an
ill-conditioned fellow of herculean strength, well known throughout the
neighbourhood by the title of Bully Larkin. In addition to his
remarkable physical superiority, this fellow had acquired a degree of
skill as a pugilist which alone would have made him formidable. As it
was, he was the autocrat of the village, and carried not the sceptre in
vain. Conscious of his superiority, and perfectly secure of impunity, he
lorded it over his fellows in a spirit of cowardly and brutal insolence,
which made him hated even more profoundly than he was feared.
Upon more than one occasion he had deliberately forced quarrels upon
men whom he had singled out for the exhibition of his savage prowess;
and in every encounter his over-matched antagonist had received an
amount of "punishment" which edified and appalled the spectators, and
in some instances left ineffaceable scars and lasting injuries after it.
Bully Larkin's pluck had never been fairly tried. For, owing to his
prodigious superiority in weight, strength, and skill, his victories had
always been certain and easy; and in proportion to the facility with
which he uniformly smashed an antagonist, his pugnacity and insolence
were inflamed. He thus became an odious nuisance in the

neighbourhood, and the terror of every mother who had a son, and of
every wife who had a husband who possessed a spirit to resent insult,
or the smallest confidence in his own pugilistic capabilities.
Now it happened that there was a young fellow named Ned
Moran--better known by the soubriquet of "Long Ned," from his
slender, lathy proportions--at that time living in the town. He was, in
truth, a mere lad, nineteen years of age, and fully twelve years younger
than the stalwart bully. This, however, as the reader will see, secured
for him no exemption from the dastardly provocations of the
ill-conditioned pugilist. Long Ned, in an evil hour, had thrown eyes of
affection upon a certain buxom damsel, who, notwithstanding Bully
Larkin's amorous rivalry, inclined to reciprocate them.
I need not say how easily the spark of jealousy, once kindled, is blown
into a flame, and how naturally, in a coarse and ungoverned nature, it
explodes in acts of violence and outrage.
"The bully" watched his opportunity, and contrived to provoke Ned
Moran, while drinking in a public-house with a party of friends, into an
altercation, in the course of which he failed not to put such insults upon
his rival as manhood could not tolerate. Long Ned, though a simple,
good-natured sort of fellow, was by no means deficient in spirit, and
retorted in a tone of defiance which edified the more timid, and gave
his opponent the opportunity he secretly coveted.
Bully Larkin challenged the heroic youth, whose pretty face he had
privately consigned to the mangling and bloody discipline he was
himself so capable of administering. The quarrel, which he had himself
contrived to get up, to a certain degree covered the ill blood and
malignant premeditation which inspired his proceedings, and Long Ned,
being full of generous ire and whiskey punch, accepted the gauge of
battle on the instant. The whole party, accompanied by a mob of idle
men and boys, and in short by all who could snatch a moment from the
calls of business, proceeded in slow procession through the old gate
into the Phoenix Park, and mounting the hill overlooking the town,
selected near its summit a level spot on which to decide the quarrel.
The combatants stripped, and a child might have seen in the contrast
presented by the slight, lank form and limbs of the lad, and the
muscular and massive build of his veteran antagonist, how desperate
was the chance of poor Ned Moran.

"Seconds" and "bottle-holders"--selected of course for their love of the
game--were appointed, and "the fight" commenced.
I will not shock my readers with a description of the cool-blooded
butchery that followed. The result of the combat was what anybody
might have predicted. At the eleventh round, poor Ned refused to "give
in"; the brawny pugilist, unhurt, in good wind, and pale with
concentrated and as yet unslaked revenge, had the gratification of
seeing his opponent seated upon his second's knee, unable to hold up
his head, his left arm disabled; his face a bloody, swollen, and
shapeless mass; his breast scarred and bloody, and his whole body
panting and quivering with rage and exhaustion.
"Give in, Ned, my boy," cried more than one of the bystanders.
"Never, never," shrieked he, with a voice hoarse and choking.
Time being "up," his second placed him on his feet