Chapters 44
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1 00 - Introduction 18:24
Introduction Dr. Corbett Bishop of Oxford and Norwich lamented long ago the departure of the English fairies. In Queen Mary's time he wrote, When Tom came home from labor, or cis to milking rose, Then merrily, merrily went their tabor, and merrily went their toes. But now, in the times of James, they had all gone, For they were of the old profession, and their songs were Ave Marie's. In Ireland they are still extant, Giving gifts to the kindly, and plaguing the surly. Have you ever seen a farrier such-like? I asked an old man in County Sligo. Am't I annoyed with them? was the answer. Do the fishermen along here know anything of the mermaids? I asked a woman of a village in County Dublin. Indeed, they don't like to see them at all, she answered, for they always bring bad weather.
Here is a man who believes in ghosts, said a foreign sea captain, pointing to a pilot of my acquaintance. In every house over there, said the pilot, pointing to his native village of Rosses, there are several. Certainly that now old and much respected dogmatist, the spirit of the age, has in no manner made his voice heard down there. In a little while, for he has gotten a consumptive appearance of late, he will be covered over decently in his grave, and another will grow, old and much respected, in his place, and never be heard of down there. And after him another. And another. And another. Indeed, it is a question whether any of these personages will ever be heard of outside the newspaper offices, and lecture rooms, and drawing-rooms, and eel-pie houses of the cities, or if the spirit of the age is at any time more than a froth.
At any rate, whole troops of their like will not change the Celt much. Giralda's Cambrices found the people of the western islands a trifle paganish. How many gods are there? asked a priest, a little while ago, of a man from the island of Innistor. There is one on Innistor, but this seems a big place, said the man. And the priest held up his hands in horror, as Geraldes had done just seven centuries before. Remember, I am not blaming the man. It is very much better to believe in a number of gods than in none at all, or to think that there is only one, but that he is a little sentimental and impracticable. and not constructed for the nineteenth century. The Celt, and his Cromlux, and his pillar stones, these will not change much.
Indeed, it is doubtful if anybody at all changes at any time. In spite of hosts of deniers, and asserters, and wise men, and professors, the majority still are averse to sitting down to dine thirteen at table, or being helped to salt, or walking under a ladder. Or seeing a single magpie flirting his checkered tail. There are, of course, children of light who have set their faces against all this. Though even a newspaper man, if you entice him into a cemetery at midnight, will believe in phantoms. For everyone is a visionary, if you scratch him deep enough. But the Celt is a visionary without scratching. Yet be it noticed, if you were a stranger, you will not readily get ghost and fairy legends, even in a western village.
You must go adwatley to work, and make friends with the children and the old men, with those who have not felt the pressure of mere daylight existence, and those with whom it is growing less, and will have altogether taken itself off one of these days. The old women are most learned, but will not so readily be got to talk, for the fairies are very secretive, And much resent being talked of. And are there not many stories of old women who were nearly pinched into their graves, or numbed with fairy blasts? At sea, when the nets are out and the pipes are lit, there will be some ancient hoarder of tales become loquacious, telling his histories to the tune of the creaking of the boats. Holy Eve night, too, is a great time.
And in old days many tales were to be heard at wakes. But the priests have set faces against wakes. In the Parochial Survey of Ireland, it is recorded how the storytellers used to gather together of an evening, and if any had a different version from the others, they would all recite theirs and vote, and the man who had varied would have to abide by their verdict. In this way stories have been handed down with such accuracy that the long tale of Deirdre was, in the earlier decades of this century, told almost word for word as in the very ancient manuscripts in the Royal Dublin Society. In one case only it varied, and then the manuscript was obviously wrong. A passage had been forgotten by the copyist.
But this accuracy is rather in the folk and bardic tales than in the fairy legends, for these vary widely, being usually adapted to some neighboring village or local fairy-seeing celebs. Each county has usually some family or personage, supposed to have been favored or plagued, especially by the phantoms, as the Hacketts of Castle Hackett Galway. who had for their ancestor a fairy, or John O'Daly of Lissadell Sligo, who wrote Eileen Iroon, the song the Scotch have stolen and called Robin Adair, and which Handel would sooner have written than all his oratorios, and the O'Donoghue of Kerry. Round these men stories tended to group themselves, sometimes deserting more ancient heroes for the purpose.
Round poets they have gathered especially. For poetry in Ireland has always been mysteriously connected with magic. These folk tales are full of simplicity and musical occurrences, for they are the literature of a class for whom every incident in the old rut of birth, love, pain, and death has cropped up unchanged for centuries, who have steeped everything in the heart, to whom everything is a symbol. They have the spade over which man has lent from the beginning. The people of the cities have the machine, which is prose. It is said the most eloquent people in the world are the Arabs, who have only the bare earth of the desert and a sky swept bare by the sun. Wisdom has alighted upon three things, goes their proverb.
The hand of the Chinese, the brain of the Frank. And the tongue of the Arab. This, I take it, is the meaning of that simplicity sought for so much in these days by all the poets, and not to be had at any price. The most notable and typical story-teller of my acquaintance is one Paddy Flynn, a little bright-eyed old man living in a leaky one-roomed cottage of the village of B, the most gentle, i.e. fairy place, in the whole of County Sligo, he says, though others claim that honor for Drew Meher or for Drumcliffe. A very pious old man, too. You may have some time to inspect his strange figure in ragged hair, if he happened to be in a devout humour, before he comes to the doings of the gentry. A strange devotion.
Old tales of Columkill, and what he said to his mother. How are you today, mother? Worse. May you be worse tomorrow. And on the next day. How are you today, mother? Worse. May you be worse tomorrow. And on the next. How are you today, mother? Better, thank God. May you be better tomorrow. In which undutiful manner he will tell you column-kill incalculated cheerfulness. Then, most likely, he will wander off into his favorite theme, how the judge smiles alike in rewarding the good and condemning the lost to unceasing flames. Very consoling does it appear to Paddy Flynn, this melancholy and apocalyptic cheerfulness of the judge. Nor seems his own cheerfulness quite earthly. Nor seems his own cheerfulness quite earthly, though a very palpable cheerfulness.
The first time I saw him he was cooking mushrooms for himself, and the next time he was asleep under a hedge, smiling in his sleep. Assuredly some joy not quite of this steadfast earth lightens in those eyes, swift as the eyes of a rabbit, among so many wrinkles. For Paddy Flynn is very old. A melancholy there is in the midst of their cheerfulness, a melancholy that is almost a portion of their joy, the visionary melancholy of purely instinctive natures, and of all animals. In the triple solitude of age and eccentricity and partial deafness, he goes about much pestered by children. As to the reality of his fairy and spirit-seeing powers, not all are agreed. One day we were talking of the Banshee.
I have seen it, he said. Down there by the water, batting the river with its hands. He it was who said the fairies annoyed him. Not that the skeptic is entirely afar, even from these western villages. I found him one morning as he bound his corn in the nearest pocket-handkerchief of a field. Very different from Paddy Flynn. And a traveled man, too. Very different from Paddy Flynn. Skepticism in every wrinkle of his face. And a traveled man, too. A foot-long Mohawk Indian tattooed on one of his arms to evidence the matter. "'Those who travel,' says a neighboring priest, shaking his head over him and quoting Thomas la Campas, "'seldom come home holy. I had mentioned ghosts to this skeptic.' "'Ghosts,' said he.
"'There are no such things at all. But the gentry, they stand to reason. For the devil, when he fell out of heaven, took the weak-minded ones with him.' And they were put into the waste places, and that's what the gentry are. But they are getting scarce now, because their time's over, you see, and they're going back. But ghosts, no. And I'll tell you something more I don't believe in, the fire of hell." Then, in a low voice, that's only invented to give the priests and parsons something to do. Thereupon this man, so full of enlightenment, returned to his cornbinding. The various collectors of Irish folklore have, from our point of view, one great merit, and from the point of view of others, one great fault.
They have made their work literature rather than science, and told us of the Irish peasantry rather than of the primitive religion of mankind, or whatever else the folklorists are on the gad after. To be considered scientists, they should have tabulated all their tales in forms like grocer's bills. Item the fairy king, item the queen. Instead of this, they have caught the very voice of the people, the very pulse of life, each giving what was most noticed in his day. Croker and Lover, full of the ideas of harem-scarrem Irish gentility, saw everything humorized. The impulse of the Irish literature of their time came from a class that did not, mainly for political reasons, take the populace seriously, and imagine the country as a humorist's Arcadia.
Its passion, its gloom, its tragedy, they knew nothing of. What they did was not wholly false. They merely magnified an irresponsible type, found oftenest among boatmen, carmen, and gentlemen's servants, into the type of a whole nation, and created the stage Irishman. The writers of forty-eight, and the famine combined, burst their bubble. Their work had the dash, as well as the shallowness. of an ascendant and idol class, and in Croker is touched everywhere with beauty, a gentle, Arcadian beauty. Carlton, a peasant born, has in many of his stories—I have only been able to give a few of the slightest—more especially in his ghost stories, a much more serious way with him, for all his humor. Kennedy, an old bookseller in Dublin, who seems to have had a something of genuine belief in the fairies, came next in time.
He has far less literary faculty, but is wonderfully accurate, giving often the very words the stories were told in. But the best book since Croker is Lady Wilde's Ancient Tales. The humor has all given way to pathos and tenderness. We have here the innermost heart of the Celt in the moments he has grown to love through years of persecution, when, cushioning himself about with dreams, and hearing fairy songs in the twilight, He ponders on the soul and on the dead. Here is the Celt. Only it is the Celt dreaming. Besides these are two writers of importance who have published, so far, nothing in book shape. Miss Letitia McClintock and Mr. Douglas Hyde. Miss McClintock writes accurately and beautifully the half-scotch dialect of Ulster.
And Mr. Douglas Hyde is now preparing a volume of folk-tales in Gaelic, having taken them down, for the most part, word for word, among the Gaelic speakers of Roscommon and Galway. He is, perhaps, most to be trusted of all. He knows the people thoroughly. Others see a phase of Irish life. He understands all its elements. His work is neither humorous nor mournful. It is simply life. I hope he may put some of his gatherings into ballads, for he is the last of our ballad-writers of the school of Walsh and Kalanen, men whose work seems fragrant with turf-smoke. And this brings to mind the chap-books. They are to be found, brown with turf-smoke on cottage shelves, and are, or were, sold on every hand by the peddlers, but cannot be found in any library of this city of the Sassana, the royal fairy tales, the Hiberian tales, And the legends of the fairies are the fairy literature of the people.
Several specimens of our fairy poetry are given. It is more like the fairy poetry of Scotland than of England. The personages of English fairy literature are merely, in most cases, mortals beautifully masquerading. Nobody ever believed in such fairies. They are romantic bubbles from Provence. Nobody ever laid new milk on their doorstep for them. As to my own part in this book, I have tried to make it representative, as far as so few pages would allow, of every kind of Irish folk-faith. The reader will perhaps wonder that in all my notes I have not rationalized a single hobgoblin. I seek for shelter to the words of Socrates. Phaedrus. I should like to know, Socrates, whether the place is not somewhere here at which Boreas is said to have carried off Orathea from the banks of the Elysses?
Socrates. That is the tradition. Phaedrus. And is this the exact spot? The little stream is delightfully clear and bright. I can fancy that there might be maidens playing near. Socrates. I believe the spot is not exactly here, but about a quarter of a mile lower down, where you crossed the temple of Artemis. And I think that there is some sort of altar to Boreas at the place. Phaedrus. I do not recollect. But I beseech you to tell me, Socrates, do you believe this tale? Socrates, the wise are doubtful, and I should not be singular if, like them, I also doubted. I might have a rational explanation that Orothea was playing with Pharmacia when a northern gust carried her over the neighboring rocks, and this being the manner of her death, she was said to have been carried away by Boreas.
There is a discrepancy, however, about the locality. According to another version of the story, she was taken from the Areopagus, and not from this place. Now, I quite acknowledge that these allegories are very nice, but he is not to be envied who has to invent them. Much labor and ingenuity will be required of him, and when he has once begun, he must go on and rehabilitate centaurs and chimeras dire. Gorgons and winged steeds flow in apace, and numberless other inconceivable and portentous monsters. And if he is skeptical about them, and would fain reduce them one after another to the rules of probability, this sort of crude philosophy will take up all his time. Now, I have certainly not time for such inquiries.
Shall I tell you why? I must first know myself, as the Delphian inscription says. To be curious about that which is not my business, while I am still in ignorance of my own self, would be ridiculous. And therefore, I say farewell to all this. The common opinion is enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want to know not about this, but about myself. Am I, indeed, a wonder more complicated and swollen with passion than the serpent Typho, or a creature of gentler and simpler sort, to whom nature has given a diviner and lowlier destiny? I have to thank Messieurs Macmillan and the editors of Belgrabia all the year round. And monthly packet, for leave to quote from Patrick Kennedy's Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts, and Miss McClintock's articles, respectively.
Lady Wilde, for leave to give what I would from her ancient legends of Ireland, Ward and Downey, and Mr. Douglas Hyde, for his three unpublished stories, and for valuable and valued assistance in several ways, and also Mr. Allingham and other copyright holders for their poems. Mr. Allingham's poems are from Irish Songs and Poems, Reeves and Turner, Ferguson's, from Celie Briar's and Walker's Schilling reprint, My own and Miss O'Leary's, from Ballads and Poems of Young Ireland, 1888, a little anthology published by Gill and Sons, Dublin. W. B.
Yeats.
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2 01 - The Trooping Fairies - The Fairies 6:20
THE TROOPING FAIRIES The Irish word for fairy is shiog, a diminutive of the shi and banshee. Faeries are dinnashi, fairy people. Who are they? Fallen angels who were not good enough to be saved, nor bad enough to be lost, say the peasantry. The gods of the earth, says the Book of Armaq. The gods of pagan Ireland, say the Irish antiquitarians. The Twatha de Danann, who, when no longer worshipped and fed with offerings, dwindled away in the popular imagination, and are now only a few spans high. And they will tell you, in proof, that the names of fairy chiefs are the names of old Danann heroes, and the places where they especially gather together, Danann burying places, and that the Twatha de Danann used to be called Slowashii, the fairy host, Or Mar-Kar-Shi, the fairy cavalcade.
On the other hand, there is much evidence to prove them fallen angels. Witness the nature of the creatures, their caprice, their way of being too good to the good and evil to the evil, having every charm but conscience, consistency. Being so quickly offended that you must not speak much about them at all, and never call them anything but the gentry, or else Dinna-Maha, which in English means good people. Yet so easily pleased they will do their best to keep misfortune away from you, if you leave a little milk for them on the window-sill over night. On the whole, the popular belief tells us most about them, telling us how they fell, and yet were not lost, because their evil was wholly without malice.
Are they the gods of the earth? Perhaps. Many poets, and all mystic and occult writers, in all ages and countries, have declared that behind the visible are chains on chains of conscious beings, who are not of heaven but of the earth, who have no inherent form but change according to their whim, or the mind that sees them. You cannot lift your hand without influencing and being influenced by hordes. The visible world is merely their skin. In dreams we go amongst them, and play with them, and combat with them. They are, perhaps, human souls in the crucible, these creatures of whim. Do not think the fairies are always little. Everything is capricious about them, even their size. They seem to take what size or shape pleases them.
Their chief occupations are feasting, fighting, and making love, and playing the most beautiful music. They have only one industrious person among them, the leprechaun, the shoemaker. Perhaps they wear their shoes out with dancing. Near the village of Balosdair is a little woman who lived among them seven years. When she came home she had no toes. She had danced them off. They have three great festivals in the year, May Eve, Midsummer Eve, November Eve. On May Eve, every seventh year, they fight all round, but mostly on the Plain-a-Bon, wherever that is, for the harvest. For the best years of grain belong to them. An old man told me he saw them fight once. They tore the thatch off a house in the midst of it all.
Had anyone else been near, they would merely have seen a great gust of wind whirling everything into the air as it passed. When the wind makes the straws and leaves whirl as it passes, that is to fairies, and the peasantry take off their hats and say God bless them. On Midsummer Eve, when the bonfires are lighted on every hill in honor of St. John, the fairies are at their gayest, and sometimes steal away beautiful mortals to be their brides. On November Eve they are at their gloomiest, for according to the old Gaelic reckoning this is the first night of winter. This night they dance with the ghosts, and the puka is abroad, and witches make their spells, and girls set a table with food in the name of the devil, that the fetch of their future lover may come through the window and eat of the food.
After November Eve, the blackberries are no longer wholesome, for the puka has spoiled them. When they are angry, they paralyze men and cattle with their fairy darts. When they are gay, they sing. Many a poor girl has heard them, and pined away and died, for love of that singing. Plenty of the old beautiful tunes of Ireland are their only music, caught up by eavesdroppers. No wise peasant would hum the pretty girl milking the cow near a fairy-wrath, for they are jealous, and do not like to hear their songs on clumsy mortal lips. Carolyn, the last of the Irish bards, slept on a rath, and ever after the fairy tunes ran in his head, and made him the great man he was. Do they die? Blake saw a fairy's funeral, but in Ireland we say they are immortal.
The Fairies. William Allingham. Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren't go a-hunting, for fear of little men. We folk, good folk, trooping all together, green jacket, red cap, and white owl's feather. Down along the rocky shore, some make their home. They live on crispy pancakes of yellow tide foam, some in the reeds of the Black Mountain Lake, with frogs for their watchdogs, all night awake. High on the hilltop the old king sets, he is now so old and gray he's nigh lost his wits. With a bridge of white mist column-kill he crosses on his stately journeys from Sleeve League to Rosses, or going up with music on cold starry nights to sup with the queen of the gay northern lights. They stole little Bridget for seven years long.
When she came down again her friends were all gone. They took her lightly back between the night and morrow. They thought that she was fast asleep, but she was dead with sorrow. They have kept her ever since, deep within the lake, on a bed of flag-leaves, watching till she wake. By the craggy hillside, through the mosses bare, they have planted thorn-trees for pleasure here and there. Is any man so daring as dig them up in spite? He shall find their sharpest thorns in his bed at night. Up the airy mountain, down the rushy glen, we daren't go a-hunting for fear of little men. We folk, good folk, trooping all together, green jacket, red cap, and white owl's feather.
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3 02 - Frank Martin and The Fairies 8:36
Frank Martin and the Fairies, William Carlton Martin was a thin pale man, when I saw him, of a sickly look and a constitution naturally feeble. His hair was a light auburn, his beard mostly unshaven, and his hands of a singular delicacy and whiteness, owing, I dare say, As much to the soft and easy nature of his employment as to his infirm health. In everything else he was as sensible, sober, and rational as any other man. But on the topic of fairies, the man's mania was peculiarly strong and immovable. Indeed, I remember the expression of his eyes was singularly wild and hollow, and his long narrow temples sallow and emaciated. Now, this man did not lead an unhappy life. Nor did the malady he labored under seem to be productive of either pain or terror to him, although one might be apt to imagine otherwise.
On the contrary, he and the fairies maintained the most friendly intimacy, and their dialogues, which I fear were woefully one-sided ones, must have been a source of great pleasure to him, for they were conducted with much mirth and laughter, on his part at least. Well, Frank, when did you see the fairies? "'Whist! There's two dozen of them in the shop—the weaving shop—this minute. There's a little old fellow sitting at the top of the slyes, all to be rocked while I'm weaving. The sorrow's in them. But they're the greatest little schemers alive, so they are. See, there's another of them at my dressing noggin. Get out of that, you shingon, or bad cess to me if you don't, but I'll lave you a mark.
Ha! Cut you, thief, you!' "'Frank, aren't you afeard o' them?' "'Is it me? Ara, what'd I to be afeard of them for? Sure they have no power over me.' "'And why haven't they, Frank?' "'Because I was baptized against them.' "'What do you mean by that?' "'Why, the priest that christened me was told by my father to put in the proper prayer against the fairies, and a priest can't refuse it when he's asked, and he did so. Begora, it's well for me that he did. Let the tallow alone, you little glutton. See, there's a weeny thief of the mate in my tallow.' Because, you see, it was their intention to make me king of the fairies. Is it possible? Devil a lie in it. Sure you may asks them, and they'll tell you.
What size are they, Frank? Oh, we little fellows, with green coats and the purtiest little shoes ever you seen. There's two of them, both old acquaintances o' mine, runnin' along the yarn beam. That old fellow with the bob wig is called Jim Jam, And the other chap, with the three-cocked hat, is called Nicky Nick. Nicky plays the pipes. Nicky, give us a tune, or I'll malavogue you. Come now. Luhurn shore. Whist now. Listen. The poor fellow, though weaving as fast as he could all the time, yet bestowed every possible mark of attention to the music, and seemed to enjoy it as much as if it had been real. But who can tell whether that which we look upon as a privation may not, after all, have been a fountain of increased happiness, greater, perhaps, than any which we ourselves enjoy?
I forget who the poet is who says, Mysterious are they laws, the visions finer than the view, Her landscape nature never drew, so fair as fancy draws. Many a time, when a mere child, Not more than six or seven years of age have I gone as far as Frank's weaving shop, in order, with a heart divided between curiosity and fear, to listen to his conversation with the good people. From morning till night his tongue was going almost as incessantly as his shuttle, and it was well known that at night, whenever he awoke out of his sleep, the first thing he did was put out his hand and push them, as it were, off his bed. Go out of this, you thieves, you! Go out o this now, and let me alone. Nicky, is this any time to be playin' the pipes, and me wants to sleep?
Go off now. Troth if ye's do, you'll see what I'll give ye's to-morrow. Sure, I'll be makin' new dressin's, and if ye's behaved decently, maybe I'll lave ye the scrapin's o the pot. There now, och, poor things, they're dae some crachers. Sure, they're gone, barrin' poor Redcap that doesn't like to lave me. And then the harmless monomaniac would fall back into what we trust was an innocent slumber. About this time there was said to have occurred a very remarkable circumstance which gave poor Frank a vast deal of importance among the neighbors. A man named Frank Thomas, the same in whose house Mickey McGrory held the first dance at which I ever saw him, as detailed in a former sketch, this man, I say, had a child sick.
But of what complaint I cannot now remember, nor is it of any importance. One of the gables of Thomas's house was built against, or rather into, a Fortherrath called Townie, or perhaps Tonick Forth. It was said to be haunted by the fairies, and what gave it a character peculiarly wild in my eyes was, that there were on the southern side of it two or three little green mounds, which were said to be the graves of unchristened children. over which it was considered dangerous and unlucky to pass. At all events, the season was midsummer, and one evening, about dusk, during the illness of the child, the noise of a hand-saw was heard upon the fourth. This was considered rather strange, and, after a little time, a few of those who were assembled at Frank Thomas's went to see who it could be that was sawing in such a place, or what they could be sawing at so late an hour.
For everyone knew that nobody in the whole country about them would dare to cut down the few white thorns that grew upon the forth. I'm going to examine, however, judge of their surprise when, after surrounding and searching the whole place, they could discover no trace of either Saw or Sawyer. In fact, with the exception of themselves, there was no one, either natural or supernatural, visible. Then they returned to the house, and had scarcely sat down, When it was heard again within ten yards of them. Another examination of the premises took place, but with equal success. Now, however, while standing at the fourth, they heard the sawing in a little hollow about a hundred and fifty yards below them, which was completely exposed to their view, but they could see nobody.
A party of them immediately went down to ascertain, if possible, what this singular noise and invisible labor could mean. But on arriving at the spot, they heard the sign, to which were now added hammering, and the driving of nails upon the fourth above, while those who stood on the fourth continued to hear it in the hollow. On comparing notes, they resolved to send down to Billy Nelson's for Frank Martin, a distance of only about 80 or 90 yards. He was soon on the spot, and without a moment's hesitation solved the enigma. "'Tis the fairies," said he. "'I see them, and busy crathers they are.' "'But what are they sawing, Frank?' "'They are making a child's coffin,' he replied. "'They have the body already made, and now they're nailing the lid together.' That night the child died, and the story goes that on the second evening afterwards the carpenter who was called upon to make the coffin brought a table out from Thomas's house to the fourth as a temporary bench, and, it is said, That the sawing and hammering necessary for the completion of his task were precisely the same which had been heard the evening but one before, neither more nor less.
I remember the death of the child myself. and the making of its coffin, but I think the story of the supernatural carpenter was not heard in the village for some months after its interment. Frank had every appearance of a hypochondriac about him. At the time I saw him he might be about thirty-four years of age, but I do not think, from the debility of his frame and infirm health, that he has been alive for several years. He was an object of considerable interest and curiosity, and often have I been present when he was pointed out to strangers as the man that could see the good people.
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4 03 - The Priest's Supper - The Fairy Well of Lagnanay 11:15
The Priest's Supper. T. Crofton Croker. It is said by those who ought to understand such things, that the good people, or the fairies, are some of the angels who were turned out of heaven, and who landed on their feet in this world, while the rest of their companions, who had more sin to sink them, went down farther to a worse place. Be this as it may, there was a merry troupe of the fairies, dancing and playing all manner of wild pranks, on a bright moonlight evening towards the end of September. The scene of their merriment was not far distance from Inch Gila in the west of the county Cork, a poor village, although it had a barrack for soldiers, but great mountains and barren rocks, like those round about it, are enough to strike poverty into any place.
However, As the fairies can have everything they want for wishing, poverty does not trouble them much, and all their care is to seek out unfrequented nooks and places where it is not likely anyone will come to spoil their sport. On a nice green sod by the river's side were the little fellows dancing in a ring as gaily as may be, with their red caps wagging about at every bound in the moonshine, and so light were these bounds that the lobs of dew Although they trembled under their feet, were not disturbed by their capering. Thus did they carry on their gambols, spinning round and round, and twirling and bobbing and diving, and going through all manner of figures, until one of them chirped out.
Cease! Cease with your drumming! Here's an end to our mumming. By my smell I can tell, a priest this way is coming. And away every one of the fairies scampered off as hard as they could, concealing themselves under the green leaves of the Lismore, Where, if their little red caps should happen to peep out, they would only look like its crimson bells, and more hid themselves at the shady side of stones and brambles, and others under the bank of the river, and in holes and crannies of one kind or another. The fairy speaker was not mistaken, for along the road, which was within view of the river, came Father Horrigan on his pony, thinking to himself that as it was so late, he would make an end of his journey at the first cabin he came to.
According to this determination, he stopped at the dwelling of Dermord Leary, lifted the latch, and entered with, My blessing on all here. I need not say that Father Horrigan was a welcome guest wherever he went, for no man was more pious or better beloved in the country. Now it was a great trouble to Deermott that he had nothing to offer his reverence for supper, as a relish to the potatoes which the old woman, for so Deermott called his wife, Though she was not much past twenty, had down to boiling in a pot over the fire. He thought of the net which he had set in the river, but as it had been there only a short time, the chances were against his finding a fish in it. No matter, thought Dearmaud, there can be no harm in stepping down to try, and maybe, as I want the fish for the priest's supper, that one will be there before me.
Down to the river-side went Dearmaud, and he found in the net as fine a salmon as ever jumped in the bright waters of the spreading lea. But as he was going to take it out, the net was pulled from him. He could not tell how or by whom, and away got the salmon, and went swimming along with the current as gaily as if nothing had happened. Deermott looked sorrowfully at the wake which the fish had left upon the water, shining like a line of silver in the moonlight, and then, with an angry motion of his right hand and a stamp of his foot, gave vent to his feelings by muttering, May bitter bad luck attend you night and day, for a blackguard schemer of a salmon, wherever you go. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, if there's any shame in you, to give me the slip after this fashion.
And I'm clear in my own mind you'll come to no good, for some kind of evil thing or other helped you. Did I not feel it pulled a net against me as strong as the devil himself?" That's not true for you," said one of the little fairies, who had scampered off the approach of the priest. Coming up to Dearmuid Leary with a whole throng of companions at his heels, there was only a dozen and a half of us pulling against you. Dearmuid gazed at the tiny speaker with wonder, who continued, Make yourself no ways uneasy about the priest's supper, for if you will go back and ask him one question from us, there will be as fine a supper as was ever put upon a table spread out before him in less than no time.
I'll have nothing at all to do with you, replied Dearmuid in a tone of determination. And after a pause he added, I'm much obliged to you for your offer, sir, but I know better than to sell myself to you, or the like of you, for a supper. And more than that, I know Father Horrigan has more regard for my soul than to wish me pledged forever out of regard to anything you could put before him. So there's an end of the matter. The little speaker, with a pertinacity not to be repulsed by Diarmid's manner, continued, Will you ask the priest one civil question for us? Dirmod considered for some time, and he was right in doing so, but he thought that no one could come to harm out of asking a civil question.
"'I see no objection to do that same, gentlemen,' said Dirmod, "'but I will have nothing in life to do with your supper, mind that.' "'Then,' said the little speaking fairy, whilst the rest came crowding after him from all parts, "'go and ask Father Horrigan to tell us whether our souls will be saved at the last day, like the souls of good Christians.'" And if you wish us well, bring back word what he says without delay. Away went Diarmuid to his cabin, where he found the potatoes thrown out on the table, and his good woman handing the biggest of them all, a beautiful laughing red apple, smoking like a hard-ridden horse on a frosty night, over to Father Horrigan. Please, Your Reverence, said Diarmuid, after some hesitation.
May I make bold to ask Your Honor one question? What may that be? said Father Horrigan. Why, then, begging your reverence's pardon for my freedom, it is, if the souls of the good people are to be saved at the last day. Who bid you ask me that question, Leary, said the priest, fixing his eyes upon him very sternly, which Diarmuid could not stand before at all. I'll tell no lies about the matter, and nothing in life but the truth, said Diarmuid. It was the good people themselves who sent me to ask the question. And there they are in thousands, down on the bank of the river, waiting for me to go back. The answer. Go back by all means, said the priest, and tell them, if they want to know, to come here to me themselves, and I'll answer that, or any other question they are pleased to ask, with the greatest pleasure in life.
Diarmuid accordingly returned to the fairies, who came swarming about him to hear what the priest had said in reply. And Diarmuid spoke out among them like a bold man as he was. But when they heard that they must go to the priest, away they fled, some here and more there. and some this way, and more that, whisking by poor Diarmuid so fast and in such numbers that he was quite bewildered. When he came to himself, which was not for a long time, back he went to his cabin, and ate his dry potatoes along with Father Horrigan, who made quite light of the thing. But Diarmuid could not help thinking it a mighty hard case that his reverence, whose words had the power to banish the fairies at such a rate, should have no sort of relish to his supper, and that the fine salmon he had in his net should have been got away from him in such a manner.
The Fairy Well of Lag Nene by Samuel Ferguson Mournfully, sing mournfully, O listen, Ellen, sister dear, Is there no help at all for me, But only ceaseless sigh and tear? Why did not he who left me here With stolen hopes steal memory, O listen, Ellen, sister dear? Mournfully, sing Mournfully, I'll go away to Sleemish Hill, I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree, And let the spirits work their will, I care not, if for good or ill. So they but lay the memory, Which all my heart is haunting still. Mournfully, sing Mournfully, the fairies are a silent race, And pale as lily-flowers to see. I care not for a blanched face, For wondering in a dreaming place, So I but banish memory. I wish I were with Anna Grace.
Mournfully, sing mournfully. Hearken to my tale of woe, Twas thus to weeping Ellen Kahn. Her sister said in accents low, Her only sister, Una Bon. Twas in their bed before the dawn, And Ellen answered sad and slow. O Una, Una, be not drawn, Hearken to my tale of woe. To this unholy grief I pray, Which makes me sick at heart to know, and I will help you if I may, the fairy well of Lagnanay. Lie nearer me, I tremble so. Una I've heard wise women say, hearken to my tale of woe, that if before the dews arise, true maiden in its icy flow, with pure hand bathe her bosom thrice, three lady-brackens pluck likewise, and three times round the fountain go, She straight forgets her tears and sighs, Harken to my tale of woe.
All, alas, and well away, O sister Ellen, sister sweet, Come with me to the hill, I pray, And I will prove that blessed freet. They rose with soft and silent feet, They left their mother where she lay, Their mother and her care discreet, All, alas, and well away. And soon they reached the fairy well, The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and gray, Wide open in the dreary fell, how long they stood, twere vain to tell. At last, upon the point of day, Bon Una bears her bosom's swell, all alas and well away. Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she laves, the gliding glance that will not stay. Of subtly steaming fairy waves, and now the charm three brackens craves, she plucks them in their fringed array, now round the well her fate she braves.
All alas, and well away. Save us all from fairy thrall, Ellen sees her face the rim. Twice and thrice, and that is all, Fountain-hill and maiden swim, All together melting dim. Una, Una, thou mayest call, Sister sad, but lith or limb, Save us all from fairy thrall. Never again of Una Bon, Where now she walks in dreamy hall, Shall eye of mortal look upon. O, can it be the guard was gone? The better guard than shield or wall? Who knows on earth save your luck don't? Save us all from fairy thrall. Behold, the banks are green and bare. No pit is here wherein to fall. Ay, at the fount you may well stare, But not save pebbles smooth is there, And small straws twirling one and all. Hie thee home, and be thy prayer, Save us all from fairy thrall.
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5 04 - Teig O'Kane and the Corpse 29:26
Tago Cain and the Corpse. I found it hard to place Mr. Douglas Hyde's magnificent story among the ghosts or the fairies, It is among the fairies on the grounds that all these ghosts and bodies were in no manner ghosts and bodies but pishogues, fairy spells. One often hears of these visions in Ireland. I have met a man who had lived a wild life like the man in the story, till a vision came to him in county, one dark night. In no way so terrible a vision as this, but sufficient to change his whole character. He will not go out at night. If you speak to him suddenly, he trembles. He has grown timid and strange. He went to the bishop, and was sprinkled with holy water. It may have come as a warning, said the bishop, yet great theologians are of the opinion that no man ever saw an apparition, for no man would survive it.
Editor. There was once a grown-up lad in the county Leitrim, and he was strong and lively, and the son of a rich farmer. His father had plenty of money. And he did not spare it on the son. Accordingly, when the boy grew up, he liked sport better than work, and, as his father had no other children, he loved this one so much that he allowed him to do in everything just as it pleased himself. He was very extravagant, and he used to scatter the gold money as another person would scatter the white. He was seldom to be found at home, but if there was a fair, or a race, or a gathering within ten miles of him, you were dead certain to find him there. And he seldom spent night in his father's house, but he used to be always out rambling, and like Sean Bui long ago, there was the love of every girl in the breast of his shirt.
And it's many's the kiss he got and he gave, for he was very handsome. And there wasn't a girl in the country but would fall in love with him, only for him to fasten his two eyes on her. And it was for that someone made this run on him.
Thank you.
I'm a cold morning, and I'm a cold morning. Look at the rogue, for its kisses he's rambling. It isn't much wonder, for that was his way. He's like an old hedgehog. At night he'll be scrambling, from this place to that, but he'll sleep in the day. At last he became very wild and unruly. He wasn't to be seen day nor night in his father's house, but always rambling or going on is Cayley, from place to place and from house to house. So the old people used to shake their heads and say to one another, It's easy seeing what will happen to the land when the old man dies. His son will run through it in a year, and it won't stand him that long itself. He used to be always gambling and card-playing and drinking.
But his father never minded his bad habits, and never punished him. But it happened one day that the old man was told that the son had ruined the character of a girl in the neighborhood, and he was greatly angry, and he called the son to him and said to him, quietly and sensibly. Avik, says he, you know I loved you greatly up to this, and I never stopped you from doing your choice thing, whatever it was, and I kept plenty of money with you, and I always hoped to leave you the house and the land, and all I had after myself would be gone. But I heard a story of you today that has disgusted me with you. I cannot tell you the grief that I felt when I heard such a thing of you, and I tell you now plainly that unless you marry that girl I'll leave house and land and everything to my brother's son.
I never could leave it to any one who would make so bad a use of it as you do yourself, deceiving women and coaxing girls. Settle with yourself now whether you'll marry that girl and get my land as a fortune with her, or refuse to marry her and give up all that was coming to you, and tell me in the morning which of the two things you have chosen. "'Ach, dum nu shiri, father, you wouldn't say that to me. And I such a good son as I am. Who told you I wouldn't marry the girl?' says he. But his father was gone, and the lad knew well enough he would keep his word, too, and he was greatly troubled in his mind. For as quiet and kind as the father was, he never went back of a word that he had once said, and there wasn't another man in the country who was harder to bend than he was.
The boy did not know rightly what to do. He was in love with the girl indeed, and he hoped to marry her some time or other, but he would much sooner have remained another while as he was, and followed his old tricks, drinking, sporting, and playing cards, and along with that he was angry that his father should order him to marry, and should threaten him if he did not do it. Isn't my father a great fool? says he to himself. I was ready enough. And only too anxious to marry Mary, and now, since he has threatened me, Faith, I've a great mind to let it go another while. His mind was so much excited that he remained between two notions as to what he should do. He walked out into the night at last to cool his heated blood, and went on to the road.
He lit a pipe, and as the night was fine he walked and walked on, until the quick pace made him begin to forget his trouble. The night was bright, and the moon half full. There was not a breath of wind blowing, and the air was calm and mild. He walked on for nearly three hours, when he suddenly remembered that it was late in the night, and time for him to turn. Musha, I think I forgot myself, says he. It must be near twelve o'clock now. The word was hardly out of his mouth when he heard the sound of many voices, and the trampling of feet on the road before him. I don't know who can be out so late at night as this, and on such a lonely road, said he to himself. He stood listening, and he heard the voices of many people talking through other, but he could not understand what they were saying.
"'Oh, Lear,' says he, "'I'm afraid. It's not Irish or English they have. It can't be their Frenchman.' He went on a couple of yards further, and he saw well enough by the light of the moon a band of little people coming towards him, and they were carrying something big and heavy with them. "'Oh, murder,' says he to himself, "'sure it can't be that they're the good people that's in it.' Every rib of hair that was on his head stood up, and there fell a shaking on his bones, for he saw they were coming to him fast. He looked at them again, and perceived there were about twenty little men in it, and there was not a man at all of them higher than about three feet or three feet and a half, and some of them were grey, and seemed very old.
He looked again, but he could not make out what was the heavy thing they were carrying until they came up to him, and then they all stood round about him. They threw the heavy thing down on the road, and he saw on the spot that it was a dead body. He became as cold as death, and there was not a drop of blood running in his veins when an old grey manine came up to him and said, "'Isn't it lucky we met you, Teg O'Kane?' Poor Teg could not bring out a word at all, nor open his lips, if he were to get the world for it, and so he gave no answer. "'Teg O'Kane,' said the little grey man again, "'Isn't it timely you met us?' Teg could not answer him. Tago Kane, says he, the third time. Isn't it lucky and timely that we met you?
But Tago remained silent, for he was afraid to return an answer, and his tongue was as if it was tied to the roof of his mouth. The little grey man turned to his companions, and there was joy in his bright little eye. And now, says he, Tago Kane hasn't a word. We can do with him what we please. "'Tague, Tague,' says he, "'you're living a bad life, and we can make a slave of you now, and you cannot withstand us. There is no use in trying to go against us. Lift that corpse.' Tague was so frightened he was only able to utter the two words, "'I won't,' for as frightened as he was, he was obstinate and stiff, the same as ever. "'Tague O'Cain won't lift the corpse,' said the little Mannine, with a wicked little laugh.
For all the world like the breaking of a lock of dry kippines, and with a little harsh voice like the striking of a cracked bell. Tague O'Kane won't lift the corpse. Make him lift it. And before the word was out of his mouth they had all gathered round poor Tague, and they all talking and laughing through other. Tague tried to run from them, but they followed him, and a man of them stretched out his foot before him as he ran. So that Taig was thrown in a heap on the road. Then before he could rise up, the fairies caught him, some by the hands and some by the feet, and they held him tight, in a way that he could not stir, with his face against the ground. Six or seven of them raised the body and pulled it over to him.
The breast of the corpse was squeezed against Teg's back and shoulders, and the arms of the corpse were thrown round Teg's neck. Then they stood back from him a couple of yards, and let him get up. He rose, foaming at the mouth and cursing, and he shook himself, thinking to throw the corpse off his back. But his fear and his wonder were great when he found that the two arms had a tight hold round his own neck, and that the two legs were squeezing his hips firmly. And that, however strongly he tried, he could not throw it off, any more than a horse can throw off its saddle. He was terribly frightened then, and he thought he was lost. "'A shone forever,' he said to himself. "'It's a bad life I'm leading that has given the good people this power over me.
I promise to God and Mary, Peter and Paul, Patrick and Bridget, that I'll mend my ways for as long as I have to live, if I come clear out of this danger, and I'll marry the girl.'" The little grey man came up to him again, and he said to him, "'Now, Tegin,' says he, "'you didn't lift the body when I told you to lift it, and see how you were made to lift it. Perhaps when I tell you to bury it, you won't bury it until you're made to bury it.' "'Anything at all I can do for your honour,' said Teg. I'll do it,' for he was getting sense already. And if it had not been for the great fear that was on him, he never would have let that civil word slip out of his mouth." The little man laughed a sort of laugh again.
"'You're getting quiet now, Tig,' says he. "'I'll go bail, but you'll be quiet enough before I'm done with you.' "'Listen to me now, Tig-o-Cain, and if you don't obey me in all I'm telling you to do, you'll repent it. You must carry with you this corpse that is on your back.' To Temple Damus, and you must bring it into the church with you, and make a grave for it in the very middle of the church, and you must raise up the flags and put them down again the very same way, and you must carry the clay out of the church and leave the place as it was when you came, so that no one could know that there had been anything changed. But that's not all. Maybe that the body won't be allowed to be buried in that church.
Perhaps some other man has the bed, and if so it's likely he won't share it with this one. If you don't get leave to bury it in Temple Damus, you must carry it to Kerak Vadvikores, and bury it in the churchyard there, and if you don't get into that place, take it with you to Temple Ronan, and if that churchyard is closed on you, take it to Imlog Fada, and if you are not able to bury it there, you have no more to do than take it to Kilbreda, and you can bury it there without hindrance. I cannot tell you what one of those churches is the one where you will have leave to bury that corpse. under the clay, but I know that it will be allowed you to bury him at some church or other of them. If you do this work rightly, we will be thankful to you, and you will have no cause to grieve.
But if you are slow or lazy, believe me, we shall take satisfaction of you." When the little grey man had done speaking, his comrades laughed and clapped their hands together. Gleck, gleck, hui hui, they cried. Go on, go on. You have eight hours before you till daybreak, and if you haven't this man buried before the sun rises, you're lost. They struck a fist and a foot behind on him, and drove him on in the road. He was obliged to walk, and to walk fast, for they gave him no rest. He thought himself that there was not a wet path, or a dirty barine, or a crooked contrary road in the whole county that he had not walked that night. The night was at times very dark, and wherever there would come a cloud across the moon he could see nothing, and then he used often to fall.
Sometimes he was hurt, and sometimes he escaped, but he was obliged always to rise on the moment and hurry on. Sometimes the moon would break out clearly, and then he would look behind him and see the little people following at his back, and he heard them speaking amongst themselves, talking and crying out, and screaming like a flock of seagulls, and if he was to save his soul he never understood as much as one word of what they were saying. He did not know how far he had walked, When at last one of them cried out to him, Stop here, he stood, and they all gathered round him. Do you see those withered trees over there? says the old boy to him again. Temple Damus is among those trees, and you must go in there by yourself, for we cannot follow you or go with you.
We must remain here. Go on boldly. Tague looked from him, and he saw a high wall that was in places half broken down, and an old grey church on the inside of the wall, and about a dozen withered old trees scattered here and there round it. There was neither leaf nor twig on any of them, but their bare crooked branches were stretched out like the arms of an angry man when he threatens. He had no help for it, but was obliged to go forward. He was a couple of hundred yards from the church, but he walked on. And never looked behind him until he came to the gate of the churchyard. The old gate was thrown down, and he had no difficulty in entering. He turned to see if any of the little people were following him, but there came a cloud over the moon, and the night became so dark that he could see nothing.
He went into the churchyard, and he walked up the grassy pathway leading to the church. When he reached the door he found it locked. The door was large and strong, and he did not know what to do. At last he drew out his knife with difficulty, and stuck it in the wood to try if it were not rotten, but it was not. Now, said he to himself, I have no more to do. The door is shut, and I can't open it. Before the words were rightly shaped in his own mind, a voice in his ears said to him, Search for the key on top of the door, or on the wall. He started. Who is that speaking to me? he cried, turning round, but he saw no one. The voice said in his ear again, Search for the key on top of the door, or on the wall.
What's that? said he, and the sweat running from his forehead. Who spoke to me? It's I, the corpse, that spoke to you, said the voice. Can you talk? said Tague. Now and again, said the corpse. Tague searched for the key, and he found it on top of the wall. He was too much frightened to say any more, but he opened the door wide and as quickly as he could, and he went in, with the corpse on his back. It was as dark as pitch inside, and poor Tagg began to shake and tremble. Light the candle, said the corpse. Tagg put his hand in his pocket, as well as he was able, and drew out a flint and steel. He struck a spark out of it, and lit a burnt rag he had in his pocket. He blew it until it made a flame, and he looked round him.
The church was very ancient, and part of the wall was broken down. The windows were blown in or cracked, and the timber of the seats was rotten. There were six or seven old iron candlesticks left still there, and in one of these candlesticks Tag found the stump of an old candle, and he lit it. He was still looking round him on the strange and horrid place in which he found himself, when the cold corpse whispered in his ear, Bury me now. Bury me now. There is a spade, and turn the ground. Taig looked from him, and he saw a spade lying beside the altar. He took it up, and he placed the blade under a flag that was in the middle of the aisle, and, leaning all his weight on the handle of the spade, he raised it.
When the first flag was raised, it was not hard to raise the others near it, and he moved three or four of them out of their places. The clay that was under them was soft and easy to dig, but he had not thrown up more than three or four shovelfuls when he felt the iron touch something soft like flesh. He threw up three or four more shovelfuls from around it, and then he saw it was another body that was buried in the same place. I'm afraid I'll never be allowed to bury the two bodies in the same hole, said Tag in his own mind. You corpse, they're on my back, says he. Will you be satisfied if I bury you down here? But the corpse never answered him a word. That's a good sign, said Tag to himself.
Maybe he's getting quiet. And he thrust the spade down in the earth again. Perhaps he hurt the flesh of the other body, for the dead man that was buried there stood up in the grave and shouted an awful shout. Ho, ho, ho! Go, go, go! Or you're a dead, dead, dead man, and he fell back in the grave again. Tag said afterwards that of all the wonderful things he saw that night, that was the most awful to him. His hair stood upright on his head like the bristles of a pig, the cold sweat ran off his face, and then came a tremor over all his bones until he thought he must fall. But after a while he became bolder, when he saw that the second corpse remained lying quietly there, and he threw in the clay on it again, and he smoothed it overhead, and he laid down the flags carefully as they had been before.
It can't be that he'll raise up any more, said he. He went down the aisle a little further, and drew near to the door, and began raising the flags again, looking for another bed for the corpse on his back. He took up three or four flags and put them aside. And then he dug the clay. He was not long digging until he laid bare an old woman without a thread upon her but her shirt. She was more lively than the first corpse, for he had scarcely taken any of the clay away from about her when she sat up and began to cry. Ho, you bold duck! Ha, you bold duck! Where has he been that he got no bed? Poor Tig drew back. And when she found she was getting no answer, she closed her eyes gently, lost her vigour, and fell back quietly and slowly under the clay.
Taked it to her as he had done to the man, he threw the clay back on her, and left the flags down overhead. He began digging again near the door, but before he had thrown up more than a couple of shovelfuls, he noticed a man's hand laid bare by the spade. By my soul, I'll go no further then, said he to himself. What use is it for me? and he threw the clay in again on it, and settled the flags as they had been before. He left the church then, and his heart was heavy enough. But he shut the door and locked it, and left the key where he found it. He sat down on a tombstone that was near the door, and began thinking. He was in great doubt what he should do. He laid his face between his two hands, and cried for grief and fatigue, since he was dead certain at this time that he never would come home alive.
He made another attempt to loosen the hands of the corpse that were squeezed round his neck, but they were as tight as if they were clamped, and the more he tried to loosen them, the tighter they squeezed him. He was going to sit down once more, when the cold, horrid lips of the dead man said to him, And he remembered the command of the good people to bring the corpse with him to that place, if he should be unable to bury it where he had been. He rose up and looked about him. I don't know the way, he said. As soon as he had uttered the word, the corpse stretched out its left hand that had been tightened round his neck, and kept it pointing out, showing him the road he ought to follow. Tague went in the direction that the fingers were stretched, and passed out of the churchyard.
He found himself on an old, ruddy, stone road, and he stood still again, not knowing where to turn. The corpse stretched out its bony hand a second time, and pointed out to him another road, not the road by which he had come when approaching the old church. Tag followed that road, and wherever he came to a path or road meeting it, the corpse always stretched out its hand and pointed with its fingers, showing him the way he was to take. Many was the cross-road he turned down, and many was the crooked boreen he walked, until he saw from him an old burying-ground at last, beside the road, but there was neither church nor chapel nor any other building in it. The corpse squeezed him tightly, and he stood.
"'Bury me, bury me in the burying-ground,' said the voice. Tagg drew over towards the old burying-place, and he was not more than about twenty yards from it when, Raising his eyes, he saw hundreds and hundreds of ghosts, men, women, and children, setting on top of the wall round about, or standing on the inside of it, or running backwards and forwards and pointing at him, while he could see their mouths opening and shutting as if they were speaking, though he heard no word, nor any sound amongst them at all. He was afraid to go forward, so he stood where he was, and the moment he stood, all the ghosts became quiet and ceased moving. Then Teig understood that it was trying to keep him from going in that they were.
He walked a couple of yards forward, and immediately the whole crowd rushed together toward the spot to which he was moving, and they stood so thickly together that it seemed to him he could never break through them, even though he had a mind to try. But he had no mind to try it. He went back broken and dispirited, and when he had gone a couple of hundred yards from the burying ground he stood again, for he did not know what way he was to go. He heard the voice of the corpse in his ears saying, Tempol Ronan, and the skinny hand was stretched out again, pointing him out the road. As tired as he was, he had to walk, and the road was neither short nor even. The night was darker than ever, and it was difficult to make his way.
Many was the toss he got, and many a bruise they left on his body. At last he saw Temple Ronin from him in the distance, standing in the middle of the burying-ground. He moved over towards it and thought he was all right and safe, when he saw no ghosts nor anything else on the wall, and he thought he would never be hindered now from leaving his load off him at last. He moved over to the gate, but as he was passing in he tripped on the threshold. Before he could recover himself, something he could not see seized him by the neck, by the hands, and by the feet, and bruised him and shook him and choked him, until he was nearly dead, and at last he was lifted up, and carried more than a hundred yards from that place, and then thrown down in an old dyke, with the corpse still clinging to him.
He rose up, bruised and sore, but feared to go near the place again, for he had seen nothing the time he was thrown down and carried away. "'You, corpse up on my back,' said he. "'Shall I go over again to the churchyard?' But the corpse never answered him. "'That's a sign you don't wish me to try it again,' said Tag. He was now in great doubt as to what he ought to do, when the corpse spoke in his ear and said, "'Im log fada!' Oh, murder," said Tagg, must I bring you there? If you keep me long walking like this, I tell you I'll fall under you. He went on, however, in the direction the corpse pointed out to him. He could not have told himself how long he had been going, when the dead man behind suddenly squeezed him and said, There.
Taig looked from him, and he saw a little low wall that was so broken down in places it was no wall at all. It was in a great wide field, in from the road, and only for three or four great stones at the corners that were more like rocks than stones. There was nothing to show that there was either graveyard or burying ground there. Is this Imlog Fada? Shall I bury you here? said Taig. Yes," said the voice, but I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of stones," said Tag. The corpse did not answer, but stretched out its long fleshless hand to show Tag the direction in which he was to go. Tag went on accordingly, but he was greatly terrified, for he remembered what had happened to him at the last place.
He went on, with his heart in his mouth, as he said himself afterwards, but when he came to within fifteen or twenty yards of the little low square wall, there broke out a flash of lightning, bright yellow and red, with blue streaks in it, and went round the wall in one course, and it swept by as fast as the swallow in the clouds, and the longer Tague remained looking at it, the faster it went. Till at last it became like a bright ring of flame round the old graveyard, which no one could pass without being burnt by it. Teg never saw, from the time he was born, and never saw afterwards, so wonderful or so splendid a sight as that was. Round went the flame, white and yellow and blue sparks leaping out from it as it went, And although at first it had been no more than a thin narrow line, it increased slowly until it was at last a great broad band, and it was continually getting broader and higher, and throwing out more brilliant sparks, till there was never a color on the ridge of the earth that was not to be seen in that fire, and lightning never shone and flame never flamed, that was so shining and so bright as that.
Taig was amazed. He was half dead with fatigue, and he had no courage left to approach the wall. There fell a mist over his eyes, and there came a Sauron in his head, and he was obliged to set down upon a great stone to recover himself. He could see nothing but the light, and could hear nothing but the whir of it as it shot round the paddock faster than a flash of lightning. As he sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once more in his ear, Kill Brita! And the dead man squeezed him so tightly that he cried out. He rose again, sick, tired, and trembling. and went forwards as he was directed. The wind was cold, and the road was bad, and the load on his back was heavy, and the night was dark, and he himself was nearly worn out, and if he had had very much further to go he must have fallen dead under his burden.
At last the corpse stretched out his hand, and said to him, Bury me there. This is the last burying-place, said Tagg in his own mind, and the little grey man said I'd be allowed to bury him in some of them, so it must be this. It can't be, but they'll let him in here. The first faint streak of the Ring of Day was appearing in the east, and the clouds were beginning to catch fire, but it was darker than ever, for the moon was set. And there were no stars. Make haste, make haste," said the corpse, and Teg hurried forward as well as he could to the graveyard, which was a little place on a bare hill with only a few graves in it. He walked boldly in through the open gate, and nothing touched him, nor did he either hear or see anything.
He came to the middle of the ground, and then he stood up and looked round him for a spade or shovel to make a grave. As he was turning round and searching, he suddenly perceived what startled him greatly. A newly dug grave right before him. He moved over to it and looked down, and there at the bottom he saw a black coffin. He clambered down into the hole and lifted the lid, and found that, as he thought it would be, the coffin was empty. He had hardly mounted up out of the hole, and was standing on the brink, when the corpse, which had clung to him for more than eight hours, suddenly relaxed its hold of his neck.
Tague fell down on to his two knees at the brink of the grave, and gave thanks to God. He made no delay then, but pressed down the coffin lid in its place, and threw in the clay over it with his two hands, and when the grave was filled up, he stamped and leaped on it with his feet, until it was firm and hard, and then he left the place. The sun was fast rising as he finished his work, and the first thing he did was to return to the road and look out for a house to rest himself in. He found an inn at last, and lay down upon a bed there, and slept till night. Then he rose up and ate a little, and fell asleep again till morning. When he awoke in the morning he hired a horse and rode home. He was more than twenty-six miles from home where he was, and he had come all that way with the dead body on his back in one night.
All the people at his own home thought that he must have left the country, and they rejoiced greatly when they saw him come back. Everyone began asking him where he had been, but he would not tell anyone except his father. He was a changed man from that day. He never drank too much, he never lost his money over cards, and especially he would not take the world and be out late by himself of a dark night. He was not a fortnight home until he married Mary, the girl he had been in love with, and it's at their wedding the sport was, and it's he was the happy man from that day forward, and it's all I wish that we may be as happy as he was.
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6 05 - Paddy Corcoran's Wife - Cusheen Loo the White Trout: A Legend of Cong 12:01
Patti Corcoran's Wife, William Carlton. Patti Corcoran's wife was for several years afflicted with a kind of complaint which nobody could properly understand. She was sick, and she was not sick. She was well, and she was not well. She was as ladies wish to be who love their lords, and she was not as such ladies wish to be. In fact, nobody could tell what the matter with her was. She had a gnawing at the heart which came heavily upon her husband, for, with the help of God, a keener appetite than the same gnawing amounted to could not be met with of a summer's day. The poor woman was delicate beyond belief, and had no appetite at all. So she hadn't. Barring a little relish for a mutton-chop, or a steak, or a bit of mate, anyway.
For sure, God help her, she hadn't the least inclination for the dreary preti, or the dollop of sour buttermilk along with it, especially as she was so poorly, and indeed, for a woman in her condition, For, sick as she was, poor Patty always was made to believe her in that condition. But God's will be done. She didn't care. A pratee and a grain o' salt was a welcome to her, glory be to his name, as the best roast and boiled that ever was dressed, and why not? There was one comfort. She wouldn't be long with him, long troublin' him. It mattered little what she got, but sure she knew herself that from the gnawing at her heart she could never do good without that little bit o'mate now and then, and sure if her own husband begrudged it to her, who else had she a better right to expect it from?
Well, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invalid for long enough trying doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes and sizes, and all without a farthing's benefit, until, at the long run, Poor Paddy was nearly brought to the last pass, and striving to keep her in the bid-o'-mate. The seventh year was now on the point of closing, when, one harvest-day, as she lay bemoaning her hard condition, on her bed beyond the kitchen fire, a little weeshy woman dressed in a neat red cloak comes in, and, setting down by the hearth, says, Well, Kitty Corcoran, you've had a long layer of it there on the broad of your back for seven years, and you're just as far from being cured as ever. Mavroon, aye," said the other, in troth that's what I was this minute thinking of, and a sorrowful thought it's to me.
It's your own fault then, says the little woman, and indeed, for that matter, it's your fault that ever you were there at all. "'Ara, how is that?' asked Kitty. "'Sure, I wouldn't be here if I could help it. Do you think it's a comfort or a pleasure to me to be sick and bedridden?' "'No,' said the other, "'I do not. But I'll tell you the truth. For the last seven years you have been annoying us. I am one of the good people, and as I have a regard for you, I've come to let you know the reason why you've been sick so long as you are. For all the time you've been ill, if you'll take the trouble to remember, your children have thrown out your dirty water after dusk and before sunrise, at the very time we're passing your door, which we pass twice a day.
Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it out in a different place, and at a different time, the complaints you have will lave you. So will the non at the heart, and you'll be as well as ever you were. If you don't follow this advice, why, remain as you are, and all the art of man can't cure you. She then bade her good-bye, and disappeared. Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, immediately complied with the injunction of the ferry, and the consequence was that the next day she found herself in as good a health as ever she enjoyed during her life. Cushin Loo, translated from the Irish by J. J. Callanen. This song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of resorting.
Under pretense of hushing her child to rest, she retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the brethren of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband of her condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dissolve the enchantment.
Sleep, my child, for the rustling trees, stirred by the breath of summer breeze, and fairy songs of sweetest note, Around us gently float. Sleep, for the weeping flowers have shed, Their fragrant tears upon thy head. The voice of love hath soothed thy rest, And thy pillow is a mother's breast. Sleep, my child. Weary hath passed the time forlorn, Since to your mansion I was born. Though bright the feast of its airy halls, And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls. Sleep, my child. Full many a maid and blooming bride within that splendid dome abide, and many a oar and shrivelled sage, and many a matron bowed with age. Sleep, my child. O thou who hearest this song of fear, to the mourner's home these tidings bear, bid him bring the knife of the magic blade, at whose lightning flash the charm will fade.
Sleep, my child. Haste for tomorrow's sun will see the hateful spell renewed for me. Nor can I from that home depart till life shall leave my withering heart. Sleep, my child, sleep, my child, for the rustling trees stirred by the breath of summer breeze, and fairy songs of sweetest note around us gently float. The White Trout, a legend of K'ung by S. Lover.
There was once upon a time, long ago, a beautiful lady that lived in a castle upon the lake Biant, and they say she was promised to a king's son, and they were to be married, when all of a sudden he was murdered, the crathor, Lord help us, and thrown into the lake above, and so, of course, he couldn't keep his promise to the fair lady. And more is the pity. Well, the story goes that she went out of her mind because of losing the king's son. For she was tender-hearted, God help her, like the rest of us, and pined away after him until at last no one about seen her, good or bad, and the story went that the fairies took her away. Well, sir, In corse o' time, the white throut, God bless it, was seen in the stream beyond, and sure the people didn't know what to think of the crater, seeing as how a white throut was never heard of before nor since, and years upon years the throut was there, just where you seen it this blessed minute, longer nor I can tell, I, troth, am beyond the memory of the oldest in the village.
At last the people began to think it must be a fairy, for what else could it be? And no hurt or harm was ever put on the white throut, until some wicked sinners of soldiers came to these parts, and laughed at all the people, and jibed and jeered them for thinking o' the likes, and one of them in particular—bad luck to him, God forgive me for saying it—swore he'd catch the throut and eat it for his dinner, the black guard. Well, what do you think o' the villainy of the soldier? Sure enough he caught the throut, and away wid him home. and puts it in the frying pan, and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The throat squealed all as one as a Christian creature. And, my dear, you'd think the soldier'd split his sides laughing, for he was a hardened villain, and when he thought one side was done, he turns it over to fry the other.
And what would you think but the devil a taste of a burn was on it at all at all? And sure, the soldier thought it was a quaird throat that could not be broiled. But, says he, I'll give it another turn by and by, little thinking what was in store for him, the ha'en. Well, when he thought that side was done, he turns it again, and, lo and behold you, the devil of a taste more done that side was nor the other. Bad luck to me, says the soldier, but that baits the world, says he. But I'll try you again, my darlint, says he, as cunning as you think yourself. And so with that he turns it over and over, but not a sign of the fire was on the purty throat. Well, says the desperate villain, for sure, sir, only he was a desperate villain entirely.
He might know he was doing a wrong thing, seeing as all his endeavors were no good. Well, says he, my jolly little trout, maybe you're fried enough, though you don't seem to be over well dressed. But you may be better than you look, like a singed cat and a tit-bit after all. Says he, and with that he ups with his knife and fork to taste a piece of the throat. But, my Jewel, the minute he puts his knife into the fish, there was a murther and screech, and you'd think the life would leave you if you heard it. And away jumps the throat out of the frying pan and into the middle of the floor, and in the spot where it fell up rose a lovely lady, the beautifulest creature that I has ever seen, dressed in white, and a band of gold in her hair, and a stream of blood running down her arm.
Look where you cut me, you villain, says she, and she held out her arm to him, and, my dear, he thought the sighted lay of his eyes. Couldn't you lay of me cool and comfortable in the river where you snared me and not disturb me in my duty, says she? Well, he thrumbled like a dog in a wet sack, and at last he stammered out something and begged for his life, and asked her ladyship's pardon, and said he didn't know she was on duty, or he was too good a soldier not to know better nor to meddle with her. "'I was on duty then,' says the lady. "'I was watching for my true love that is coming to water to me,' says she, "'and if he comes while I'm away, and that I miss of him, I'll turn you into a pinkeen and hunt you up and down forevermore while the grass grows or water runs.' Well, the soldier thought the life had lay of him at the thoughts of his being turned into a pinkeen, and begged for mercy.
And with that," says the lady, renounce your evil course, says she. You villain, or you'll repent it too late. Be a good man for the future, and go to your duty regular. And now, says she, take me back and put me into the river again, where you found me. "'Oh, my lady,' says the soldier, "'how could I have the heart to drown a beautiful lady like you?' But before he could say another word, the lady was vanished, and there he saw the little trout on the ground. Well, he put it in a clean plate, and away he runs for the bear life, for fear her lover would come while she was away, and he run, and he run, even till he came to the cave again.'" And threw the trout into the river. The minute he did it the water was as red as blood for a little while, by raisin of the cut, I suppose, until this stream washed the stain away, and to this day there's a little red mark on the trout's side where it was cut.
Well, sir, from that day out the soldier was an altered man. And reformed his ways, and went to his duty regular, and fasted three times a week, though it was never fish he took on fasting days, for after the fright he got fish should never rest in his stomach save in your presence. But anyhow, he was an altered man, as I said before, and in corso time he left the army and turned hermit at last, and they say he used to pray evermore for the soul of the white trout. These trout stories are common all over Ireland. Many holy wells are haunted by such blessed trout. There is a trout in a well on the border of Lugil, Sligo, that some paganish person put once on the gridiron. It carries the marks to this day.
Long ago the saint who sanctified the well put that trout there. Nowadays it is only visible to the pious, who have done due penance.
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7 06 - The Fairy Thorn - The Legend of Knockgrafton - A Donegal Fairy 14:48
The Fairy Thorn, an Ulster Ballad, Sir Samuel Ferguson. Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning wheel, for your father is on the hill and your mother is asleep. Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland reel, Around the fairy thorn on the steep. At Anna Grace's door, t'was thus the maidens cried, Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green, And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside, The fairest of the four I ween. There glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve, Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare, The heavy sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave, And the crags in the ghostly air. And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go, The maids along the hillside have ta'en their fearless way, Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow, Beside the fairy hawthorn gray.
The hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim, like Matron with her twin granddaughters at her knee. The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head gray and dim, in ruddy kisses sweet to see. The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row, between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem, and away in mazes wavy like skimming birds they go, O never-carolled bird like them! But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze, That drinks away their voices in echo-less repose, And dreamily the evening has stilled the haunted brays, And dreamier the gloaming grows, And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky, When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw, Are hushed the maiden's voices, as cowering down they lie, In the flutter of their sudden awe.
For from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath, and from the mountain ashes and the old white-thorn between, a power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe, and they sink down to gather on the green.
They sink together silent, and stealing side by side. They fling their lovely arms o'er their creeping necks so fair. They vainly strive again their naked arms to hide, for their shrinking necks again are bare. Thus clasped and prostrate all, with their heads together bowed, soft o'er their bosoms beating, the only human sound, they hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd, like a river in the air gliding round. No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say, But wild, wild the terror of the speechless three, For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away, By whom they dare not look to see. They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold, And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws.
They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold, But they may not look to see the cause. For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies, through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze, and neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes, or their limbs from the cold ground raise. Till out of night the earth has rolled her dewy side, with every haunted mountain and streaming vale below, when as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide, the maiden's trance dissolveth so. Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may, and tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain. They pined away and died within the year and day, and ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.
The Legend of Notgrafton. T. Crofton Croker. There was once a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of Arro. At the foot of the gloomy Galti Mountains, and he had a great hump on his back. He looked just as if his body had been rolled up and placed upon his shoulders, and his head was pressed down with the weight so much that his chin, when he was setting, used to rest upon his knees for support. The country people were rather shy of meeting him in any lonesome place, for though, poor creature, he was as harmless and as inoffensive as a new-born infant, Yet his deformity was so great that he scarcely appeared to be a human creature, and some ill-minded persons had set strange stories about him afloat.
He was said to have a great knowledge of herbs and charms, but certain it was that he had a mighty skilful hand in plating straws and rushes into hats and baskets, which was the way he made his livelihood. Less more, for that was the nickname put upon him by reason of his always wearing a sprig of the fairy cap, or less more. the foxglove, in his little straw hat, would ever get a higher penny for his plated work than any one else, and perhaps that was the reason why some one, out of envy, had circulated the strange stories about him. Be that as it may, it happened that he was returning one evening from the pretty town of Cahir towards Capac, and as little Lusmore walked very slowly, on account of the great hump upon his back, It was quite dark when he came to the old moat of Notgrafton, which stood on the right-hand side of his road.
Tired and weary was he, and no ways comfortable in his own mind at thinking how much further he had to travel, and that he should be walking all the night. So he sat down under the moat to rest himself, and began looking mournfully enough upon the moon, which, rising in clouded majesty at length, Apparent Queen unveiled her peerless light, and o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. Presently there rose a wild strain of unearthly melody upon the ear of little Lusmore. He listened, and he thought that he had never heard such ravishing music before. It was like the sound of many voices, each mingling and blending with the other so strangely that they seemed to be one, though all singing different strains, and the words of the song were these.
Da lune da mort, da lune da mort, da lune da mort, when there would be a moment's pause, and then the round of melody went on again. Lucemore listened attentively, scarcely drawing his breath, lest he might lose the slightest note. He now plainly perceived that the singing was within the moat, and though at first it had charmed him so much, he began to get tired of hearing the same round sung over and over so often without any change. So availing himself of the pause when d'Aluen d'Amort had been sung three times, he took up the tune, and raised it with the words, Auguste d'Aardine, and then went on singing with the voices inside of the moat, d'Aluen d'Amort finishing the melody when the pause came again with Auguste d'Aardine.
The fairies within Not Grafton, for the song was a fairy melody, when they heard this addition to the tune. Were so much delighted that, with instant resolve, it was determined to bring the mortal among them, whose musical skills so far exceeded theirs. And little less more was conveyed into their company with the eddying speed of a whirlwind. Glorious to behold was the sight that burst upon him as he came down through the moat, twirling round and round with the lightness of a straw to the sweetest music that kept time to his motion. The greatest honour was then paid him, for he was put above all the musicians, and he had servants tending upon him, and everything to his heart's content, and a hearty welcome to all, and, in short, he was made as much of as if he had been the first man in the land.
Presently Lusmore saw a great consultation going forward amongst the fairies, and, notwithstanding all their civility, he felt very much frightened, until one stepping out from the rest came up to him and said, Lusmore, Lusmore, doubt not nor deplore, for the hump which you bore on your back is no more. Look down on the floor, and view it, Lusmore. When these words were said, poor little Lusmore felt himself so light and so happy that he thought he could have bounded at one jump over the moon, like the cow in the history of the Cat and the Fiddle, and he saw, with inexpressible pleasure, His hump tumbled down upon the ground from his shoulders. He then tried to lift up his head, and he did so with becoming caution, fearing that he might knock it against the ceiling of the grand hall, where he was.
He looked round and round again with the greatest wonder and delight upon everything, which appeared more and more beautiful, and overpowered at beholding such a resplendent scene. His head grew dizzy, and his eyesight became dim. At last he fell into a sound sleep, and when he awoke he found that it was broad daylight, the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing sweetly, and he was lying just at the foot of the moat of Notcrafton, with the cows and sheep grazing peaceably round about him. The first thing Lesmore did, after saying his prayers, was to put his hand behind to feel for his hump, but no sign of one was there on his back, and he looked at himself with great pride, for he had now become a well-shaped, dapper little fellow, and more than that, found himself in a full suit of new clothes, which he concluded the fairies had made for him.
Towards Kappa he went, stepping out as lightly, and springing at every step as if he had been all his life a dancing-master. Not a creature who met Lusmore knew him without his hump, and he had a great work to persuade every one that he was the same man. In truth he was not, so far as the outward appearance went. Of course it was not long before the story of Lusmore's hump got about, and a great wonder was made of it. Through the country, for miles round, it was the talk of every one, high and low. One morning, as Lusmore was sitting contented enough at his cabin door, up came an old woman to him. and asked if he could direct her to Kapna. "'I need give you no directions, my good woman,' said Lusmore, "'for this is Kapna, and whom may you want here?' "'I have come,' said the woman, "'out of D.C.'s country, in the county of Waterford, "'looking after one Lusmore, who, I have heard tell, "'had his hump taken off by the fairies.
"'For there is a son of a gossip of mine "'who has got a hump on him that will be his death.'" And maybe, if he could use the same charm as Lusmore, the hump may be taken off him. And now I have told you the reason of my coming so far, just to find out about this charm, if I can." Lusmore, who was ever a good-natured little fellow, told the woman all to particulars, how he had raised the tune for the fairies at Notgrafton, how his hump had been removed from his shoulders, and how he had got a new suit of clothes into the bargain. The woman thanked him very much. And then went away quite happy and easy in her own mind. When she came back to her gossips' house in the county of Waterford, she told her everything Lesmore had said, and they put the little hump-backed man, who was a peevish and cunning creature from his birth, upon a car, and took him all the way across the country.
It was a long journey, but they did not care for that, so the hump was taken from off him. And they brought him, just at nightfall, and left him under the old boat of Not Grafton. Jack Madden, for that was the humpy man's name, had not been sitting there long when he heard the tune going on within the moat much sweeter than before, for the fairies were singing it the way Lussmore had settled their music for them, and the song was going on, da lune da mort, da lune da mort, da lune da mort, angus da dardine, without ever stopping. Jack Madden, Who was in a great hurry to get quit of his hump, never thought of waiting until the fairies had done, or watching for a fit opportunity to raise the tune higher again than Lussmore had, so having heard them sing it over seven times without stopping.
Out he bawls, never minding the time or the humour of the tune, or how he could bring his words in properly. Angus d'ardine, Angus d'ahina, thinking that if one day were good, Two were better, and if Lesmore had one new suit of clothes given him, he should have two. No sooner had the words passed his lips than he was taken up and whisked into the moat with prodigious force. And the fairies came crowding round about him with great anger, screeching and screaming and roaring out, Who spoiled our tune? Who spoiled our tune? And one stepped up to him above all the rest, and said, Jack Madden, Jack Madden, your words came so bad in the tune we felt glad in, the castle you're had in, that your life we may sadden.
Here's two humps for Jack Madden. And twenty of the strongest fairies brought out Lesmore's hump, and put it down upon poor Jack's back, over his own, where it became fixed as firmly as if it was nailed on, with twelve-penny nails, by the best carpenter that ever drove one. Out of their castle they kicked him, and in the morning, when Jack Madden's mother and her gossip came to look after their little man, they found him half dead, lying at the foot of the moat, with the other hump upon his back. Well, to be sure, how they did look at each other, but they were afraid to say anything, lest a hump might be put upon their own shoulders. Home they brought the unlucky Jack Madden with them, as downcast in their hearts and their looks as ever two gossips were, and what through the weight of his other hump and the long journey he died soon after, leaving, they say, his heavy curse to anyone who would go listen to fairy tunes again.
A Donegal Fairy Letitia McClintock. Ay, it's a bad thing to displeasure the gentry, sure enough. They can be unfriendly if they're angered, and they can be the very best o' good neighbors if they're treated kindly. My mother's sister was her lone in the house one day, wi' a big pot o' water boilin' on the fire, and one o' the wee folk fell down the chimney and slipped with his leg in the hot water. He let a terrible squeal out of him, and in a minute the house was full of wee crassers pulling him out of the pot and carrying him across the floor. "'Did she scald you?' my aunt heard them saying to him. "'Na, na, it was my cell scalded my own self,' quoth the wee fellow. "'Aweel, aweel,' says they.
"'If it was your own self scalded your cell, we'll say nothing. But if she had scalded you, we'd a made her pay.'"
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8 07 - Changelings The Brewery of Egg-shells - The Fairy Nurse 8:20
The Trooping Fairies. Changelings. Sometimes the fairies fancy more than and carry them away into their own country, leaving instead some sickly fairy child, or a log of wood so bewitched that it seems to be a mortal pining away, and dying, and being buried. Most commonly they steal children. If you overlook a child, that is, look on it with envy, the fairies have it in their power. Many things can be done to find out in a child a changeling, but there is one infallible thing. Lay it on the fire with this formula. Burn, burn, burn, if of the devil burn, but if God and the saints be safe from harm, given by Lady Wilde. Then, if it be a changeling, it will rush up the chimney with a cry, for according to Tyraldus Cambrices, Fire is the greatest of enemies to every sort of phantom, insomuch that those who have seen apparitions fall into a swoon as soon as they are sensible of the brightness of fire.
Sometimes the creature is got rid of in a more gentle way. It is on record that once, when a mother was leaning over a wizened changeling, the latch lifted and a fairy came in, carrying home again the wholesome stolen baby. It was the others, she said, who stole it. As for her, she wanted her own child. Those who carried away are happy, according to some accounts, having plenty of good living and music and mirth. Others say, however, that they are continually longing for their earthly friends. Lady Wilde gives a gloomy tradition that there are two kinds of fairies, one kind merry and gentle, the other evil, and sacrificing every year a life to Satan, for which purpose they steal mortals. No other Irish writer gives this tradition.
If such fairies there be, they must be among the solitary spirits. Pookas, Firdaregs, and the like. The Brewery of Egg-Shells. T. Croft & Kroger. Mrs. Sullivan fancied that her youngest child had been exchanged by fairies theft, and certainly appearances warranted such a conclusion. For in one night her healthy blue-eyed boy had become shriveled up into almost nothing, and never ceased squalling and crying. This naturally made poor Mrs. Sullivan very unhappy, and all of the neighbors, by way of comforting her, said that her own child was, beyond any kind of doubt, with the good people, and that one of themselves was put in his place. Mrs. Sullivan, of course, could not disbelieve what everyone told her, but she did not wish to hurt the thing, for although its face was so withered and its body wasted away to a mere skeleton, it had still a strong resemblance to her own boy.
She, therefore, could not find it in her heart to roast it alive on the griddle, or to burn its nose off with the red-hot tongs, or to throw it out in the snow on the roadside. Notwithstanding these, and several like proceedings, were strongly recommended to her for the recovery of her own child. One day who should Mrs. Sullivan meet but a cunning woman, well known about the country by the name of Ellen Lee, or Gray Ellen. She had the gift, however she got it, of telling where the dead were. and what was good for the rest of their souls, and could charm away warts and wends, and do a great many wonderful things of the same nature. "'You're in grief this morning, Mrs. Sullivan,' were the first words Ellen Lee to her.
You may say that, Ellen, said Mrs. Sullivan, and good cause I have to be in grief. For there was my own fine child whipped from me out of his cradle without so much as a by your leave or ask your pardon, and an ugly, donny bit of shriveled-up fairy put in his place. No wonder, then, you see me in grief, Ellen. Small blame to you, Mrs. Sullivan, said Ellen Lee. But are you sure tis a fairy? Sure, echoed Mrs. Sullivan. Sure enough I am to my sorrow, and can I doubt my own two eyes? Every mother's soul must feel for me. Will you take an old woman's advice, said Ellen Lee, fixing her wild and mysterious gaze upon the unhappy mother, and after a pause she added, but maybe you'll call it foolish. Can you get me back my child, my own child, Ellen, said Mrs.
Sullivan with great energy? If you do as I bid you, returned Ellen Lee, you'll know. Mrs. Sullivan was silent in expectation, and Ellen continued. Put down the big pot, full of water, on the fire, and make it boil like mad. Then get a dozen new-leg eggs, break them, and keep the shells, but throw away the rest. When that is done, put the shells in the pot of boiling water, and you will soon know whether it is your own boy or a fairy. If you find that it is a fairy in the cradle, Take the red-hot poker and cram it down his ugly throat, and you will not have much trouble with him after that, I promise you. Home went Mrs. Sullivan, and did as Ellen Lee desired. She put the pot on the fire, and plenty of turf under it, and set the water boiling at such a rate that if ever water was red-hot it surely was.
The child was lying, for a wonder, quite easy and quiet in the cradle, every now and then cocking his eye. That would twinkle as keen as a star in a frosty night, over at the giant fire and the big pot upon it. And he looked on with great attention at Mrs. Sullivan breaking the eggs and putting down the egg-shells to boil. At last he asked, with the voice of a very old man, What are you doing, Mammy? Mrs. Sullivan's heart, as she said herself, was up in her mouth ready to choke her at hearing the child speak. But she contrived to put the poker in the fire. And to answer, without making any wonder at the words, I'm brewing avic, my son. What are you brewing, Mammy? said the little imp, whose supernatural gift of speech now proved beyond question that he was a fairy substitute.
I wish the poker was red, thought Mrs. Sullivan, but it was a large one, and took a long time heeding. So she determined to keep him in talk until the poker was in a proper state to thrust down his throat, and therefore repeated the question. Is what I'm brewing avic, said she, you want to know? Yes, Mammy. What are you brewing? returned the fairy. Eggshells, avic, said Mrs. Sullivan. Oh! shrieked the imp, starting up in the cradle and clapping his hands together. I'm fifteen hundred years in the world, and I never saw a brewery of eggshells before. The poker was by this time quite red, and Mrs. Sullivan, seizing it, ran furiously toward the cradle. But somehow or other her foot slipped, and she fell flat on the floor, and the poker flew out of her hand to the other end of the house.
However, she got up without much loss of time and went to the cradle, intending to pitch the wicked thing that was in it into the pot of boiling water, when there she saw her own child in a sweet sleep. One of his soft round arms rested upon the pillows. His features were as placid as if their repose had never been disturbed, save the rosy mouth which moved with a gentle The Fairy Nurse by Edward Walsh Sweet babe, a golden cradle holds thee, And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee. In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees'd the breeze are sweeping. Shuhin sholulu lo, When mother's languish brokenhearted. When young wives are from husbands parted. Ah, little think the keeners lonely, They weep some time-worn fairy only.
Shuhin Sholululow. Within our magic halls of brightness Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness. Stolen maidens, queens of fairy, And kings and chiefs, a slu-shiery. Shuhin Sholululow. Rest thee, babe, I love thee dearly, And as thy mortal mother nearly. Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest, That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest. Shuhin Shou, lo lo lo. Rest thee, babe, for soon thy slumbers Shall flee at the magic Kulshi's numbers. In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. Shuhin Shou, lo lo lo. End section seven.
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9 08 - Jamie Freel and the Young Lady - The Stolen Child 15:23
VIII. A Fairy and Folk-Tales of the Irish Peasantry by William Butler Yeats. Jamie Friel and the Young Lady, A Donegal Tale, Miss Letitia McClintock. Down in Fanet, in times gone by, live Jamie Friel and his mother. Jamie was the widow's sole support. His strong arm worked for her untiringly, and as each Saturday night came round, he poured his wages into her lap, thanking her dutifully for the half-pence which she returned him for tobacco. He was extolled by his neighbors as the best son ever known or heard of. But he had neighbors, of whose opinion he was ignorant, neighbors who lived pretty close to him, whom he had never seen, who are, indeed, rarely seen by mortals. Except on May Eve's and Halloweens.
An old ruined castle, about a quarter of a mile from his cabin, was said to be the abode of the wee folk. Every Halloween were the ancient windows lighted up, and passers-by saw little figures flitting to and fro inside the building while they heard the music of pipes and flutes. It was well known that fairy revels took place, but nobody had the courage to intrude on them. Jamie had often watched the little figures from a distance, and listened to the charming music, wondering what the inside of the castle was like. But one Halloween he got up and took his cap, saying to his mother, "'I'm away to the castle to seek my fortune.' "'What?' cried she. "'Would you venture there? You that's the poor widow's one son?
Didna be sa venturesome an foolish, Jamie. They'll kill you, an that'll what'll come o' me.' "'Never fear, mother.' Nay harm'll happen to me, but I munga. He set out, and he crossed the potato field, came in sight of the castle, whose windows were ablaze with light, that seemed to turn the russet leaves, still clinging to the crabtree branches, into gold. Halting in the grove at one side of the ruin, he listened to the elfin revelry, and the laughter and singing made him all the more determined to proceed. Numbers of little people, The largest about the size of a child of five years old, were dancing to the music of flutes and fiddles, while others drank and feasted. "'Welcome, Jamie Friel! Welcome, welcome, Jamie!' cried the company, perceiving their visitor.
The word welcome was caught up and repeated by every voice in the castle. Time flew, and Jamie was enjoying himself very much, when his hosts said, "'We're going to ride to Dublin to-night to steal a young lady. Will you come, too, Jamie Friel?' "'Ay, that will I," cried the rash youth, thirsting for adventure. A troop of horses stood at the door. Jamie mounted, and his steed rose with him into the air. He was presently flying over his mother's cottage, surrounded by the elfin troop, and on and on they went, over bold mountains, over little hills, over the deep blue swilly, over towns and cottages, when people were burning nuts and eating apples and keeping merry Halloween. It seemed to Jamie that they flew all round Ireland before they got to Dublin.
This is Derry, said the fairies, flying over the cathedral spire, and what was said by one voice was repeated by all the rest, till fifty little voices were crying out, Derry! Derry! Derry! In like manner was Jamie informed as they passed over each town on the route, and at length he heard the silvery voices cry, Dublin! Dublin! It was no mean dwelling that was to be honored by the fairy visit, but one of the finest houses in Stephen's Green. The troop dismounted near a window, and Jamie saw a beautiful face, on a pillow in a splendid bed. He saw the young lady lifted and carried away, while the stick which was dropped in her place on the bed took her exact form. The lady was placed before one rider, and carried a short way, then given another, and the names of the towns were cried out as before.
They were approaching home. Jamie heard Rathmullen, Milford, Tammany, and then he knew they were near his own house. "'You've all had your turn at carrying the young lady,' said he. "'Why wouldn't I get her for a wee piece?' "'Ay, Jamie,' replied they pleasantly, "'you may take your turn at carrying her, to be sure.' Holding his prize very tightly, he dropped down near his mother's door. "'Jamie Friel! Jamie Friel! Is that the way you treat us?' cried they, and they too dropped down near the door. Jamie held fast, though he knew not what he was holding, for the little folk turned the lady into all sorts of strange shapes. At one moment she was a black dog, barking and trying to bite, at another a glowing bar of iron, which yet had no heat.
Then, again, a sack of wool. But still Jamie held her, and the baffled elves were turning away. When a tiny woman, the smallest of the party, exclaimed, Jamie Friel has her away fra us. But he shall ha' no good of her, for I'll make her deaf and dumb. And she threw something over the young girl. When they rode off disappointed, Jamie lifted the latch and went in. "'Jamie, man,' cried his mother, "'you've been away all night. What have they done on you?' "'Nothing bad, mother. I had the very best of good luck. Here's a beautiful young lady I have brought you for company.' "'Bless and save us!' exclaimed the mother, and for some minutes she was so astonished that she could not think of anything else to say.
Jamie told his story of the night's adventure, ending by saying, "'Surely you would not have allowed me to let her gang with them to be lost forever.' "'But a lady, Jamie, how can a lady eat with a poor diet and live with a poor way? I ask you that, you foolish fellow.' "'Weel, mother, sure it's better for her to be here nor over yonder,' and he pointed in the direction of the castle. Meanwhile the deaf and dumb girl shivered in her light clothing, stepping close to the humble turf fire. "'Poor Craither, she's quare and handsome. Nae wonder they set their hearts on her,' said the old woman, gazing at her guest with pity and admiration. "'We maun dress her first, but what, in the name of fortune, how I fit for the likes of her to wear?' She went to her press in the room, and took out her Sunday gown of brown dugget.
She then opened a drawer, and drew forth a pair of white stockings, a long snowy garment of fine linen, and a cap, her dead dress, as she called it. These articles of attire had long been ready for a certain treased ceremony, in which she would some day fill the chief part, and only saw the light occasionally, when they were hung out to air. But she was willing to give even these to the fair trembling visitor, who was turning in dumb sorrow and wonder from her to Jamie, and from Jamie back to her. The poor girl suffered herself to be dressed, then sat down on a creepy in the chimney corner, and buried her face in her hands. "'What'll we do to keep up a lady like thou?' cried the old woman. "'I'll work for you both, mother,' replied the son.
"'And how could a lady live on we're poor diet?' she repeated. I'll work for her, was all Jamie's answer. He kept his word. The young lady was very sad for a long time, and tears stole down her cheeks many an evening, while the old woman spun by the fire, and Jamie made salmon nets, an accomplishment lately acquired by him, in hopes of adding to the comfort of his guest. But she was always gentle, and tried to smile when she perceived them looking at her, and by degrees she adapted herself to their ways and mode of life. It was not very long before she began to feed the pig, mash potatoes and meal for the fowls, and knit blue worsted socks. So a year passed, and Halloween came round again. Mother, said Jamie, taking down his cap, I'm off to the old castle to seek my fortune.
Are you mad, Jamie? cried his mother in terror. Sure, they'll kill you this time for what you done on them last year. Jamie made light of her fears and went his way. As he reached the Crabtree Grove, He saw bright lights in the castle windows as before, and heard loud talking. Creeping under the window, he heard the wee folk say, "'That was a poor trick Jamie Friel played us this night last year, when he stole the nice young lady from us.'" Aye," said the tiny woman, and I punished him for it, for there she sits, a dumb image by his hearth, and he does now know that three drops out of this glass I hold in my hand would give her her hearing and her speeches back again. Jamie's heart beat fast as he entered the hall.
Again he was greeted by a chorus of welcomes from the company. Here comes Jamie Friel. Welcome, welcome, Jamie. As soon as the tumlet subsided, the little woman said, "'You be to drink our health, Jamie, out o' this glass in my hand.' Jamie snatched the glass from her and darted to the door. He never knew how he reached his cabin, but he arrived there breathless and sank on a stove by the fire. "'Your kilt surely this time, my poor boy,' said his mother. "'No, indeed. Better luck than ever this time.' And he gave the lady three drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the glass, notwithstanding his mad race over the potato field. The lady began to speak, and her first words were of thanks to Jamie.
The three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another, that long after Cock Crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were talking round the fire. Jamie, said the lady, be pleased to get me paper and pen and ink, that I may write to my father and tell him what has become of me. She wrote, but weeks passed, and she received no answer. Again and again she wrote, and still no answer. At length, she said, you must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find my father. I had no money to hire a car for you, he replied, and how can you travel to Dublin on your foot? But she implored him so much that he consented to set out with her, and walk all the way from Fanet to Dublin. It was not as easy as the ferry journey, but at last they rang the bell at the door of the house in Stephen's green.
Tell my father that his daughter is here, said she to the servant who opened the door. The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl. He had one, but she died better nor a year ago. Do you not know me, Sullivan? No, poor girl, I do not. Let me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him. Well, that's not much to ask. We'll see what can be done. In a few minutes the lady's father came to the door. Dear father," said she,,"don't you know me?" How dare you call me your father," cried the old gentleman angrily. You are an imposter. I have no daughter. Look in my face, father, and surely you'll remember me. My daughter is dead and buried. She died a long, long time ago. The old gentleman's voice changed from anger to sorrow.
You can go, he concluded. Stop, dear father, till you look at this ring on my finger. Look at your name and mine engraved on it. It certainly is my daughter's ring, but I do not know how you came by it. I fear in no honest way. "'Call my mother. She will be sure to know me,' cried the poor girl, who, by this time, was crying bitterly. "'My poor wife is beginning to forget her sorrow. She seldom speaks of her daughter now. Why should I renew her grief by reminding her of her loss?' But the young lady persevered till at last the mother was sent for. "'Mother,' she began, when the old lady came to the door, "'don't you know your daughter?' "'I have no daughter. My daughter died and was buried a long, long time ago.' "'Only look in my face, and surely you'll know me.' The old lady shook her head.
"'You have all forgotten me, but look at this mole on my neck. Surely, mother, you know me now.' "'Yes, yes,' said the mother. "'My Gracie had a mole on her neck like that. But then I saw her in her coffin, and saw the lid shut down upon her.' It became Jamie's turn to speak, and he gave the history of the fairy journey. Of the theft of the young lady, of the figure he had seen laid in its place, of her life with his mother and Phanet, of last Halloween, of the three drops that had released her from her enchantment. She took up the story when he paused, and told how kind the mother and son had been to her. The parents could not make enough of Jamie. They treated him with every distinction, and when he expressed his wish to return to Phanet, said they did not know what to do to show their gratitude.
But an awkward complication arose. The daughter would not let him go without her. If Jamie goes, I'll go, too," she said. He saved me from the fairies, and has worked for me ever since. If it had not been for him, dear father and mother, you would never have seen me again. If he goes, I'll go, too." This being her resolution, the old gentleman said that Jamie should become his son-in-law. The mother was brought from Fanet in a coach and four, and there was a splendid wedding. They all lived together in the Grand Dublin House, and Jamie was heir to untold wealth at his father-in-law's death.
The Stolen Child. W. B. Yeats. Where dips the rocky highland of sleuthwood in the lake, there lies a leafy island where flapping herons wake. The drowsy water-rats, there we've hid our fairy vats, full of berries and of reddest stolen cherries. Come away, O human child. To the woods and waters wild, With a fairy hand in hand, For the world's more full of weeping Than you can understand. Where the wave of moonlight glosses The dim gray sands with light, Far off by furthest rosses We footed all the night, Weaving olden dances, Mingling hands and mingling glances, Till the moon has taken flight, To and fro we leap. And chased the frothy bubbles While the world is full of troubles And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child, To the woods and waters wild With a fairy hand in hand For the world's more full of weeping Than you can understand. Where the wandering water gushes From the hills above Glencar In pools among the rushes That could scarce bathe a star We seek for slumbering trout And whispering in their ears, we give them evil dreams, Leaning softly out from ferns that drop their tears Of dew on the young streams. Come, O human child, to the woods and waters wild, With a fairy hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping Than you can understand. Away with us he's going, the solemn-eyed, He'll hear no more the lowing. Of the calves on the warm hillside, Or the kettle on the hob sing peace into his breast, Or see the brown mice bob round and round the oatmeal chest, For he comes, the human End, Section 8.
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10 09 - The Merrow The Soul Cages 27:04
The Trooping Faroes. The Marrow. The Marrow, or if you write it in Irish, Mork to Morkach, from where, see, and Oich, a maid, is not uncommon, they say, on the wilder coasts. The fishermen do not like to see them, for it always means coming gales. The male Marrows, if you can use such a phrase—I have never heard the masculine of Marrow—have green teeth, green hair, pig's eyes, and red noses. But their women are beautiful, for all their fish-tails and little duck-like scale between their fingers. Sometimes they prefer—small blame to them—good-looking fishermen to their sea-lovers. Near Bantry, in the last century, there is said to have been a woman covered all over with scales like a fish, who was descended from such a marriage.
Sometimes they come out of the sea, and wander about the shore in the shape of little hornless cows. They have, when in their own shape, a red cap, called a colindruth, usually covered with feathers. If this is stolen, they cannot again go down under the waves. Red is the color of magic in every country. and has been so from the very earliest times. The caps of fairies and magicians are well-nigh always red. The Soul Cages, T. Croft & Croker. Jack Dougherty lived on the coast of the County Clare. Jack was a fisherman, as his father and grandfather before him had been. Like them, too, he lived all alone, but for the wife, and just in the same spot. People used to wonder why the Dogherty family were so fond of that wild situation, so far away from all humankind, and in the midst of huge shattered rocks, with nothing but the wide ocean to look upon.
But they had their own good reasons for it. The place was just the only spot on that part of the coast where anybody could well live. There was a neat little creek where a boat might lie as snug as a puffin in her nest, and out from this creek a ledge of sunken rocks ran into the sea. Now when the Atlantic, according to custom, was raging with a storm, and a good westerly wind was blowing strong on the coast, many a richly laden ship went to pieces on these rocks, and then the fine bales of cotton and tobacco, and such like things, and the pipes of wine, and the punch-ons of rum, and the casks of brandy, and the kegs of hollands that used to come ashore. Dunbeg Bay was just like a little estate to the Dogerties.
Not, but they were kind and humane to a distressed sailor, if ever one had the good luck to get to land, and many a time, indeed, Jack put out in his little corrig, which, though not quite equal to honest Andrew Hennessy's canvas lifeboat, would breast the billows like any gannet, to lend a hand toward bringing off the crew from a wreck. But when the ship had gone to pieces, and the crew were all lost, who would blame Jack for picking up all he could find? "'And who is the worse of it?' said he. "'For as to the king, God bless him, everybody knows he's rich enough already without getting what's floating in the sea.' Jack, though such a hermit, was a good-natured jolly fellow. No other, sure, could have coaxed Biddy Mahoney to quit her father's snug and warm house in the middle of the town of Ennis, and to go so many miles off to live among the rocks, with the seals and the sea-gulls for next-door neighbors.' But Biddy knew that Jack was the man for a woman who wished to be comfortable and happy, for, to say nothing of the fish, Jack had the supplying of half the gentlemen's houses of the country with the godsends that came into the bay.
And she was right in her choice, for no woman ate, drank, or slept better, or made a prouder appearance at chapel on Sundays, than Mrs. Dougherty. Many a strange sight, it may well be supposed, did Jack see, and many a strange sound did he hear. But nothing daunted him. So far was he from being afraid of marrows, or such beings, that the very first wish of his heart was to fairly meet with one. Jack had heard that they were mighty like Christians, and that luck had always come out of an acquaintance with them. Never, therefore, did he dimly discern the marrows moving along the face of the waters in their robes of mist, but he made straight for them, and many a scolding did Biddy, in her own quiet way, bestow upon Jack for spending his whole day out at sea.
and bringing home no fish. Little did poor Biddy know the fish Jack was after. It was rather annoying to Jack that, though living in a place where the marrows were as plenty as lobsters, he never could get a right view of one. What vexed him more was that both his father and grandfather had often and often seen them, and he even remembered hearing, when a child, how his grandfather, who was the first of the family that had settled down at the creek, had been so intimate with a marrow that Only for fear of vexing the priest he would have had one stand for one of his children. This, however, Jack did not well know how to believe. Fortune, at length, began to think it was only right that Jack should know as much as his father and grandfather did.
Accordingly, one day, when he had strolled a little farther than usual along the coast to the northward, just as he had turned a point, he saw something, like to nothing he had ever seen before, perched upon a rock at a little distance out to sea. It looked green in the body, as well as he could discern at that distance, and he would have sworn, only the thing was impossible, that it had a cocked hat in its hand. Jack stood for a good half-hour straining his eyes, and wondering at it, and all the time the thing did not stir hand or foot. At last Jack's patience was quite worn out, and he gave a loud whistle and a hail, when the marrow, for such it was, started up, put the cocked hat on its head.
and dived down, head foremost, from the rock.
Jack's curiosity was now excited, and he constantly directed his steps toward the point. Still he could never get a glimpse of the sea gentleman with the cocked hat, and with thinking and thinking about the matter, he began at last to fancy he had been only dreaming. One very rough day, however, when the sea was running mountains high, Jack Dogherty determined to give a look at the Marrow's Rock. For he had always chosen a fine day before. And then he saw the strange thing cutting capers upon the top of the rock, and then diving down, and then coming up, and then diving down again. Jack had now only to choose his time, that is, a good blowing day, and he might see the man of the sea as often as he pleased.
All this, however, did not satisfy him. Much will have more. He wished now to get acquainted with the marrow, and even in this he succeeded. One tremendous blustering day, before he got to the point whence he had a view of the Marrow's Rock, the storm came on so furiously that Jack was obliged to take shelter in one of the caves, which are so numerous along the coast, and there, to his astonishment, he saw setting before him a thing with green hair, long green teeth, a red nose, and pig's eyes.
It had a fish's tail, Legs with scales on them, and short arms like fins. It wore no clothes, but had the cocked hat under its arm, and seemed engaged thinking very seriously about something. Jack, with all his courage, was a little daunted. But now or never, thought he, so up he went boldly to the cogitating fishman, took off his hat, and made his best bow. "'Your servant, sir,' said Jack. "'Your servant kindly, Jack Doggerty,' answered the Marrow. "'To be sure, then, how well your honour knows my name,' said Jack. "'Is it I not know your name, Jack Doggarty? Why, man, I knew your grandfather, long before he was married to Judy Regan, your grandmother. Ah, Jack, Jack, I was fond of that grandfather of yours.
He was a mighty worthy man in his time. I never met his match above or below, before or since, for sucking in a shellful of brandy.' "'I hope, my boy,' said the old fellow, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, "'I hope you're his own grandson.' "'Never fear me for that,' said Jack. "'If my mother had reared me on brandy, "'tis myself that would be a sucking infant this hour.' "'Well, I like to hear you talk so manly. "'You and I must be better acquainted. "'If it were only for your grandfather's sake. "'But, Jack, that father of yours was not the thing. "'He had no head at all.' "'I'm sure,' said Jack, "'since your honour lives down under the water, you must be obliged to drink a power to keep any heat in you in such a cruel, damp, cold place.
Well, I've often heard of Christians drinking like fishes, and might I be so bold as to ask where you get the spirits?' "'Where do you get them yourself, Jack?' said the Marrow, twitching his red nose between his forefinger and thumb. "'Hub-ba-boos!' cries Jack. Now I see how it is, but I suppose, sir, your honour has got a fine dry cellar below to keep them in. Let me alone for the cellar, said the Merrow, with a knowing wink of his left eye. I'm sure, continued Jack, it must be mighty well worth the looking at. You may say that, Jack, said the Merrow, and if you meet me here next Monday, just at this time of the day, we will have a little more talk with one another about the matter. Jack and the Merrow parted the best friends in the world.
On Monday they met, and Jack was not a little surprised to see that the marrow had two cocked hats with him, one under each arm. "'Might I take the liberty to ask, sir,' said Jack, "'why, Your Honour, has brought the two hats with you to-day. You would not, sure, be going to give me one of them to keep for the curiosity of the thing?' "'No, no,' said he. "'I don't get my hats so easily to part with them that way. But I want you to come down and dine with me, and I brought you the hat to dine with.'" Lord bless and preserve us, cried Jack in amazement. Would you want me to go down to the bottom of the Salt Sea Ocean? Sure, I'd be smothered and choked up with the water, to say nothing of being drowned.
And what would poor Biddy do for me? What would she say? And what matter what she says, you Pinkeen? Who cares for Biddy's squalling? It's long before your grandfather would have talked in that way. Many's the time he stuck that same hat on his head and dived down boldly after me, and many's the snug bit of dinner and good shelfful of brandy he and I have had together below, under the water. Is it really, sir, and no joke, said Jack? Why, then, sorrow from me forever and a day after, if I'll be a bit worse man nor my grandfather was. Here goes, but play me fair now. Here's neck or nothing," cried Jack. That's your grandfather all over, said the old fellow, so come along then, and do as I do. They both left the cave, walked into the sea, and then swam a piece until they got to the rock.
The merrill climbed to the top of it, and Jack followed him. On the far side it was as straight as the wall of a house, and the sea beneath looked so deep that Jack was almost cowed. Now, do you see, Jack? said the Marrow. Just put this hat on your head, and mine to keep your eyes wide open. Take hold of my tail and follow after me, and you'll see what you'll see. In he dashed, and in dashed Jack after him boldly. They went and they went, and Jack thought they'd never stop going. Many a time did he wish himself sitting at home by the fireside with Biddy. Yet where was the use of wishing now, when he was so many miles, as he thought, below the waves of the Atlantic? Still he held hard by the marrow's tail, slippery as it was, and, at last, to Jack's great surprise, they got out of the water, and he actually found himself on dry land at the bottom of the sea.
They landed just in front of an ice-house that was slated very neatly with oyster shells, and the marrow, turning about to Jack, welcomed him down. Jack could hardly speak, what with wonder, and what with being out of breath with travelling so fast through the water. He looked about him and could see no living things, barring crabs and lobsters, of which there were plenty walking leisurely about on the sand. Overhead was the sea like a sky, and the fishes like birds swimming about in it. "'Why don't you speak, man?' said the Marrow. "'I dare say you had no notion that I had such a snug little concern here as this. Are you smothered or choked or drowned, or are you fretting after Biddy, eh?' "'Oh, not myself indeed,' said Jack, showing his teeth with a good-humoured grin.
"'But who in the world would ever have thought of seeing such a thing? Well, come along, and let's see what they've got for us to eat.' Jack really was hungry, and it gave him no small pleasure to perceive a fine column of smoke rising from the chimney, announcing what was going on within. Into the house he followed the marrow, and there he saw a good kitchen, right well provided with everything. There was a noble dresser, and plenty of pots and pans, with two young Marrows cooking. His host then led him into the room, which was furnished shabbily enough. Not a table or a chair was there in it, nothing but planks and logs of wood to set on and eat off. There was, however, a good-sized fire blazing upon the hearth, a comfortable sight to Jack.
"'Come now, and I'll show you where I keep.' "'You know what,' said the Marrow, with a sly look, and opening a little door. He led Jack into a fine cellar. Well filled with pipes and kegs and hogsheads and barrels. What do you say to that, Jack Doggarty, eh? Maybe a body can't live snug under the water. Never the doubt of that, said Jack, with convincing smack of his underlip, that he really thought what he said. They went back to the room, and found dinner laid. There was no tablecloth, to be sure, but what matter? It was not always Jack had one at home. The dinner would have been no discredit to the first house of the country on a fast day. The choicest of fish, and no wonder, was there. Turbots and sturgeons and soles, and lobsters and oysters, and twenty other kinds, were on the planks at once, and plenty of the best of foreign spirits.
The wines, the old fellow said, were too cold for his stomach. Jack ate and drank till he could eat no more, then, taking up a shell of brandy. "'Here's to your honour's good health, sir,' said he. "'Though, begging your pardon, it's mighty odd that as long as we've been acquainted I don't know your name yet.'" That's true, Jack, replied he. I never thought of it before, but better late than never. My name's Kumara. And a decent name it is, cried Jack, taking another shellful. Here's to your good health, Kumara, and may ye live these fifty years to come. Fifty years, repeated Kumara, I'm obliged to you indeed. If you had said five hundred, it would have been something worth the wishing. "'By the laws, sir,' cries Jack.
"'Yous live to a powerful age here under the water. You knew my grandfather, and he's dead and gone better nor these sixty years. I'm sure it must be a healthy place to live in.' "'No doubt of it, but come, Jack, keep the liquor stirring.' Shell after shell did they empty, and to Jack's exceeding surprise, he found the drink never got into his head, owing, I suppose, to the sea being over them, which kept their noddles cool. Old Kumaro got exceedingly comfortable, and sung several songs, but Jack, if his life had depended on it, never could remember more than, Rum-fum-boodle-boo, Ripple-dipple-nitty-dob, Dum-doo-doodle-coo, Raffle-taffle-chilly-boo. It was the chorus to one of them, and to say the truth, nobody that I know has ever been able to pick any particular meaning out of it, but that, to be sure, is the case with many a song nowadays.
At length he said to Jack, Now, my dear boy, if you follow me, I'll show you my curiosities. He opened a little door and led Jack into a large room, where Jack saw a great many odds and ends that Kumara had picked up at one time or another. What chiefly took his attention, however, were things like lobster pots ranged on the ground all along the wall. Well, Jack, how do you like my curiosities? said old Q. "'Upon my sokins, sir,' said Jack. "'They're mighty well worth the looking at. But might I make so bold as to ask what these things like lobster-pots are?' "'Oh, the soul-cages, is it?' "'The what, sir?' "'These things here that I keep the souls in.' "'Ara! What souls, sir?' cried Jack in amazement.
"'Sure the fish have no souls in them.' "'Oh, no,' replied Coo, quite coolly. "'They have not. But these are the souls of drowned sailors.' The Lord preserve us from all harm, muttered Jack. How in the world did you get them? Easily enough. I've only, when I see a good storm coming on, to set a couple dozen of these, and then, when the sailors are drowned and the souls get out of them under the water, the poor things are almost perished to death, not being used to the cold, so they make into my pots for shelter, and then I have them snug and fetch them home, and keep them here dry and warm. And is it not well for them poor souls to get into such good quarters?" Jack was so thunderstruck he did not know what to say, so he said nothing.
They went back into the dining-room, and had a little more brandy, which was excellent, and then, as Jack knew it must be getting late, and as Biddy might be uneasy, he stood up and said he thought it was time for him to be on the road. "'Just as you like, Jack,' said Koo. "'But take a duca d'Iris. Before you go, you've a cold journey before you.' Jack knew better manners than to refuse the parting glass. "'I wonder,' said he, "'will I be able to make out my way home?' "'What should ail you?' said Coo, "'when I'll show you the way.' Out they went before the house, and Coomara took one of the cocked hats, and put it upon Jack's head the wrong way, and then lifted him up on his shoulder that he might launch him up into the water.
"'Now,' says he, giving him a heave, "'you'll come up just in the same spot you came down in, and Jack—mind and throw me back the hat.' He canted Jack off his shoulder, and up he shot like a bubble. Whir, whir, whiz. Away he went up through the water till he came to the very rock he had jumped off, where he found a landing-place, and then he threw in the hat, which sunk like a stone. The sun was just going down in the beautiful sky of a calm summer's evening. Fiskor was seen dimly twinkling in the cloudless heaven, a solitary star, and the waves of the Atlantic flashed in a golden flood of light. So Jack, perceiving it was late, set off home. But when he got there, not a word did he say to Biddy, of where he had spent his day.
The state of the poor souls cooped up in the lobster-pots gave Jack a great deal of trouble, and how to release them cost him a great deal of thought. He at first had a mind to speak to the priest about the matter, but what could the priest do, and what did Koo care for the priest? Besides, Koo was a good sort of old fellow, and did not think he was doing any harm. Jack had a regard for him, too, and it also might not be much to his own credit if it were known that he used to go dine with Marrows. On the whole, he thought his best plan would be to ask Koo to dinner, and to make him drunk, if he were able, and then to take the hat and go down and turn up the pots. It was, first of all, necessary, however, to get Biddy out of the way, for Jack was prudent enough, as she was a woman, to wish to keep the thing secret from her.
Accordingly, Jack grew mighty pious all of a sudden, and said to Biddy he thought it would be for the good of both their souls if she was to go and take her rounds at St. John's Well near Annis. Biddy thought so, too, and accordingly off she set one fine morning at day-dawn, giving Jack a strict charge to have an eye to the place. The coast being clear, away went Jack to the rock to give the appointed signal to Kumara, which was throwing a big stone into the water. Jack threw, and up sprang Ku. "'Good morning, Jack,' said he. "'What do you want with me?' "'Just nothing at all to speak about, sir,' returned Jack, "'only to come and take a bit of dinner with me, "'if I might make so free as to ask you, "'and sure I'm now after doing so.' "'I'm quite agreeable, Jack, I assure you.
"'What's your hour?' "'Any time that's most convenient to you, sir. "'Say one o'clock, that you may go home, "'if you wish, with the daylight.' "'I'll be with you,' said Koo. "'Never fear me.' Jack went home and dressed a noble fish dinner. And got out plenty of his best foreign spirits, enough for that matter to make twenty men drunk. Just to the minute came Coo, with his cocked hat under his arm. Dinner was ready, they sat down, and ate and drank away manfully. Jack, thinking of the poor soul's blow in the pots, plied old Coo well with Brandy, and encouraged him to sing, hoping to put him under the table. But poor Jack forgot he had not the sea over his own head to keep it cool. The Brandy got into it, and did his business for him.
And Koo reeled off home, leaving his entertainer as dumb as a haddock on a good Friday. Jack never woke till the next morning, and then he was in a sad way. "'Tis to no use for me to be thinking to make that old raparee drunk," said Jack. "'And how in this world can I help the poor souls out of the lobster-pots?" After ruminating nearly the whole day, a thought struck him. "'I have it,' says he, slapping his knee. I'll be sworn that Koo never saw a drop of poutine, as old as he is, and that's the thing to settle him. Oh, then, is it not well that Biddy will not be home these two days yet? I can have another twist at him." Jack asked Koo again, and Koo laughed at him for having no better head, telling him he'd never come up to his grandfather.
Well, but try me again, said Jack, and I'll be bailed to drink you drunk and sober and drunk again. Anything in my power, said Koo, to oblige you. At this dinner, Jack took care to have his own liquor well watered, and to give the strongest brandy he had to Koo. At last, says he, pray, sir, did you ever drink any poteen, any real Mountain Dew? No, says Koo. What's that, and where does it come from? Oh, that's a secret, said Jack, but it's the right stuff. Never believe me again if it's not fifty times as good as brandy or rum either. Biddy's brother just sent me a present of a little drop, in exchange for some brandy. And as you're an old friend of the family, I kept it to treat you with. Well, let's see what sort of thing it is," said Kumara.
The poteen was the right sort. It was first-rate, and had the real smack upon it. Ku was delighted. He drank and he sung Rum Bum Boodle Boo over and over again, and he laughed and he danced till he fell on the floor fast asleep. Then Jack, who had taken good care to keep himself sober, snapped up the cock-tat, ran off to the rock, leaped in, and soon arrived at Coos' habitation. All was as still as a churchyard at midnight, not a marrow, old or young, was there. In he went and turned up the pots, but nothing did he see, only he heard a sort of little whistle or chirp as he raised each of them. At this he was surprised, till he recollected what the priests had often said, that nobody living could see the soul, no more than they could see the wind or the air.
Having now done all he could do for them, he set the pots as they were before, and sent a blessing after the poor souls to speed them on their journey wherever they were going. Jack now began to think of returning. He put the hat on, as was right, the wrong way. But when he got out, he found the water so high over his head that he had no hopes of ever getting up into it, and now that he had not old Kumara to give him a lift. He walked about looking for a ladder, but not one could he find, and not a rock was there in sight. At last he saw a spot where the sea hung rather lower than anywhere else, so he resolved to try there. Just as he came to it, a big cod happened to put down his tail. Jack made a jump and caught hold of it, and the cod, all in amazement, gave a bounce and pulled Jack up.
The minute the hat touched the water away Jack was whisked, and up he shot like a cork, dragging the poor cod that he forgot to let go, up with him, tail foremost. He got to the rock in no time, and without a moment's delay hurried home, rejoicing in the good deed he had done. But meanwhile there was fine work at home, for our friend Jack had hardly left the house on his soul-freeing expedition, when back came Biddy from her soul-saving one to the well. When she entered the house and saw the things lying on the table before her, here's a pretty job, said she, that blackguard of mine, what ill luck I had to ever marry him. He has picked up some vagabond or other while I was praying for the good of his soul, and they've been drinking all the poteen that my own brother gave him, and all the spirits to be sure, that he was to have sold to his honour.
Then, hearing an outlandish kind of grunt, she looked down and saw Kumara lying under the table. The Blessed Virgin help me," shouted she, if he has not made a real beast of himself. Well, well, I have often heard of a man making a beast of himself with drink. Ohona, ohona! Jack, honey, what will I do with you, or what will I do without you? How can any decent woman ever think of living with a beast? With such like lamentations Biddy rushed out of the house, and was going she knew not where, when she heard the well-known voice of Jack singing a merry tune. Glad enough was Biddy to find him safe and sound, and not turned into a thing that was neither fish nor flesh. Jack was obliged to tell her all, and Biddy, though she had half a mind to be angry with him for not telling her before, owned that he had done a great service to the poor souls.
Back they both went most lovingly to the house, and Jack wakened up Kumara, and perceiving the old fellow to be rather dull. He bid him not be cast down, for twas many a good man's case, said it all came of his not being used to the poteen, and recommended him, by way of a cure, to swallow a hair of the dog that bit him. Koo, however, seemed to think he had had quite enough. He got up, quite out of sorts, and without having the manners to say one word in the way of civility, he sneaked off to cool himself by a jaunt through the salt water. Kumara never missed the souls. He and Jack continued to be the best friends in the world, and no one, perhaps ever, equaled Jack for freeing souls from purgatory, for he contrived fifty excuses for getting into the house below the sea, unknown to the old fellow, and then turning up the pots and letting out the souls.
It vexed him to be sure that he could never see them, but as he knew the thing to be impossible, he was obliged to be satisfied. Their intercourse continued for several years. However, one morning, on Jack's throwing in a stone as usual, he got no answer. He flung another, and another. Still there was no reply. He went away and returned the following morning, but it was to no purpose. As he was without the hat, he could not go down to see what had become of old Coo, but his belief was that the old man, or the old fish, or whatever he was, had either died or had removed from that part of the country. End section nine.
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11 10 - Flory Cantillon's Funeral 7:56
FLOORI CANTILON'S FUNERAL. T. Crofton Croker. The ancient burial-place of the Cantillon family was on an island in Valley High Bay. This island was situated at no great distance from the shore, and at a remote period was overflowed in one of the encroachments which the Atlantic has made on that part of the coast of Kerry. The fishermen declare they have often seen the ruined walls of an old chapel beneath them in the water, as they sailed over the clear green sea of a sunny afternoon. However this may be, it is well known that the Cantillons were, like most other Irish families, strongly attached to their ancient burial place. And this attachment led to the custom, when any of the family died, of carrying the corpse at the seaside, where the coffin was left on the shore within reach of the tide.
In the morning it had disappeared, being, as was traditionally believed, conveyed away by the ancestors of the deceased to their family tomb. Connor Crowe, a County Clare man, was related to the Cantillons by marriage. Conor Macken Crow, of the Seven Quarters of Brontrag, as he was commonly called, and a proud man he was of the name. Conor, be it known, would drink a quart of salt water, for its medicinal virtues, before breakfast, and for the same reason, I suppose, double that quantity of raw whisky between breakfast and night, which last he did with as little inconvenience to himself as any man in the barony of Moifurta. And were I to add, clandere, relais, and imbracan. I don't think I should say wrong.
On the death of Florence Cantillon, Connor Crowe was determined to satisfy himself about the truth of this story of the old church under the sea. So when he heard the news of the old fellow's death, away with him to Ardfert, where Flory was laid out in high style, and a beautiful corpse he made. Flory had been as jolly and as rollicking a boy in his day as ever was stretched, and his wake was in every respect worthy of him. There were all kind of entertainment and all sort of diversion at it, and no less than three girls got husbands there, more luck to them. Everything was as it should be, all that side of the country, from Dingle to Tarbert, was at the funeral. The kine was sung long and bitterly, and, according to the family custom, the coffin was carried to Ballyhai Strand, where it was laid upon the shore, with a prayer for the repose of the dead.
The mourners departed, one group after another, And at last Connor Crowe was left alone. He then pulled out his whiskey-bottle, his drop of comfort, as he called it, which he required, being in grief, and down he sat upon a big stone that was sheltered by a projecting rock, and partly concealed from view, to await with patience the appearance of the ghostly undertakers.
The evening came on mild and beautiful. He whistled an old air which he had heard in his childhood. Hoping to keep idle fears out of his head. But the wild strain of that melody brought a thousand recollections with it, which only made the twilight appear more pensive. "'If t'was near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own sweet country I was,' said Connor Crowe with a sigh, one might well believe that the prisoners who were murdered long ago there in the vaults under the castle would be the hands to carry off the coffin out of envy." For never a one of them was buried decently, nor had as much as a coffin amongst them all. "'Tis often, sure enough, I have heard lamentations and great mourning coming from the vaults of Dunmore Castle."
But, continued he, after fondly pressing his lips to the mouth of his companion and silent comforter, the whiskey-bottle, didn't I know all the time well enough? "'Twas the dismal-sounding waves working through the cliffs and hollows of the rocks, and fretting themselves to foam. O, then, Dunmore Castle, it is you that are the gloomy-looking tower on a gloomy day, with the gloomy hills behind you, when one has gloomy thoughts on their heart, and sees you like a ghost rising out of the smoke made by the kelp-burners on the strand. There is, the Lord save us, as fearful a look about you as about the blue man's lake at midnight. Well, then, anyhow, said Connor, after a pause, is it not a blessed night, though surely the moon looks mighty pale in the face?
St. Chenin himself between us in all kinds of harm. It was, in truth, a lovely moonlight night. Nothing was to be seen around but the dark rocks and the white pebbly beach, upon which the sea broke with a hoarse and melancholy murmur. Conor, notwithstanding his frequent draughts, felt rather queerish, and almost began to repeat his curiosity. It was certainly a solemn sight to behold the black coffin resting upon the white strand. His imagination gradually converted the deep moaning of old Ocean into a morning wail for the dead, and from the shadowy recesses of the rocks he imagined forth strange and visionary forms. As the night advanced, Connor became weary with watching. He caught himself more than once in the act of nodding.
When suddenly giving his head a shake, he would look towards the black coffin, but the narrow house of death remained unmoved before him. It was long past midnight, and the moon was sinking into the sea when he heard the sound of many voices, which gradually became stronger, above the heavy and monstrous roll of the sea. He listened, and presently could distinguish a keen of exquisite sweetness, the notes of which rose and fell with the heaving of the waves, whose deep murmur mingled with and supported the strain. The keen grew louder and louder, and seemed to approach the beach. and then fell into a low plaintive wail. As it ended, Connery beheld a number of strange, and in the dim light, mysterious-looking figures emerge from the sea, and surround the coffin, which they prepared to launch into the water.
"'This comes of marrying with the creatures of the earth,' said one of the figures, in a clear yet hollow tone. "'True,' replied another, with a voice still more fearful, Our king would never have commanded his gnawing white-toothed waves to devour the rocky roots of the island cemetery, had not his daughter Drifula been buried there by her mortal husband. But the time will come," said a third, bending over the coffin, when mortal eye our work shall spy, and mortal ear our dirge shall hear. Then, said a fourth, our burial of the Cantillons is at an end for ever. As this was spoken, the coffin was borne from the beach by a retiring wave, and the company of sea-people prepared to follow it. But at the moment one chanced to discover Connor Crowe, as fixed with wonder and as motionless with fear as the stone on which he sat.
"'The time is come,' cried the unearthly being. "'The time is come. A human eye looks on the forms of ocean. A human ear has heard their voices.' Farewell to the Cantillons. The sons of the sea are no longer doomed to bury the dust of the earth. One after the other turned slowly round, and regarded Connor Crowe, who still remained as if bound by a spell. Again arose their funeral song, and on the next wave they followed the coffin. The sound of the lamentation died away, and at length nothing was heard but the rush of waters. The coffin and the train of sea-people sank over the old churchyard. And never since the funeral of old Flory Cantillon have any of the family been carried to the Strand of Ballyhai for conveyance to their rightful burial-place beneath the waves of the Atlantic.
End of the
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12 11 - The Solitary Fairies -The Lepracaun, or, Fairy Shoemaker 3:38
Edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. Section 11. The Leprechaun or Fairy Shoemaker. William Allingham. Little cowboy, what have you heard? Up on the lonely wrath's green mound? Only the plaintive yellow bird, sighing in sultry fields around. Chari, chari, chari, chee-ee. Only the grasshopper and the bee? Tip, tap, rip, rap, tick-a-tack-a-too. Scarlet leather. Sewn together. This will make a shoe. Left, right. Pull it tight. Summer days are warm. Underground in winter. Laughing at the storm. Lay your ear close to the hill. Do you not catch the tiny clamor? Busy click of an elfin hammer. Voice of the leprechaun singing shrill as he merrily plies his trade. He's a span and a quarter in height. Get him in sight, hold him tight, and you're a made man.
Two. Watch your cattle the summer day. Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay. How would you like to roll in your carriage? Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage. Seize the shoemaker, then you may. Big boots a-hunting, sandals in the hall. White for a wedding feast, pink for a ball. This way... That way, so we make a shoe, getting rich every stitch, tick-tack-toe. Nine and ninety treasure crocks, this keen miser-fairy hath, hid in mountains, woods and rocks, ruin and roundtower, cave and wrath, and where the comorants build, from times of old, guarded by him, each of them filled, full to the brim with gold. Three. I caught him at work one day myself, in the castle ditch where Foxglove grows, a wrinkled, wizened, and bearded elf, spectacles stuck on his pointed nose, silver buckles to his hose, leather apron, shoe in his lap, rip, rap, tip, tap, tick, tack, to, a grasshopper on my cap, away the moth flew.
Buskins for a fairy prince, brogues for his son. Pay me well, pay me well, when the job is done. The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt. I stared at him, he stared at me. Servant, sir! Humph, says he, and pulled a snuff-box out. He took a long pinch, looked better pleased. The queer little leprechaun offered the box with a whimsical grace. Poof! He flung the dust in my face, and while I sneezed, was gone.
Yellow Bird, the Yellow Bunting, or Jorlin.
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13 12 - Master and Man - Far Darrig in Donegal 27:47
B. Yeats. Master and Man. D. Crofton Crooker. Billy McDaniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his broke at a patron.
A festival held in honor of some patron saint.
Emptied a quart or handled a shillie.
Fearing for nothing but the want of drink, caring for nothing but who should pay for it, and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it. Drunk or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy McDaniel, and the mighty easy way it is of either getting into, or of ending a dispute. More is the pity that, through the means of his thinking and fearing and caring for nothing, This same Billy McDaniel fell into bad company, for surely the good people are the worst of all company anyone could come across.
It so happened that Billy was going home one clear, frosty night not long after Christmas. The moon was round and bright, but although it was as fine a night as Hart could wish for, He felt pinched with cold. "'By my word,' chattered Billy, "'a drop of good liquor would be no bad thing to keep a man so from freezing in him. And I wish I had a full measure of the best.' "'Never wish it twice, Billy,' said a little man in a three-corner hat, pound all about with gold lace and with great silver buckles in his shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them, and he held out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever I looked on or lip tasted. "'Success, my little fellow,' said Billy McDaniel, nothing daunted, though well he knew the little man to belong to the good people.
"'Here's your health, anyway, and thank you kindly.'" No matter who pays for the drink. And he took the glass and drained it to the very bottom without ever taking a second breath to it. "'Success,' said the little man. "'And you're heartily welcome, Billy, but don't think to cheat me, as you have done others. Out with your purse and pay me like a gentleman.' "'Is it I pay you?' said Billy. Could I not just take up you and put you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry? Billy McDaniel, said the little man, getting very angry, you shall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way I will be paid. So make ready to follow me. When Billy heard this, he began to be very sorry for having used used such bold words towards the little man, and he felt himself, yet could not tell how, obliged to follow the little man, the lifelong night about the country, up and down, and over hedged and ditched, and through bug and bread without any rest.
When morning began to dawn, the little man turned round to him and said, "'You may now go home, Billy, but—' On your peril, don't fail to meet me in the fort field tonight. Or if you do, it may be worse for you in the long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find me an indulgent master. Home went Billy McDaniel, and though he was tired and weary enough, never a wink of sleep could he get from thinking of the little man. But he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening, and away he went for the fourth field. He was not long there before the little man came towards him and said, Billy, I want to go a long journey to-night, so saddle one of my horses, and you may saddle another for yourself, as you are to go along with me.
and may be tired after your walk last night. Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him accordingly. But, said he, if I may be so bold, sir, I would ask which is the way to your stable. For never a thing do I see but the fort here, and the old thorn-tree in the corner of the field, and the stream running at the bottom of the hill, with a Bit of bog over against us. Ask no questions, Billy, said the little man. But go over to that bit of bog and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.
Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at, and he picked two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with a little bunch of brown-blossomed duck at the sight of each, and brought them back to his master. "'Get up, Billy,' said the little man, taking one of the rushes from him and striding across it. "'Where shall I get up, please, your honour?' said Billy. "'Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure,' said the little man.
"'Is it after making a fool of me you'd be?' said Billy, bidding me. He had a horseback upon that bit of a rush.
Maybe you want to persuade me that the rush I pulled but a while ago out of the bog over there is a horse? Up, up, and no words," said the little man, looking very angry. The best horse you ever rode was but a fool to it. So, Billy, thinking all this was in joke, and fearing to... Becks his master, straddled across the rush. Boram, Boram, Boram! Quite a little man three times, which, in English, means to become great. And Billy did the same after him. Presently the rushes swelled up into fine horses, and away they went full speed. But Billy... who had put the rush between his legs without much minding how he did it, found himself sitting on horseback the wrong way, which was rather awkward, with his face to the horse's tail.
And so quickly had his teeth started off with him that he had no power to turn around, and there was therefore nothing for it but to hold on by the tail.
At last they came to their journey's end and stopped at the gate of Fine House. "'Now, Billy,' said the little man, "'do as you see me do and follow me close. But as you did not know your horse's head from his tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until you can tell whether you are standing on it or on your heels.' For remember that old liquor? Though able to make a cat speak, can make a man dumb.
The little man then said some queer kind of words, out of which Billy could make no meaning. But he contrived to say them after him for all that. And in they both went through the keyhole of the door, and through one keyhole after another, until they got into the wine cellar, which was well stored with all kinds of wine. The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and Billy, no way disliking the example, did the same. "'The best of masters are you, surely,' said Billy to him. "'No matter who is the next,' And well pleased will I be with your service if you continue to give me plenty to drink. I have made no bargain with you, said the little man, and will make none, but up and follow me.
Away they went, through keyhole after keyhole, and each mounting upon the rush which he left at the hall door, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them, like snowballs, as soon as the words, Boram, Boram, Boram, had passed their lips.
When they came back to the fort field, the little man dismissed Billy, bidding him to be there the next night, at the same hour. Thus did they go on, night after night, shaping their course one night here, and another night there? Sometimes north, and sometimes east, and sometimes south, until there was not a gentleman's wine-cellar in all Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the flavor of every wine in it as well.
A. Better than the buzzer himself.
One night, when Billy McDaniel met a little man as usual in the fort field, and was going to the bog to fetch the horses for their journey, his master said to him, Billy, I shall want another horse to-night, for maybe we may bring back more company than we take. So Billy, who now kept better than to question any order given to him by his master, brought a third rush, much wondering who it might be, that would travel back in their company, and rather he was about to have a fellow-servant. If I have, thought Billy, he shall go and fetch the horses from the bog every night, for I don't see why I am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my master.
Well, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, and never stopped until they came to a snog-farmers' house In the country, Remerick, close under the old castle of Carigogano that was built, they say, by the great Brian Bow. Within the house there was great carousing going forward, and the little man stopped outside for some time to listen. Then, turning round, all of a sudden said, Billy, I will be a thousand years old tomorrow. "'God bless us, sir,' said Billy. "'Will you?' "'Don't say those words again, Billy,' said the little old man, "'or you will be my ruin forever.' "'Now, Billy, as I will be a thousand years in the world tomorrow, "'I think it's full time for me to get married.' "'I think so, too, without any kind of doubt at all,' said Billy, "'if ever you mean to marry.' "'And to that purpose,' said the little man, "'have I come all the way to Kerry-Goganyle, "'where in this house, this very night, "'is young Darby Riley going to be married to Bridget Rooney, "'and as she is a tall and comely girl, and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her myself and taking her off with me.
"'And what will Darby Riley say to that?' said Billy. "'Silence,' said the little man, putting on a mighty severe look. "'I did not bring you here with me to ask questions.' And, without holding further argument, He began saying the queer words which had the power of passing him through the keyhole as free as air, and which Billy thought himself mighty clever to be able to say after him. In they both went, and for the better viewing the company, the little man perched himself up as nimbly as a cock-sparrow upon one of the big beams which went across the house over all their heads, And Billy did the same upon another facing him. But not being much accustomed to roosting in such a place, his legs hung down as untidy as may be.
And it was quite clear he had not taken pattern after the way in which the little man had bundled himself up together. If the little man had been a tailor all his life, he could not have sat more contentedly upon his lounges.
There they were, both master and man, looking down upon the front that was going forward. And under them were the priest and piper, and the father of Darby Riley, with Darby's two brothers, and his uncle's son. And they were both the father and the mother of Bridget Rooney, and proud enough the old couple were that night of their daughter, as good right they had, and her four sisters with brand-new ribbons in their caps, and her three brothers all looking as clean, as clever, as any three boys in Manchester, and there were uncles and aunts and gossips and cousins enough besides to make a full house of it, and plenty was there to eat and drink on the table, for every one of them, if they had been double the number.
Now it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had helped his reference to the first cut of the pig's head which was placed before her, beautiful people stirred up with White's voice that the bride gave a sneeze. which made every one at the table start. But not a soul said, "'God bless us,' all thinking that a priest would have done so, as he ought if he had done his duty. No one wished to take the word out of his mouth, which, unfortunately, was preoccupied with the pig's head and greens. And after a moment's pause, the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on without a pious benediction.
Of this circumstance, both Billy and his master were no inattentive spectators from their exalted stations. "'Ha!' exclaimed the little man, throwing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, and his eye twinkled the strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated into the curvature of God Dick. Archie's. "'Ha!' said he, leering down at the bride, and then up at Billy. "'I have half of her now, surely. Let her sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of the priest, Mass Book, and Darby Riley.' Again the fair Bridget sneezed. But it was so gently, and she blushed so much, that few except the little man took or seemed to take any notice, and no one thought of saying, God bless us.
Billie all this time regarded a poor girl with the most oof-full expression of countenance, for he could not help thinking what a terrible thing it was for a nice young girl of nineteen with large blue eyes, transparent skin, and dimpled cheeks, Suffused with health and joy to be obliged to marry an ugly little bit of a man who was a thousand years old, bearing a day. At this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and Billy rolled out with all his might, "'God save us!' Whether this exclamation resulted from his soliloquy or from the mere force of habit, He never could tell exactly himself. But no sooner was it uttered than the little man, his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung from the beam on which he had perch himself, and, shrieking out in the shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, "'I discharge you from my service, Billy McDaniel.
Take that for your wages,' gave poor Billy a most furious kick in the back. which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling upon his face and hands right in the middle of the supper-table. If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one of the company into which he was thrown with so little ceremony? But when they heard his story, Father Cooney laid down his knife and fork and married the young couple out of hand with all speed, and Billy McDaniel danced the rinca at their wedding, and plenty he did drink at it too, which was what he thought more of than dancing.
Far Daring in Donegal, Miss Leticia Macklintock.
Pet Diver, the Tinker, was a man well accustomed to wandering lives and to strange shelters. He had shared the beggar's blanket in smoky cabins. He had crouched beside a still in many a nook and corner where protein was made on the wild initial and mountains. He had even slept on the bare heather or on the ditch, with no roof over him but the vault of heaven. Yet were all his nights of adventure tame and commonplace, When compared with one especial night.
During the day preceding that night, he had mended all the kettles and saucepans in Mobile and Greencastle, and was on his way to Kudolf, when night overtook him on a lonely mountain road. He knocked at one door after another, asking for night's lodging, while he jingled the hogpans in his pocket, but was everywhere refused. Where was the boasted hospitality of initial one which he had never before known to fail? It was of no use to be able to pay when people seemed so churlish. Thus thinking, he made his way towards a light a little further on, and knocked at another cabin door.
An old man and woman were seated one at each side of the fire. Will you be pleased to give me a night's lodging, sir?" asked Pat respectfully. Can you tell a story? returned the old man. No, then, sir, I cannot say I am good at story-telling, replied the puzzled thinker. Then you moun just gane further, for none but them that can tell a story will get in here. This reply was made in so decided a tone that Pat did not attempt to repeat his appeal, but turned away reluctantly to resume his weary journey. "'A story, indeed,' muttered he. "'Old wives' fables to please the weems.' As he took up his bundle of tinkering implements, he observed a barn standing rather behind the dwelling-house, and—' Aided by the rising moon, he made his way towards it.
It was a clean, roomy barn, with a piled-up heap of straw in one corner. Here was a shelter not to be despised, so Pat crept under the straw and was soon asleep. He could not have slept very long when he was awakened by the tramp of feet, Peeping cautiously through a crevice in his straw covering, he saw four immensely tall men enter the barn, dragging a body, which they threw roughly upon the floor. They next lighted a fire in the middle of the barn, and fastened the corpse by the feet with a great rope to a beam in the roof. One of them then began to turn it slowly before the fire. Come on," said he, addressing a gigantic fellow, the tallest of the four. I'm tired. You'd be to take your turn.
Fax and Trot. I'll no turn him, replied the big man. There's Pat Diverin under the straw. Why wouldn't he take his turn? With hideous clamor, the four men called the wretched Pat, who, seeing there was no escape, Thought it was his wisest plan to come forth as he was bitten. "'Now, Pat,' said they, "'you'll turn the corpse, but if you let him burn, you'll be tied up there and roasted in his place.' Pat's hair stood on end, and a cold perspiration poured from his forehead, but there was nothing for it but to perform his dreadful task. Seeing him fairly embarked in it, the tall man went away. Soon, however, the flames rose so high as to singe the rope, and the corpse fell with a great thud upon the fire, scattering the ashes and embers, and extracting a howl of anguish from the miserable cook, who rushed to the door and ran for his life.
He ran on until he was ready to drop with fatigue, when, Seeing a drain overgrown with tall rank cross, he thought he would creep in there and lie hidden till morning. But he was not many minutes in the drain before he heard the heavy tramping again, and the four men came up with their burden, which they lay down on the edge of the drain. "'I'm tired,' said one to the giant. "'It's your turn to carry him a piece now.' Thanks, enthroth. I'll no carry him, replied he, but there's Pat Diver in the drain. Why wouldn't he come out and take his turn? Come out, Pat, come out, roared all the men, and Pat, almost dead with fright, rapped out. He staggered on under the weight of the corpse until he reached Kiltown Abbey, a rune festooned with the idea.
where the brown old hooted all night long, and the forgotten dead slapped around the walls under dance matted tangles of bambles and bandweed.
No one ever buried there now, but Pat's tall companions turned into the wild graveyard and began digging the grave. Pat, seeing them thus engaged, Thought he might once more try to escape, and climb up into a hawthorn tree in the fence, hoping to be hidden in the boughs. "'I'm tired,' said the man who was digging the grave. "'Here, dig the spade,' addressing the big man. "'It's your turn.' "'Faxon Troth, it's not my turn,' replied he as before. "'There's a pet diver in the tree. Why wouldn't he come down and take his turn?' Pet came down to take the spade.
But just then the cocks in the little farmyards and cabins round the abbey began to crow, and the men looked at one another. "'We must go,' said they. "'And well, it is for you, pet diver, that the cocks crowed, for if they had not, you'd just have been bundled into that grave with the corpse.' Two months passed. And Pat had wandered far and wide over the country down ago, when he chanced to arrive at Ruppo during a fair. Among the crowd that filled the diamond, he came suddenly on the big man. "'How are you, Pat Diver?' said he, bending down to look into the thinker's face. "'You've the advantage of me, sir, for—' I haven't the pleasure of knowing you," altered Pat. Do you not know me, Pat? whispered.
When you go back to Initial One, you'll have a story to tell.
End of Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry Section 12
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14 13 - The Piper and the Puca - Daniel O'Rourke 21:07
Edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. Section 13. The Piper and the Puka. Douglas Hyde. Translated literally from the Irish, of the Lourdesiglechch.
In the old times, there was a half-fool living in Dunmore in the county Galway, and although he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to learn more than one tune, and that was the Black Rogue. He used to get a good deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out of him. One night the piper was coming home from a house where there had been a dance, and he half-drunk. When he came to a little bridge that was up by his mother's house, he squeezed the pipes on and began playing the black rogue. The puka came behind him and flung him up on his own back. There were the long horns of the puka, and the piper got a good grip of them, and then he said, "'Destruction on you, you nasty beast!
Let me home. I have a tenpenny piece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff.' Never mind your mother, said the Puka, but keep your hold. If you fall, you will break your neck and your pipes. Then the Puka said to him, Play up for me the Schan van Vogt. I don't know it, said the Piper. Never mind whether you do or don't, said the Puka. Play up, and I'll make you know. The Piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music as made himself wonder. Upon my word, you're a fine music master, says the Piper then. But tell me where you're for bringing me. There's a great feast in the house of the Banshee on the top of Crogpatrick tonight, said the puka, and I'm for bringing you there to play music, and take my word you'll get the price for your trouble.
By my word you'll save me a journey then, says the piper, for Father William put a journey to Crogpatrick on me because I stole the white gander from him last Martinless. The puka rushed him across hills and bogs and rough places till he brought him to the top of Krav Patrik. Then the puka struck three blows with his foot, and a great door opened, and they passed in together into a fine room. The piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room, and hundreds of old women sitting around about it. The old women rose up and said, A hundred thousand welcomes to you, you puka of November. Who is this you have with you? The best piper in Ireland, says the puka. One of the old women struck a blow on the ground, and a door opened in the side of the wall.
And what should the piper see coming out but the white gander which he had stolen from Father William? By my conscience, then, said the piper, myself and my mother ate every taste of that gander, only one wing, and I gave that to Moira, and it's she told the priest I stole his gander. The gander cleaned the table and carried it away, and the puka said, "'Play up music for these ladies.' The piper played up, and the old woman began dancing, and they were dancing till they were tired. Then the puka said to pay the piper, and every old woman drew out a gold piece and gave it to him. "'By the tooth of Patrick,' said he, "'I'm as rich as the son of a lord.' "'Come with me,' says the puka, "'and I'll bring you home.' They went out then, and just as he was going to ride on the puka, the gander came up to him and gave him a new set of pipes.
The puka was not long until he brought him to Dunmore, and he threw the piper off at the little bridge, and then he told him to go home and says to him, You have two things now that you never had before. You have sense and music. The piper went home, and he knocked at his mother's door, saying, Let me in. I'm as rich as a lord, and I'm the best piper in Ireland. "'You're drunk,' said the mother. "'No, indeed,' says the piper. "'I haven't drunk a drop.' The mother let him in, and he gave her the gold pieces, and—'Wait now,' says he, till you hear the music I'll play. He buckled on the pipes, but instead of music there came a sound as if all the geese and ganders in Ireland were screeching together.
He wakened the neighbours, and they were all mocking him, until he put on the old pipes, And then he played melodious music for them, and after that he told them all he had gone through that night. The next morning, when his mother went to look at the gold pieces, there was nothing there but the leaves of a plant. The piper went to the priest and told him his story, but the priest would not believe a word from him until he put the pipes on him, and then the screeching of the ganders and geese began. Leave my sight, you thief," says the priest. But nothing would do the piper till he would put the old pipes on him to show the priest that his story was true. He buckled on the old pipes, and he played melodious music, and from that day till the day of his death there was never a piper in the county Galway was as good as he was.
Daniel O'Rourke, T. Crofton Croker.
People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O'Rourke. But how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the walls of the Pucca's Tower. I knew the man well. He lived at the bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time he told me the story, with grey hair and a red nose. And it was on the 25th of June, 1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Darcy Island, having spent the morning at Glengariff.
"'I am often axed to tell it, sir,' said he, "'so that this is not the first time. The master's son, you see, had come from beyond foreign parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go before Bonaparte or any such was heard of. And sure enough, there was a dinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and low, rich and poor.'" The old gentlemen were the gentlemen after all, saving your honour's presence. They'd swear at a body a little, to be sure, and maybe give one cut of a whip now and then, but we were no losers by it in the end. And they were so easy and civil, and kept such rattling houses and thousands of welcomes, that there was no grinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that did not taste of his landlord's bounty often and often in a year.
But now it's another thing. No matter for that, sir, for I'd better be telling you my story. Well, we had everything of the best, and plenty of it, and we ate, and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token danced with Peggy Berry from the Bohorine. A lovely young couple they were, though they are both low enough now. To make a long story short, I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy, almost, for I can't remember ever at all no ways how it was I left the place, only I did leave it that certain. Well, I thought, for all that in myself, I'd just step to Molly Cronhans, the fairy woman, to speak a word about the bracket heifer that was bewitched, and so, as I was crossing the stepping stones of the Ford of Ballyashinov, and was looking up at the stars and blessing myself, For why, it was Lady Day.
I missed my foot, and souse I fell into the water. Death alive, thought I, I'll be drowned now. However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming away for dear life, till at last I got ashore somehow or other, but never the one of me can tell how upon a dissolute island. I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as bright as day, were your fair lady's eyes, sir, with your pardon for mentioning her, and I looked east and west and north and south and every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog. I could never find out how I got into it, and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and certain I was that it would be my barren place.
So I sat down upon a stone. Which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began to scratch my head and sing the Ooligan, when all of a sudden the moon grew black, and I looked up and saw something for all the world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face, and what was it but an eagle, as fine a one as ever flew from the kingdom of Cary? So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, Daniel O'Rourke, says he, how do you do? Very well, I thank you, sir, says I. I hope you're well, wondering out of my senses all the time how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. What brings you here, Dan, says he?
Nothing at all, sir, says I, only I wish I was safe home again. Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan, says he? Tis, sir, says I. So I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much, and fell into the water, how I swam to the island, and how I got into the bog and did not know my way out of it. "'Dan,' says he, after a minute's thought, "'though it is very improper for you to get drunk on Lady Day, yet as you are a decent sober man who tends mass well, and never flings stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in the fields, my life for yours,' says he. So get up on my back and grip me well for fear you'd fall off, and I'll fly you out of the bog. I am afraid, says I, your honor's making game of me, for who ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before?
Upon the honor of a gentleman, says he, putting his right foot on his breast, I am quite in earnest, and so now either take my offer or starve in the bog. Besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone. It was true enough, as he said, for I found the stone every minute going from under me. I had no choice. So thinks I to myself, faint heart never won, fair lady, and this is fair pursuidence. I thank your honour, says I, for the loan of your civility, and I'll take your kind offer. I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up! Up, up, God knows how far up he flew.
Why then, said I to him, thinking he did not know the right road home, very civilly, because why, I was in his power entirely. Sir, says I, please your honor's glory, and with humble submission to your better judgment, if you'd flied down a bit, you're now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many thanks to your worship. "'Arrah, Dan,' said he. "'Do you think me a fool? Look down in the next field, and don't you see two men and a gun? By my word, it would be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked up off of a cold stone in a bog.' "'Bother you,' said I to myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? "'Well, sir, up he kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no use.' Where in the world are you going, sir?
says I to him. Hold your tongue, Dan, says he. Mind your own business, and don't be interfering with the business of other people. Faith, this is my business, I think, says I. Be quiet, Dan, says he. So I said no more. And last, where should we come to but to the moon itself? Now you can't see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping hook sticking out of the side of the moon. This way. Drawing the figure thus on the ground with the end of his stick. "'Dan,' said the eagle, "'I'm tired with this long fly. I had no notion t'was so far.' "'And my lord, sir,' said I, "'who in the world asked you to fly so far? Was it I? Did not I beg and pray and beseech you to stop half an hour ago?' "'There's no use talking, Dan,' said he.
"'I'm tired bad enough, so you must get off and sit down on the moon until I rest myself.'" Is it sit down on the moon? said I. Is it upon that little round thing, then? Why, then, sure, I'd fall off in a minute and be kilt and spilt and smashed all to bits. You are a vile deceiver, so you are. Not at all, Dan, said he. You can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and twill keep you up. I won't, then, said I. Maybe not, said he, quite quiet. If you don't, my man, I shall just give you a shake and one slap of my wing and send you down to the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed, as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage leaf in the morning.
Why, then, I'm in a fine way, said I to myself, ever to have come along with the likes of you. And so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he'd know what I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the moon. And a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that. When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me and said, Good morning to you, Daniel O'Rourke, said he. I think I've nicked you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year. It was true enough for him, but how he found it out is hard to say. And in return you are freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a cockthrow. Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute?
You, says I. "'You ugly, unnatural bast! And is thus the way you served me at last? Bad luck to yourself with your hooked nose, and to all your breed, you blackguard." "'Twas all no matter of use. He spread out his great big wings, burst out a-laughing, and flew away like lightning. I bawled after him to stop, but I might have called and bawled forever without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw him from that day to this. Sorrow fly away with him." You may be sure I was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month before. I suppose they never thought of greasing him.
And out there walks, who do you think, but the man in the moon himself. I knew him by his bush. "'Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he. "'How do you do?' "'Very well, thank your honour,' said I. I hope your honor's well. What brought you here, Dan? said he. So I told him how I was a little overtaken in liquor at the Masters, and how I was cast on a dissolute island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of that he had fled me up to the moon. Dan, said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was done, you must not stay here. Indeed, sir, says I, tis much against my will I am here at all. But how am I to get back?
That's your business, said he, Dan. Mine is to tell you that here you must not stay. So be off in less than no time. I'm doing no harm, says I, only holding on hard by the reaping hook lest I fall off. That's what you must not do, Dan, says he. Pray, sir, says I. May I ask how many you are in family that you would not give a poor traveler lodging? I'm sure tis not so often you're troubled with strangers coming to see you, for tis a long way. I'm by myself, Dan, says he, but you'd better let go the reaping hook. Faith, and with your leave, says I, I'll not let go the grip, and the more you bids me, the more I won't let go. So will. You had better, Dan, says he again. Why then, my little fellow, says I, taking the whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, there are two words to that bargain, and I'll not budge, but you may if you like.
"'We'll see how that is to be,' says he, and back he went, giving the door such a great bang after him, for it was plain he was huffed, that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it. Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back again he comes with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without saying a word he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook that was keeping me up, and whap! it came in two. "'Good morning to you, Dan,' said the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand. "'I thank you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.' I had not time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, rolling and rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt.
"'God help me,' says I, "'but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of night. I'm now sold fairly.'" The word was not out of my mouth when whizz what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese all the way from my own bog of Balishenog. Else how should they know me? The old gander who was their general, turning about his head, cried out to me, Is that you, Dan? The same, said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all kinds of bedevlement, and besides I knew him of old. Good morrow to you, says he. Daniel O'Rourke, how are you in health this morning? Very well, sir, says I. I thank you kindly, drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some.
I hope your honour is the same. I think tis falling you are, Daniel, says he. You may say that, sir, says I. And where are you going all the way so fast, said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon turned me out. Dan, said he, I'll save you. Put out your hand and catch me by the leg, and I'll fly you home. Sweet is your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel, says I, though all the time I thought within myself that I don't much trust you. But there was no help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew after him as fast as hops.
We flew and we flew and we flew, until we came right over the wide ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking up out of the water. "'Ah, my lord,' said I to the goose, for I thought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head anyway. "'Fly to land, if you please.' "'It is impossible, you see, Dan,' said he. For a while, because you see we are going to Arabia. To Arabia, said I. That's surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh, Mr. Goose, why then, to be sure, I'm a man to be pitied among you. Whist, whist, you fool, said he. Hold your tongue. I tell you, Arabia is a very decent sort of place, as like West Carberry as one egg is like another. Only there is a little more sand there.
Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful before the wind. "'Ah, then, sir,' said I, "'will you drop me on the ship, if you please?' "'We are not fair over it,' said he. "'If I dropped you now, you would splash into the sea.' "'I would not,' says I. "'I know better than that, for it is just clean under us. "'So let me drop now at once.' "'If you must, you must,' said he. "'There, take your own way.' And he opened his claw, and faith he was right. Sure enough, I came down plump into the very bottom of the salt sea. Down to the very bottom I went, and I gave myself up then forever, when a whale walked up to me, scratching himself after his night's sleep, and looked me full in the face, and never the word did he say.
But lifting up his tail, he splashed me all over again with the cold salt water till there wasn't a dry stitch upon my whole carcass. And I heard somebody saying, "'Twas a voice I knew, too." "'Get up, you drunken brute, off of that.' And with that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tubful of water, which she was splashing all over me. For rest her soul, though she was a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand of her own. "'Get up,' said she again, and of all places in the Paris, would no place serve your turn to lie down upon but under the old walls of Carragapooka? Uneasy resting, I'm sure you had of it.' And sure enough, I had, for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles and men of the moons and flying ganders and whales driving me through bogs and up to the moon and down to the bottom of the green ocean.
If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I'd lie down in the same spot again, I know that.
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15 14 - The Kildare Pooka - How Thomas Connolly met the Banshee 17:51
Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, edited and selected by W.B. Yates, section 14. The Kildare Polka, by Patrick Kennedy. Mr. H.R., when he was alive, used to live a good deal in Dublin, and he was once a great while out of the country on account of the 98 business. But the servants kept on in the big house at Roth, all the same as if the family was at home. Well, they used to be frightened out of their lives after going to their beds with the banging of the kitchen door and the clattering of fire irons and the pots and plates and dishes. One evening, they sat up ever so long, keeping one another in heart with telling stories about ghosts and fetches, and that when... What would you have of it?
The little scullery boy that used to be sleeping over the horses and could not get room at the fire crept into the hot hearth, and when he got tired listening to the stories, saw to fear him, but he fell dead asleep. Well and good, after they were all gone and the kitchen fire raked up, he was woke with the noise of the kitchen door opening and the trampling of an ass on the kitchen floor. He peeped out, and what should he see but a big ass, sure enough, sitting on his curbingo and a-yawning before the fire. After a little he looked about him and began scratching his ears if he was quite tired, and says he, I may as well begin first as last. The poor boy's teeth began to chatter in his head, for says he, now he's going to eat me.
But the fellow with the long ears and tail on him had something else to do. He stirred the fire, and then he brought in a pail of water from the pump and filled a big pot that he put on the fire before he went out. He then put in his hand, a foot, I mean into the hot hearth, and pulled out the little boy. He let a roar out of him with the fright. But the pook only looked at him and thrust out his lower lip to show how little he valued him, and then he pitched him into his pew again. Well, he then lay down before the fire till he heard the bile coming on the water, and maybe there wasn't a plate or a dish or a spoon on the dresser that he didn't fetch and put into the pot and wash and dry the whole boiling of them as well as air a kitchen made from that to Dublin town.
He then put all of them up on their places on the shelves, and if he didn't give a good sweepin' to the kitchen, leave it till again. Then he comes and sets foam at the boy, let down one of his ears and cocked up the other, and gave a grin. The poor fellow strove to roar out, but not a digger did come out of his throat. The last thing the pook had done was to rake up the fire and walk out. Given such a slap of the door that the boy thought the house couldn't help tumbling down.
Well, to be sure if there wasn't a hullabaloo next morning when the poor fella told his story. They could talk of nothing else the whole day. One said one thing, another said another, but a fat, lazy, scullery girl said the wittiest thing of all. Mocha, says she. If the polka does be cleaning up everything that way when we are asleep, what should we be slaving ourselves for doing his work? Shugardeen, says another, them's the wisest words you ever said, cop. It's meself won't contradict ya. So said, so done. Not a bit of a plate or dish saw a drop of water that evening, and not a besom was laid on the floor. And everyone went to bed soon after sundown. Next morning, everything was as fine as fine in the kitchen, and the Lord Mayor might eat his dinner off the flags.
It was great ease to the lazy servants, you may depend, and everything went on well, till a foolhardy gag of a boy said he would stay up one night and have a chat with the pooka. He was a little daunted when the door was thrown open, and the ass marched up to the fire. "'And then, sir,' says he, at last picking up courage, "'if it isn't taking a liberty, might I ask who you are, "'and why you are so kind as to do half of the day's work for the girls every night?' "'No liberty at all,' says the Booga, says he. "'I'll tell you and welcome.'" I was a servant in the time of Squire R.'s father, and was the laziest rogue that ever was clothed and fed and done nothing for it. When my time came for the other world, this is the punishment was laid on me, to come here and do all this labor every night, and then go out in the cold.
It isn't so bad in the fine weather. But if you only knew what it is to stand with your head between your legs, facing the storm from midnight to sunrise on a bleak winter night. And could we do anything for your comfort, me poor fellow, says the boy. Moshe, I don't know, says the pooka, but I think a good quilted phrase caught would help to keep the life in me them long nights. Why then, in troth, We'd be the ungratefulest of people if we didn't feel for you.
To make a long story short, the next night with two, the boy was there again, and if he didn't delight the poor Pooka holding up a fine warm coat before him, it's no matter. Between the polka and the man, his legs was got into the forearms of it, and it was buttoned down the breast and the belly, and he was so pleased. He walked up to the glass to see how he looked. Well, says he, it's a long lane that has no turning. I am much obliged to you and your fellow servants. You have made me happy at last. Good night to you. So he was walking out, but the other cried, "'Ack, sure you're going too soon. What about the washing and sweeping?' "'Ah, you may tell the girls that they must now get their turn.
My punishment was to last till I was thought worthy ever reward for the way I done me duty. You see me no more.' And no more they did, and right sorry they were for having been in such a hurry." To reward the ungrateful puka.
End of the Kildare Puka The Solitary Fairies The Banshee from Ban, Ban, a woman, and She, She, a fairy, is an attendant fairy that follows the old families and none but them. and wails before a death. Many have seen her as she goes wailing and clapping her hands. The keen, keen, the funeral cry of the peasantry, is said to be an imitation of her cry. When more than one banshee is present, and they wail and sing in chorus, it is for the death of some holy or great one. An omen that sometimes accompanies the banshee is the kocha bower, kocha bower. An immense black coach mounted by a coffin and drawn by headless horses driven by a doolahan. It will go rumbling to your door, and if you open it, according to Croker, a basin of blood will be thrown in your face.
These headless phantoms are found elsewhere than in Ireland. In 1807, two of the sentries stationed outside St. James Park died of fright. A headless woman, the upper part of her body naked, used to pass at midnight and scale the railings. After a time, the sentries were stationed no longer at the haunted spot. In Norway, the heads of corpses were cut off to make their ghosts feeble. Thus came into existence the Dullahan's, perhaps, unless, indeed, They are descended from that Irish giant who swam across the channel with his head in his teeth. Ed. End of the Solitary Fairies How Thomas Connolly Met the Banshee J. Todd Hunter Ah, the Banshee, sir. Well, sir. As I was striving to tell ye, I was going home from work one day for Mr.
Cassidy's that I told ye of in the dusk of the evening. I had more nor a mile. I had was nearer two mile to Thract to, where I was lodging with a decent witty woman I knew, Biddy McGuire be name, so as to be near me work. It was the first week in November, and a lonesome road I had to travel, and dark enough, with threes above it and about half-ways, there was a bit of a bridge I had to cross over one of them little strains that runs into the daughter. I walked on in the middle of the road, and there was no toll-path at that time, Mr. Airy, nor for many a long day after that, but as I was saying, I walked along till I come nigh upon the bridge, where the road was a bit open, and there... Right enough, I seen the hog's back of the old-fashioned bridge that used to be there till it was pulled down, and a white mist steaming up out of the water all around it.
Well now, Mr. Harry, often as I'd passed by the place before that night, it seemed strange to me and like a place you might see in a dream, and as I'd come up to it, I began to feel a cold wind blowing through the hollow of me heart. Moshe Thomas, says I to myself, is it yourself that's in it, says I, or if it is, what's the matter with you, et al et al, says I. So I put a bold face on it, and I made a struggle to set one leg afore the other, until I came to the rise of the bridge. And there, God be good to us, in a candle of the wall, I seen an old woman, as I thought, sitting on her hunkers, all crouched together, and her head bowed down, seemingly in the greatest affliction. Well, sir, I pitied the old creature, and thought I wasn't worth a threnine for the mortal fright I was in.
I up and says to her, It's a cold lodging for ye, ma'am. Well, the sorrow ha'porth, she says to that, nor took no more notice o' me than if I hadn't let a word out o' me, but kept rocking herself to and fro, as if her heart was breaking. So I says to her again, Ma'am, is there anything the matter wid ye? I made for to touch her on the shoulder, only something stopped me. For as I looked closer at her I saw she was no more an old woman, or was she an old cat. The first thing I took notice to, Mr. Harry, was her hair that was streeling down over her shoulders, and a good yard on the ground in each side of her. Oh, be the hokey farmer, but that was the hair. The likes of it I never seen on mortal woman, young or old, before nor since.
It grew as strong out of her as out of her, a young slip of a girl you could see. But the colour of it was a mystery to describe. The first squint I got of it, I thought it was silvery-grey, like an old crown's. But when I got up beside her, I saw, by the glance of the sky, it was a sort of an iscariot colour, and a shine out of it, like floss silk. It ran over her shoulders and the two shapely arms she was laying her head on for all the world like Mary Magdalene's in a picture, and then I perceived that the gray cloak and the green ground underneath it was made of no earthly material I ever laid eyes on. Now I needn't tell ye, sir, that I seen all this in the twinkle of a bedpost, long as I take to make the narration of it.
So I made a step back from her, and the Lord Lord, betunus an' arm, says I, out loud, an' wid dat I blessed meself. Well, Mr. Harry, the word wasn't out of me mouth afore she turned her face on me. Ah, Mr. Harry, but that was the awfulest apparition ever I seen, the face of her as she looked up at me. God forgive me for sayin' it.
But it was more like the face of the Axie Homo, beyond in the Marlborough Street Chapel, nor like any face I could mention, as pale as a corpse, and most of freckles on it, like the freckles of a turkey's egg. And the two eyes sewn in with red thread from the terrible power of crying. They had to do, and such a pair of eyes, As the world, Mr. Harry, as blue as two forget-me-nots, and as cold as the moon in a bog-hole of a frosty night, and a dead-and-live look in him, that sent a cold shiver through the mara in me bones, be the mortal. Ye coulda run a take-up full of cold perspiration out of the hair in me head that minute, so ye could. Well. I thought the life would leave me entirely when she riz up from her hunkers till bedead she looked mostly as tall as Nelson's pillar, and with the two eyes gazing back at me and her two arms stretched out before her and a cane out of her that riz the hair of me scalp till it was stiff as the hog's bristles in a new hearth broom.
Away she glides. Glides round the angle of the bridge, and down with her into the stream that ran underneath it. It was then I began to suspect which she was. Weesh us, Thomas, says I to meself, says I, and I made a great struggle to get me two legs into a trot, in spite of the spaven of fright the pair of the Mooran, and how I brought meself home that same night the Lord in Heaven only knows, for I never could tell. But I must have tumbled again the door and shot in head foremost into the middle of the floor, where I lay in dead swoon for mostly an hour. And the first I knew was Mrs. McGuire standing over me with a jorum a punch she was pouring down me throat to bring back the life into me, and me head in a pool of cold water she dashed over me in her first fright.
"'Ara, Mr. Connolly,' she she, "'what is ye?' she she." Put a scare on a lone woman like that, says she. Am I in this world or the next, says I. Musha, where else would you be, only here in me kitchen, says she. Oh, glory be to God, says I. But I thought I was in Purgatory at the last, not to mention an uglier place, says I. Only it's too cold, I find myself, and not too hot, says I. Faith, and maybe you are more'n'er half ways there only for me, says she. But what's come to you, Tal-a-tal? Is it your fetch you seen, Mr. Connolly? Ah, nubble-cloosh, says I. Never mind what I seen, says I.
So be degrees I began to come to a little. And that's the way I met the Banshee, Mr. Harry. But how did you know it really was the Banshee after all, Thomas? The garcer. I knew the apparition of her well enough, but was confirmed by the circumstance that occurred the same time. There was a Mr. O'Neill's was come on a visit, you must know, to a place in the neighborhood, one of the old O'Neill's of the County Tyrone, a real old Irish family. And the banshee was heard keenin' round the house that same night. Be more than one that was in it, and sure enough, Mr. Arry, he was found dead in his bed the next morning. So if it wasn't the banshee I seen that time, I'd like to know what else it could have been.
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16 15 - A Lamantation for the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald - The Banshee of the MacCarthys 35:56
Edited and selected by W. B. Yates, section 15. A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight of Cary, who was killed in Flanders, 1642. From the Irish, by Clarence Mangan.
There was lifted up one voice of woe, one lament of more than mortal grief, through the wide south to and fro for a fallen chafe. In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me. I looked out upon the midnight air. My own soul was all as gloomy as I knelt in prayer. Orlok-gur that night once Twice, yea, thrice, passed a wail of anguish for the brave that half curled into ice its moon-mirroring wave. Then up rose a many-toned wild hymn in coral swell from Ogre's dark ravine, and Mowgli's phantom women mourned the Geraldine. Far on Karamona's emerald plains, shrieks and sighs were blended many hours, and Fermoy, in fitful strains, answered from her towers, Yogol, Kinalmiki, Imokili mourned in concert, and their piercing keen woke to wandering life the stilly glens of Inchiqueen.
From Longmo to Yellow Dunonor there was fear. The traders of Tralee gathered up their golden store and prepared to flee, for in ship and hall from night till morning showed the first faint beamings of the sun, all the foreigners heard the warning of the dreaded one. This, they spake, portendeth death to us, if we fly not swiftly from our fate. Tt, self-conceited idiots, thus ravingly to prate. Not for base-born higgling Saxon trocksters, ring laments like those by shore and sea. Not for churls, with souls like hucksters. Wealeth our banshee. For the high Malaysian race alone ever flows the music of her woe. For slain air to bygone throne, and for chief laid low. Hark! Again methinks I hear her weeping yonder.
Is she near me now as then? Or was but the night wind sweeping down the hollow glen?
The Banshee of the McCarthys, T. Crofton Croker. Charles McCarthy was, in the year 1749, the only surviving son of a very numerous family. His father died when he was little more than twenty, leaving him the McCarthy estate, not much encumbered, considering that it was an Irish one. Charles was gay, handsome, and fettered either by poverty, a father, or guardians, and therefore was not, at the age of one and twenty, a pattern of regularity and virtue. In plain terms he was an exceedingly dissipated, I fear I may say debauched young man. His companions were, as may be supposed, of the higher classes of the youth in his neighborhood, and, in general, of those whose fortunes were larger than his own, whose dispositions to pleasure were, therefore, under still less restrictions, and in whose example he found at once an incentive and an apology for his irregularities.
Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not very remarkable for the coolness. The stediness of its youth was then one of the cheapest countries in the world in most of those articles which money supplies for the indulgence of the passions. The odious exciseman, with his portentous book in one hand, his unrelenting pen held in the other, or stuck beneath his hat band, and the ink bottle Black emblem of the informer, dangling from his waistcoat button, went not then from alehouse to alehouse, denouncing all those patriotic dealers and spirits who preferred selling whiskey, which had nothing to do with English laws, but to loo them, to retailing that poisonous liquor which derived its name from the British Parliament that compelled its circulation among a reluctant people.
Or if the gauger Recording Angel of the Law, wrote down the peccadillo of a publican. He dropped a tear upon the word, and blotted it out for ever. For, welcome to the tables of their hospitable neighbors, the guardians of the excise, where they existed at all, scrupled to abridge those luxuries which they freely shared. And thus the competition in the market between the smuggler, who incurred little hazard, and the personage-eclamped fair trader, who enjoyed little protection, Made Ireland a land flowing not merely with milk and honey, but with whiskey and wine. In the enjoyment supplied by these, and in the many kindred pleasures to which frail youth is but too prone, Charles McCarthy indulged to such a degree that just about the time when he had completed his foreign twentieth year, after a week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent fever which, from its malignity, And the weakness of his frame left scarcely a hope of his recovery.
His mother, who had at first made many efforts to check his vices, and at last had been obliged to look on his rapid progress to ruin in silent despair, watched day and night at his pillow. The anguish of parental feeling was blended with that still deeper misery which those only know who have striven hard to rear in virtue and piety a beloved and favorite child. Have found him grow up all that their hearts could desire until he reached manhood, and then, when their pride was the highest and their hopes almost ended in the fulfillment of their fondest expectations, have seen this idol of their affections plunge headlong into a course of reckless profligacy, and after a rapid career of vice, hang upon the verge of eternity without the leisure or the power of repentance.
Fervently she prayed that if his life could not be spared, at least the delirium which continued with increasing violence from the first few hours of his disorder might vanish before death and leave enough of light and of calm for making his peace with offended heaven. After several days, however, nature seemed quite exhausted, and he sunk into a state too like death to be mistaken for the repose of sleep. His face had that pale, glossy marble look, which is in general so sure a symptom that life has left its tenement of clay. His eyes were closed and sunk, the lids having that compressed and stiffened appearance which seemed to indicate that some friendly hand had done its last office. The lips, half-closed and perfectly ashy, discovered just so much of the teeth as to give to the features of death their most ghastly But most impressive look.
He lay upon his back with his hands stretched beside him, quite motionless, and his distracted mother, after repeated trials, could discover not the least symptom of animation. The medical man who attended, having tried the usual modes for ascertaining the presence of life, declared at last his opinion that it was flown, and prepared to depart from the house of mourning. His horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of people who were collected before the windows, or scattered in groups on the lawn in front, gathered around when the door opened. These were tenants, fosterers, and poor relations of the family with others attracted by affection, or by that interest which partakes of curiosity, but is something more, and which collects the lower ranks round a house where a human being is in his passage to another world.
They saw the professional men come out from the hall door and approach his horse, and while slowly and with a melancholy air he prepared to mount, they clustered round him with inquiring and wistful looks. Not a word was spoken, but their meaning could not be misunderstood, and the physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant was still holding the bridle as if to delay him, and was looking anxiously at his face, as if expecting that he would relieve the general suspense, shook his head. And said in a low voice, It's all over, James, and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the women present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which having been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a full, loud, continued, and discordant but plaintive wailing, above which occasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man's voice.
Sometimes in deep sobs, sometimes in more distinct exclamations of sorrow. This was Charles' foster brother, who moved about the crowd, now clapping his hands, now rubbing them together in an agony of grief. The poor fellow had been Charles' playmate and companion when a boy, and afterwards his servant, had always been distinguished by his peculiar regard, and loved his young master as much at least as he did his own life. When Mrs. McCarthy became convinced that the blow was indeed struck, and that her beloved son was sent to his last account, even in the blossoms of his sin, she remained for some time gazing with fixedness upon his cold features. Then, as if something had suddenly touched the string of her tenderest affections, tear after tear trickled down her cheeks, pale with anxiety and watching.
Still she continued, looking at her son, apparently unconscious that she was weeping without once lifting her handkerchief to her eyes, until reminded of the sad duties which the custom of the country imposed upon her by the crowd of females belonging to the better class of the peasantry, who now, crying audibly, nearly filled the apartment. She then withdrew to give directions for the ceremony of waking and for supplying the numerous visitors of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these melancholy occasions. Though her voice was scarcely heard in the know and saw her but the servants and one or two old followers of the family who assisted her in the necessary arrangements, everything was conducted with the greatest regularity, and though she made no effort to check her sorrows, They never once suspended her attention, now more than ever required to preserve order in her household, which in this season of calamity, but for her, would have been all confusion.
The night was pretty far advanced. The boisterous lamentations which had prevailed during part of the day and about the house had given place to a solemn and mournful stillness, and Mrs. McCarthy, whose heart Notwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore for sleep, was kneeling in fervent prayer in a chamber adjoining that of her son. Suddenly her devotions were disturbed by an unusual noise proceeding from the persons who were watching round the body. First there was a low murmur, then all was silent. As if the movements of those in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic, and then a loud cry of terror burst from all within. The door of the chamber was thrown open, and all who were not overturned in the press rushed wildly into the passage which led to the stairs and into which Mrs.
McCarthy's room opened. Mrs. McCarthy made her way through the crowd into her son's chamber, where she found him. Sitting up in bed, and looking vacantly around like one risen from the grave. The glare thrown upon his sunk features and thin, lathy frame gave an earthly horror to his whole aspect. Mrs. McCarthy was a woman of some firmness, but she was a woman, and not quite free from the superstitions of her country. She dropped on her knees, and clasping her hands began to pray aloud. The form before her moved only its lips, and barely uttered, Mother. But though the pale lips moved, as if there was a design to finish the sentence, the tongue refused its office. Mrs. McCarthy sprung forward, and catching the arm of her son exclaimed, Speak in the name of God and his saints, speak!
Are you alive? He turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent difficulty, Yes, my mother, alive, and—but sit down and collect yourself. I have that to tell which will astonish you more than what you have seen. He leaned back upon his pillow, and while his mother remained kneeling by the bedside, holding one of his hands clasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who distrusted all her senses, He proceeded. Do not interrupt me until I have done. I wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is upon me, as I know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement of my illness I have only a confused recollection, but within the last twelve hours I have been before the judgment-seat of God.
Do not stare incredulously on me. "'Tis as true as have been my crimes, and as I trust, shall be repentance. I saw the awful judge, arrayed in all the terrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice. The dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence I saw. I remember it is fixed here, printed on my brain in characters indelible. But it passeth human language. What I can describe I will." I may speak it briefly. It is enough to say I was weighed in the balance and found wanting. The irrevocable sentence was upon the point of being pronounced. The eye of my Almighty Judge, which had already glanced upon me, half spoke my doom. When I observed, the guardian said, to whom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child, looking at me with an expression of benevolence, And compassion.
I stretched forth my hands to him and besought his intercession. I implored that one year, one month, might be given me on earth to do penance and atonement for my transgressions. He threw himself at the feet of my judge and supplicated for mercy.
Oh, never! Not if I should pass through ten thousand successive states of being, never for eternity, shall I forget the horrors of that moment when my fate hung suspended, when an instant was to decide whether torments unutterable were to be my portion for endless ages.
But justice suspended its decree, and mercy spoke in accents of firmness but mildness. Return to that world in which thou hast lived, but to outrage the laws of him who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for repentance. When these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be saved or last forever. Child's strength continued just long enough to finish these last words, and, on uttering them, he closed his eyes and lay quite exhausted. His mother, though— As was before said, somewhat disposed to give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or not she should believe that, although awakened from a swoon which might have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the influence of delirium.
Repose, however, was at all events necessary, and she took immediate measures that he should enjoy it undisturbed. After some hours' sleep he awoke refreshed, And thenceforward, gradually but steadily, recovered. Still he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at first related it, and his persuasion of its reality had an obvious and decided influence on his habits and conduct. He did not altogether abandon the society of his former associates, for his temper was not soured by his reformation, but he never joined in their excesses, and often endeavored to reclaim them. How his pious exertion succeeded I have never learned, but of himself it is recorded that he was religious without ostentation, and temperate without austerity, given a practical proof that vice may be exchanged for virtue without the loss of respectability, popularity, or happiness.
Time rolled on, and long before the three years were ended, the story of his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken of, was usually mentioned as an instance proving the folly of believing in such things. Charles' health, from the temperance and regularity of his habits, became more robust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion to rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demeanor which grew upon him as he approached the completion of his seven-and-twentieth year. But for the most part his manner exhibited the same animation and cheerfulness for which he had always been remarkable. In company he evaded every endeavour to draw from him a distinct opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction, but among his own family it was well known that he still firmly believed it.
However, when the day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was, if at all, to be fulfilled, his whole appearance gave such promise of a long and healthy life, That he was persuaded by his friends to ask a large party to an entertainment at Spring House to celebrate his birthday. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances which attended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the following letters, which have been carefully preserved by some relations of his family. The first is from Mrs. McCarthy, to a lady, a very near connection and valued friend of hers, who lived in the county of Cark at about fifty miles distance from Springhouse. To Mrs. Barry, Castle Barry, Springhouse, Tuesday morning, October 15, 1752.
My dearest Mary, "'I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days' journey at this season over bad roads and through a troubled country, it will indeed require friendship such as yours to persuade a sober woman to encounter. But the truth is, I have, or fancy I have, more than usual cause for wishing you near me. You know my son's story." I can't tell you how it is, but as next Sunday approaches, when the prediction of his dream or vision will be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the heart which I cannot suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will soften as it has done so many of my Sarahs. My nephew. James Ryan is to be married to Jane Osborne, who, you know, is my son's ward, and the broidal entertainment will take place here on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded hard to have it postponed for a day or two longer.
Would to God, but no more of this till we meet, do prevail upon yourself to leave your good man for one week, if his farming concerns will not admit of his accompanying you, and come to us with the girls as soon before Sunday as you can. Ever my dear Mary's attached cousin and friend, Anne McCarthy.
Although this letter reached Castleberry early on Wednesday, the messenger having traveled on foot over Bog and Moor by paths impassable to horse or carriage, Mrs. Barry, who, at once determined on going, had so many arrangements to make for the regulation of her domestic affairs, Which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the gentry, falls soon into confusion when the mistress of the family is away, that she and her two young daughters were unable to leave until late on the morning of Friday. The eldest daughter remained to keep her father company and superintend the concerns of the household. As the travellers were to journey in an open one-horse vehicle called a jaunting car, still used in Ireland, and, as the roads, bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains.
It was their design to make two easy stages, to stop about midway the first night and reach Spring House early on Saturday morning. This arrangement was now altered, for they found that from the lateness of their departure they could proceed at the utmost, no farther than twenty miles on the first day, and they therefore purposed sleeping at the house of a Mr. Burke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat less than that distance from Castleberry. They reached Mr. Burke's in safety after a rather disagreeable ride. What befell them on their journey the next day to Springhouse and after their arrival there is fully recounted in a letter from the second Miss Barry to her eldest sister. Springhouse, Sunday evening, 20th October, 1752.
Dear Ellen, has my mother's letter Which encloses this, will announce to you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more fully. I think it better to go regularly through the recital of the extraordinary events of the last two days. The Berks kept us up so late on Friday night that yesterday was pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and the day closed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from this place. The roads were excessively deep from the heavy rains of the last week, and we proceeded so slowly that at last my mother resolved on passing the night at the house of Mr. Burke's brother, who lives about a quarter of a mile off the road, and coming here to breakfast in the morning.
The day had been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy, and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone clear and bright. At others, it was wholly concealed behind the thick, black, and rugged masses of clouds that rolled rapidly along, and were every moment becoming larger and collecting together as if gathering strength for a coming storm. The wind, which blew in our faces, Whistled bleakly along the low ledges of the narrow road on which we proceeded with difficulty from the number of deep sloughs, and which afforded not the least shelter, no plantation being within some miles of us, my mother therefore asked Leary, who drove the jaunting car, how far we were from Mr. Burke's.
"'Tis about ten spades from this to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into the avenue, ma'am." Very well, Leary. Turn up to Mr. Burke's as soon as you reach the crossroads. My mother had scarcely spoken these words when a shriek that made us thrill as if our very hearts were pierced by it burst from the hedge to the right of our way. If it resembled anything earthly, it seemed the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and given out her life in one long, deep pang of expiring agony. "'Heaven defend us!' exclaimed my mother. "'Go you over the hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead, while we run back to the hut we have just passed, and alarm the village near it!' Woman, said Leary, beating the horse violently while his voice trembled.
That's no woman. The sooner we get on, ma'am, the better. And he continued his efforts to quicken the horse's pace. We saw nothing. The moon was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some time expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Larry had spoken, and had succeeded in making the horse-trot briskly forward, we distinctly heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a succession of screams that seemed to denote the last excess of despair and anguish, and to issue from a person running forward inside the hedge to keep pace with our progress. Still we saw nothing. Until, when we were within about ten yards of the place, where an avenue branched off to Mr. Burke's to the left, and the road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon started suddenly from behind a cloud and enabled us to see, as plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall, thin woman with uncovered head and long hair that floated round her shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose white cloak or a sheet.
Thrown hastily about her, she stood on the corner hedge, where the road on which we were met that which leads to Spring House, with her face towards us, her left hand pointing to this place, and her right arm waving rapidly and violently, as if to draw us on in that direction. The horse had stopped, apparently frightened at the sudden presence of the figure, which stood in the manner I have described, still uttering the same piercing cries for about half a minute. It then leapt upon the road, disappeared from our view for one instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a little way up the avenue on which we were purposed going, still pointing towards the road to Spring House. But in an attitude of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage up the avenue.
The figure was now quite silent, and its garments, which had before flown loosely in the wind, were closely wrapped around it. Go on, Leary, to Springhouse in God's name, said my mother. Whatever world it belongs to, we will provoke it no longer. "'Tis the Benchy, ma'am," said Leary, and I would not, for what my life is worth, go anywhere this blessed night but to Spring House. But I'm afraid there's something bad going forward, or she would not send us there. So saying, he drove forward, and as we turned on the road to the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we saw the apparition no more. But we heard plainly a prolonged clapping of hands. Gradually dying away, as if it issued from a person rapidly retreating.
We proceeded as quickly as the badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that Drewus would allow, and arrived here about eleven o'clock last night.
The scene which awaited us you have learned from my mother's letter. To explain it fully I must recount to you some of the transactions which took place here during the last week. You are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been married this day to James Ryan, and that they and their friends had been here for the last week. On Tuesday last, the very day on the morning of which Cousin McCarthy dispatched the letter inviting us here, the whole of the company were walking around the grounds a little before dinner. It seems that an unfortunate creature who had been seduced by James Ryan was seen prowling in the neighborhood in a moody, melancholy state for some days previous. He had separated from her for several months, and, they say, had provided for her rather handsomely.
But she had been seduced by the promise of his marrying her, and the shame of her unhappy condition, uniting with disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects. During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday she had been walking in the plantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded tight round her, the hood nearly covering her face, and she had avoided conversing with or even meeting any of the family. Charles McCarthy, at the time I mentioned, was walking between James Ryan and another at a little distance from the rest on a gravel path skirting a shrubbery. The whole party was thrown into the utmost consternation by the report of a pistol fired from a thickly planted part of the shrubbery which Charles and his companions had just passed.
He felt instantly And it was found that he had been wounded in the leg. One of the party was a medical man, whose assistance was immediately given, and on examining he declared that the injury was very slight, that no bone was broken, it was merely a flesh wound, and that it would certainly be well in a few days. We shall know more by Sunday," said Charles, as he was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately dressed, and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave that several of his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apartment.
On inquiry it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the poor girl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that she had aimed not at Charles, but at the destroyer of her innocence and happiness, who was walking beside him. After a fruitless search for her through the grounds, she walked into the house of her own accord, laughing and dancing and singing wildly, and every moment exclaiming that she had at last killed Mr. Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles and not Mr. Ryan who was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which, after working convulsively for some time, she sprung to the door, escaped from the crowd that pursued her, And could never be taken until last night, when she was brought here, perfectly frantic, a little before our arrival.
Child's wound was thought of such little consequence that the preparations went forward, as usual, for the wedding entertainment on Sunday. But on Friday night he grew restless and feverish, and on Saturday, yesterday morning, felt so ill that it was deemed necessary to obtain additional medical advice. Two physicians and a surgeon met in consultation about twelve o'clock in the day, and the dreadful intelligence was announced that unless a change hardly hoped for took place before night, death must happen within twenty-four hours after. The wound, it seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and otherwise injudiciously treated. The physicians were right in their anticipations. No favorable symptom appeared.
And long before we reached Spring House every ray of hope had vanished. The scene we witnessed on our arrival would have wrung the heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the gate that Mr. Charles was upon his deathbed. When we reached the house, the information was confirmed by the servant who opened the door, but just as we entered we were horrified. By the most appalling screams issuing from the staircase, my mother thought she heard the voice of poor Mrs. McCarthy and sprung forward. We followed, and on ascending a few steps of the stairs, we found a young woman, in a state of frantic passion, struggling furiously with the two men-servants, whose unointed strength was hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing upstairs over the body of Mrs.
McCarthy, who was lying in strong hysterics upon the steps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the unhappy girl I before described, who was attempting to gain access to Charles's room to get his forgiveness, as she said, before he went away to accuse her for having killed him. This wild idea was mingled with another, which seemed to dispute with the former possession of her mind. In one sentence she called on Charles to forgive her. In the next she would denounce James Ryan as the murderer, both of Charles and her. At length she was torn away, and the last words I heard her scream were, James Ryan, t'was you killed him and not I, t'was you killed him and not I. Mrs. McCarthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of my mother, whose presence seemed a great relief to her.
She wept, the first tears I was told that she had shed since the fatal accident. She conducted us to Charles's room, who, she said, had desired to see us the moment of our arrival, as he found his end approaching, and wished to devote the last hours of his existence to uninterrupted prayer and meditation. We found him perfectly calm. Resigned and even cheerful. He spoke of the awful event which was at hand with courage and confidence, and treated it as a doom for which he had been preparing ever since his former remarkable illness, and which he never once doubted was truly foretalled to him. He bade us farewell with the air of one who was about to travel a short and easy journey, and we left him with impressions which, Notwithstanding all their anguish, will I trust, never entirely forsake us.
Poor Mrs. McCarthy. But I'm just called away. There seems a slight stir in the family. Perhaps— The above letter was never finished. The enclosure to which it more than once alludes told the sequel briefly— And it is all that I have ever further learned of the family of McCarthy. Before the sun had gone down upon Charles' seven-and-twentieth birthday, his soul had gone to render its last account to its creator.
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17 16 - Ghosts - A Dream 4:58
XVI.
Ghosts, or as they are called in Irish, tautcher, or tithe, live in a state intermediary between this life and the next. They are held there by some earthly longing or affection, or some duty unfulfilled, or anger against the living. "'I will haunt you,' is a common threat, and one hears such phrases as, "'She will haunt him if she has any good in her.' If one is sorrowing greatly after a dead friend, a neighbour will say—' Be quiet now, you are keeping him from his rest. Or, in the Western Isles, according to Lady Wilde, they will tell you, you are waking the dog that watches to devour the soul of the dead. Those who die suddenly, more commonly than others, are believed to become haunting ghosts.
They go about moving the furniture, and in every way trying to attract attention. When the soul has left the body, it is drawn away, sometimes, by the fairies. I have a story of a peasant who once saw, sitting in a fairy-wrath, all who had died for years in his village. Such souls are considered lost. If a soul alludes to fairies, it may be snapped up by the evil spirits. The weak souls of young children are in a special danger. When a very young child dies, the western peasantry sprinkle the threshold with the blood of a chicken, that the spirits may be drawn away to the blood. A ghost is compelled to obey the commands of the living. The stable-boy up at Mrs. G.'s there, said an old countryman, met the master going round the yards after he had been two days dead, and told him to be away with him to the lighthouse, and haunt that, and there he is, far out to see still, sir.
Mrs. G. was quite wild about it, and this Mr. Boy. A very desolate lighthouse, poor devil of a ghost. Lady Wilde considers it is only the spirits who are too bad for heaven, and too good for hell, who are thus plagued. They are compelled to obey some one they have wronged. The souls of the dead sometimes take the shapes of animals. There is a garden at Sligo, where the gardener sees a previous owner in the shape of a rabbit. They will sometimes take the forms of insects, especially of butterflies. If you see one fluttering near a corpse, that is the soul, and is a sign of its having entered upon immortal happiness. The author of The Paroctial Survey of Ireland, 1814, heard a woman say to a child who was chasing a butterfly, "'How do you know it is not the soul of your grandfather?' On November eve, the dead are abroad, and dance with the fairies.
As in Scotland, the fetch is commonly believed in. If you see the double, or fetch, of a friend in the morning, no ill follows, if at night he is about to die. A dream. by William Allingham. I heard a dog's howl in the moonlight night. I went to the window to see the sight, all the dead that ever I knew, going one by one and two by two. On they passed, and on they passed, town's fellows all from first to last, born in the moonlight of the lane, quenched in the heavy shadow again. Schoolmates marching as we'd played, at soldiers once but now more stayed, those were the strangest sight to me, who were drowned, I knew, in the awful sea. Straight and handsome folk, bent and weak too, some that I loved and gasped to speak to, some but a day in their churchyard bed, some that I had not known were dead.
A long, long crowd, where each seemed lonely, yet of them all there was one, one only, raced ahead or looked my way. She lingered a moment. She might not stay. How long since I saw that fair pale face! Ah, mother, dare! Might I only place, my head on thy breast, a moment to rest, while thy hand on my tearful cheek were pressed. On, on, a moving bridge they made, Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade, Young and old, women and men, Many long forgotten, but remembered then. At first there came a bitter laughter, A sound of tears the moment after, And then a music so lofty and gay, That every morning, day by day, I strive to recall it, if I may.
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18 17 - Grace Conner 4:08
Thaddee and Grace Conner lived on the borders of a large turf bog in the parish of Clondevadoque, where they could hear the Atlantic surges thundering upon the shore, and see the wild storms of winter sweep over the muckish mountain and his rugged neighbors. Even in summer, the cabin by the bog was dull and dreary enough. Thaddee Conner worked in the fields, and Grace made a livelihood as a peddler, carrying a basket of remnants of cloth, calico, drugget, and frieze about the country. The people rarely visited any large town, and found it convenient to buy from Grace, who was welcomed in many a lonely house, where a table was hastily cleared that she might display her wares. Being considered a very honest woman, she was frequently entrusted with commissions to the shops in Letterkenny and Rambleton.
As she set out towards home, her basket was generally laid in with little gifts for her children. Grace, dear, would one of the kind housewife say, Here's a farrel of oat cake with a taste of butter on it. Gray steer, would one of the kind housewife say. Here's a farrel of oat and cake with a taste of butter on it. Tack it with you for the weigh-ins. Footnote. When a large, round, flat griddle cake is divided into triangular cuts, each of these cuts is called a farrel, farley, or parley. End footnote. Or, here's half a dozen of eggs. You've a big family to support. Small conners of all ages crowded round the weary mother to rifle her basket of these gifts, but her thrifty, hard life came suddenly to an end.
She died after an illness of a few hours, and was waked and buried as handsomely as Thaddee could afford. Thaddee was in bed the night after the funeral, and the fire still burned brightly, when he saw his departed wife cross the room and bend over the cradle. Terrified, he muttered rapid prayers, covered his face with the blanket, and on looking up again, the appearance was gone. Next night, he lifted the infant out of the cradle and laid it behind him in the bed, hoping thus to escape his ghostly visitor. But Grace was presently in the room, and stretching over him to wrap up her child. Shrinking and shuddering, the poor man exclaimed, Grace, woman, what is it brings you back? What is it you want with me?
I want nothing, fae you thaddy, but to put thon... "'When, back in her cradle,' replied the spectre, in a tone of scorn, "'you're too feared for me, but my sister Rose willna be feared for me. Tell her to meet me to-morrow evening in the old Wallsteads.' Rose lived with her mother about a mile off, but she obeyed her sister's summons without the least fear, and kept the strange tryst in due time. "'Rose, dear,' she said, as she appeared before her sister in the old Wallsteads, My mind's only easy about them twa-red shells that's in the basket. Maddy Hunter and Jane Taggart paid me for them, and I bought them with their money. Friday was eight days. Give them the shells tomorrow, and old Mosey McCorkle gave me the price of a wily coat.
It's in under the other things in the basket. And now, farewell. I can get to my rest. Grace! Grace! "'Bide a wee minute,' cried the faithful sister, as the dear voice grew fainter, and the dear face began to fade. "'Grace, darling, Thaddee, the children, one word mar!' But neither cries nor tears could further the tame, the spirit hastening to its rest."
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19 18 - A Legend of Tyrone 2:49
Edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. A Legend of Tyrone, Ellen O'Leary Crouched round a bare hearth in hard, frosty weather, Three lonely, helpless winds cling close together. Tangled those gold locks, once bonny and bright, There's no one to fondle the baby to-night. My mommie I want, oh, my mommie I want. The big tears stream down with a low wailing chant. Sweet Ely's slight arms enfold the gold head. Poor Weenie Willie. Sure, Mommy is dead. And Daddy is crazy from drinking all day. Come down, holy angels, and take us away. Ely and Eddie keep kissing and crying. Outside, the weird winds are sobbing and sighing. All in a moment, the children are still. Only a quick coup of gladness from will.
The sheeling no longer seems empty or bare. For, clothed in soft raiment, the mother stands there. They gather around her, they cling to her dress. She rains down soft kisses for each shy caress. Her light loving touches smooth out tangled locks, and pressed to her bosom the baby she rocks. He lies in his cot, there's a fire on the hearth. To Ely and Eddie, tis heaven on earth. For mother's deaf fingers have been everywhere. She loves them to rest in the low sogaum chair. Chair made of twisted straw ropes.
They gaze open-eyed, then the eyes gently close, as petals fold into the heart of a rose. But oh, soon again, in awe, love, but no fear. And fondly they murmur, Our mammy is here. She lays them down softly, she wraps them around. They lie in sweet slumbers, she starts at a sound. The cock loudly crows in the spirits away. The drunkard steals in the dawning of day. Again and again, between the dark and the dawn, Glides in the dead mother to nurse Rilly Bon. Or is it an angel who sits by the hearth, An angel in heaven, a mother on earth?
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20 19 - The Black Lamb - Song of the Ghost 3:26
XIX. THE BLACK LAMB.
by Lady Wilde. It is a custom amongst the people, when throwing away water at night, to cry out in a loud voice, Take care of the water, or, literally, from the Irish, Away with yourself from the water, for they say that the spirits of the dead last buried are then wandering about, and it would be dangerous if the water fell on them. One dark night a woman suddenly threw out a pail of boiling water, without thinking of the warning words. Instantly a cry was heard, as of a person in pain, but no one was seen. However, the next night a black lamb entered the house, having the back all fresh scalded, and it laid down moaning by the hearth, and died. Then they all knew that this was the spirit that had been scalded by the woman, and they carried the dead lamb out irreverently, and buried it deep in the earth.
Yet every night at the same hour it walked again into the house, and lay down, moaned, and died. And after this had happened many times, the priest was sent for, and finally, by the strength of his exorcism, the spirit of the dead was laid to rest. The black lamb appeared no more. Neither was the body of the dead lamb found in the grave when they searched for it, though it had been laid by their own hands deep under earth, and covered with clay.
Song of the Ghosts by Alfred Percival Graves When all were dreaming but Pashteen power, a light came streaming beneath her bower, a heavy foot at her door delayed, a heavy hand on the latch was laid. Now who dare venture at this dark hour, and bid to enter my maiden bower? Dare Pashteen open the door to me, and your true lover you will surely see. My own true lover, so tall and brave, lives exiled over the angry wave. Your true love's body lies on the bier. His faithful spirit is with you here. His look was cheerful, his voice was gay. Your speech is fearful, your face is gray, and sad and sunken, your eyes of blue. But Patrick, Patrick, alas, tis you.
E'er dawn was breaking, she heard below, the two cocks shaking, their wings to crow. Oh, hush you, hush you, both red and grey, or you will hurry my love away. Oh, hush your crowing, both grey and red, or he'll be going to join the dead. Oh, cease from calling, his ghost to the mould, and I'll come crowning your combs with gold. When all were dreaming, but past in power, a light went streaming from out her bower, and on the morrow, when they awoke, they knew that sorrow Her heart had broke.
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21 20 - The Radiant Boy - The Fate of Frank M'Kenna 20:55
Ferry and Bold Tales of the Irish Peasantry, edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. XXX. The Radiant Boy. Mrs. Crow. Captain Stewart. Afterwards, Lord Cassery, when he was a young man, happened to be quartered in Ireland. He was fond of sport, and one day the pursuit of game carried him so far that he lost his way. The weather, too, had become very rough, and in this trait he presented himself at the door of a gentleman's house, and sending in his card, requested shelter for the night. The hospitality of the Irish country gentry is proverbial. The master of the house received him warmly, said he feared he could not make him so comfortable as he could have wished, his house being full of visitors already, added to which some strangers, driven by the inclemency of the night, had sought shelter before him.
But such a commendation as he could give, he was hardly welcome to. Whereupon he called his butler, and committing the guest to his good offices, told him he must put him up somewhere and do the best he could for him. There was no lady, the gentleman being a widower. Captain Stewart found the house cramped, and a very jolly party it was. His host invited him to stay, and promised him good shooting if he would prolong his visit a few days. And, in fine, He thought himself extremely fortunate to have fallen into such pleasant quarters. At length, after an agreeable evening, they all retired to bed, and the butler conducted him to a large room, almost divested of furniture, but with a blazing turf fire in the grate, and a shake-down on the floor composed of cloaks and other heterogeneous materials.
Nevertheless, to the tired limbs of Captain Stewart, who had had a hard day's shooting, it looked very inviting. But before he laid down, he thought it advisable to take off some of the fire which was blazing up the chimney in what he thought an alarming manner. Having done this, he stretched himself on his couch, and soon fell asleep. He believed he had slept about a couple of hours when he awoke suddenly, and was startled by such a vivid light in the room that he thought it on fire, but on turning to look at the grate, he saw the fire was out. Though it was from the chimney, the light proceeded. He sat up in bed, trying to discover what it was, when he perceived the form of a beautiful naked boy, surrounded by a dazzling radiance.
The boy looked at him earnestly, and then the vision faded. and was all dark. Captain Stewart, so far from supposing what he had seemed to be of a spiritual nature, had no doubt that the host or the visitors had been trying to frighten him. Accordingly, he felt indignant at the liberty, and on the following morning, when he appeared at breakfast, he took care to evince his displeasure by the reserve of his demeanour, and by announcing his intention to depart immediately. The host expostulated, reminding him of his promise to stay and shoot. Captain Stewart coldly excused himself, and, at length, the gentleman, seeing something was wrong, took him aside and pressed for an explanation. Whereupon Captain Stewart, without entering into particulars, said he had been made the victim of a sort of practical joking that he thought quite unwarrantable with a stranger.
The gentlemen considered this not impossible amongst a parcel of thoughtless young men, and appealed to them to make an apology. But one and all, on honor, denied the impeachment. Suddenly a thought seemed to strike him. He clapped his hand to his forehead, uttered an exclamation, and rang the bell. "'Hamilton,' said he to the butler, "'where did Captain Stewart sleep last night?' "'Well, sir.' replied the man. You know every place was full. The gentlemen were lying on the floor, three or four in a room, so I gave him the boys' room, but I lit a blazing fire to keep him from coming out. You are very wrong, said the host. You know I have positively forbidden you to put anyone there, and have taken the furniture out of the room to ensure its not being occupied.
Then, retiring with Captain Stewart, he informed him— very gravely, of the nature of the phenomena he had seen. And, at length, being pressed for further information, he confessed that there existed a tradition in the family that whoever the radiant boy appeared to will rise to the summit of power, and when he has reached the climax will die a violent death. And I must say," he added, that the records that have been kept of his appearance Go to confirm this persuasion. The Fate of Frank McKenna. William Carlton. There lived a man named McKenna, at the hip of one of the mountain's hills, which divide the country of Tyrone from that of Monaghan. This McKenna had two sons, one of whom was in the habit of tracing hairs of a Sunday whenever there happened to be a fall of snow.
His father, it seems, had frequently remonstrated him with what he considered to be a violation of the Lord's Day, as well as for his general neglect of mass. The young man, however, found otherwise harmless and inoffensive, was in this matter quite insensible to paternal reproof, and continued to trace wherever the avocations of labor would allow him to. It so happened that upon a Christmas morning, I think in the year 1814. There was a deep fall of snow, and young Buchena, instead of going to mass, got down his cock-stick, which is a staff much thicker and heavier at one end than at the other, and prepared to set out on his favorite amusement. His father, seeing this, reproved him seriously, and insisted that he should attend prayers.
His enthusiasm for the sport, however, was stronger than his love of religion, and he refused to be guided by his father's advice. The old man, during the altercation, got warm, and on finding that the son obstinately scorned his authority, he knelt down and prayed that if the boy persisted in following his own will, he might never return from the mountains unless as a corpse. The imprecation, which was certainly a harsh As it was envious and senseless, might have startled many a mind from a purpose that was, to say the least of it, at variance with religion and the respect due to a father. It had no effect, however, upon the son, who is said to have replied that whether he ever returned or not, he was determined on going.
And go accordingly he did. He was not, however, alone, for it appears that three or four of the neighboring young men accompanied him. Whether their sport was good or otherwise is not to the purpose, neither am I able to say. But the story goes that towards the later part of the day they started a larger and darker hair than any they had ever seen, and that she kept dawdling on before them bit by bit, leading them to suppose that every succeeding cast of the cock-stick would bring her down. It was observed afterwards that she also led them into the recess of the mountains, and that although they tried to turn her course homewards, they could not succeed in doing so. As evening advanced, the companions of Makenna began to feel the folly of pursuing her further, And to perceive the danger of losing their way in the mountains, should night or a snowstorm come upon them.
They therefore proposed to give over the chase and return home. But Makenna would not hear of it. "'If you wish to go home, you may,' said he. "'As for me, I'll never leave the hills till I have her with me.' They begged and entreated of him to be ceased and return, but all to no purpose. He appeared to be what the Scotch call fey, that is, to act as if he were moved by some impulse that leads to death, and from the influence of which a man cannot withdraw himself. At length, on finding him invisibly obstinate, they left him pursuing the hare directly into the heart of the mountains, and returned to their respective homes. In the meantime, One of the most terrible snowstorms ever remembered in that part of the country came on, and the consequence was that the self-willed young man, who had equally trampled on the sanctities of religion and parental authority, was given over for longs.
As soon as the tempest became still, the neighbors assembled in a body and proceeded to look for him. The snow, however, had fallen so heavily that not a single mark of a footstep could be seen. Nothing but one wide waste of white undulating hills met the eye wherever it turned, and of McKenna no trace whatever was visible or could be found. His father, now remembering the unnatural character of his imprecation, was nearly distracted, for although the body had not been yet found, still by every one who witnessed the sudden rage of the storm, and who knew the mountains, escape or survival was felt to be impossible. Every day for about a week, large parties were out among the hill ranges, seeking him, but to no purpose.
At length there came a thaw, and his body was found on a snow raft, lying in a fine posture within a circle which he had drawn around him with his cock-stick. His prayer-book opened upon his mouth. And his head was pulled down so as to cover it and his face. It is unnecessary to say that the rumor of his death, and of the circumstances under which he left home, created a most extraordinary sensation in the country—a sensation that was the greater in proportion to the uncertainty occasioned by his not having been found either alive or dead. Some affirmed that he had crossed the mountains, and was seen in Monoghan, others that he had been seen in Clones, in Amelieu, in Five Mile Town, but despite all these agreeable reports, the melancholy truth was at length made clear by the appearance of the body as just stated.
Now, it so happened that the house nearest the spot where he lay was inhabited by a man named I think, but of the name I am not certain, who was a herd or caretaker to Dr. Porter, then Bishop of Clotham. The situation of this house was the most lonely and desolate-looking that could be imagined. It was at least two miles distant from any human habitation, being surrounded by one wide and dreary waste of dark moor. By this house lay the root of those who had found the corpse, and I believe the door of it was borrowed for the purpose of conveying it home. Be this as it may, the family witnessed the melancholy procession, As it passed slowly through the mountains, and when the place and circumstances are all considered, we may admit that to ignorant and superstitious people, whose minds, even upon ordinary occasions, were strongly affected by such matters, it was a sight calculated to leave behind it a deep, if not terrible, impression.
Time soon proved that it did so. An incident is said to have occurred at the funeral. in fine keeping with the wild spirit of the whole melancholy event. When the procession had advanced to a place called Molactini, a large dark-colored hare, which was instantly recognized by those who had been out with him on the hills as the identical one that led him to his fate, is said to have crossed the roads about twenty yards or so before the coffin. The story goes that the man Struck it on the side with a stone, and that the blow, which would have killed any ordinary hair, not only did it no injury, but occasioned a sound to proceed from the body resembling the hollow one emitted by an empty barrel when struck.
In the meantime, the interment took place, and the sensation began, like every other, to die away in the natural progress of time, when, behold, A report ran abroad like wildfire that, to use the language of the people, Frank McKenna was appearing.
One night, about a fortnight after his funeral, the daughter of Daly, the herd, a girl about fourteen, while lying in bed, saw what appeared to be the likeness of McKenna, who had been lost. She screamed out, and covering her head with the bedclothes, told her father and mother that Frank McKenna was in the house. This alarming intelligence naturally produced great terror. Still, Daly, who, notwithstanding his belief in such matters, possessed a good deal of moral courage, was cool enough to rise and examine the house, which consisted of only one apartment. This gave the daughter some courage, who, on finding that her father could not see him, ventured to look out, and she then could see nothing of him herself.
She very soon fell asleep, and her father attributed what she thought of fear or some accidental combination of shadows proceeding from the furniture, for it was a clear moonlight night.
The light of the following day dispelled a great deal of their apprehensions, And comparatively little was thought of it until evening again advanced, when the fears of the daughter began to return. They appeared to be prophetic, for she said when night came that she knew he would appear again, and accordingly at the same hour he did so. This was repeated for several successive nights, until the girl, from the very hardihood of terror, began to become so far familiarized to the spectre, as to venture to address it. "'In the name of God,' she asked, "'what is troubling you, or why do you appear to me instead of to some of your own family or relations?' The ghost's answer alone might settle the question involved in the authenticity of its appearance, bearing, as it was, an account of one of the most ridiculous missions that ever a spirit was dispatched upon.
"'I'm not allowed,' said he. to speak to any of my friends, for I parted with them in anger, but I'm come to tell you that they are quarrelling about my breeches, a new pair that I got made for Christmas Day. And as I was coming up to chance in the mountains, I thought the old one would do better, and of course I didn't put a new pair on me. My reason for appearing, he added, is that you may Tell my friends that none of them is to wear them. They must be given in charity. This serious and solemn intimation from the ghost was thoroughly communicated to the family, and it was found that the circumstances were exactly as it had represented them. This, of course, was considered as sufficient proof of the truth of its mission.
Their conversations now became not only frequent, but quite friendly and familiar. The girl became a favorite with the spectre, and the spectre, on the other hand, soon lost all his terrors in her eyes. He told her that whilst his friends were bearing home his body, the hand spikes or poles on which they carried him had cut his back, and occasioned him grave pain. The cutting of the back also was known to be true, and strengthened, of course, the truth and authenticity of their dialogues. The whole neighborhood was now in a commotion with the story of the apparition, and persons inside it by curiosity began to visit the girl in order to satisfy themselves of the truth of what they had heard. Everything, however, was corroborated, and the child herself, without any symptoms of anxiety or terror, artlessly related her conversations with the spirit.
Hitherto, their interviews had been all nocturnal. But now that the ghost found his footing made good, he put a hardy face on, and ventured to appear by daylight. The girl also fell into stares of syncope, and while the feats lasted, no conversation with him upon the subject of God, the blessed Virgin, and Heaven took place between them. He was certainly an excellent moralist, and gave the best advice. Swearing, drunkness, theft, and every evil propensity of our nature were declaimed against with a degree of spectral eloquence quite surprising. Common fame had now a topic dear to her heart, and never was a ghost made more of by his best friends than she made of him. The whole country was in a tumult, and I will remember the crowds which flocked to the lonely little cabin in the mountains, Now the scene of matters so interesting and important.
Not a single day passed in which I should think from ten to twenty, thirty or fifty persons were not present at these singular interviews. Nothing else was thought of, and, as I can well testify, dreamt of. I would myself have gone to Dallas were it not for a confounded misgiving I had. That perhaps the ghost might take such a fancy of appearing to me as he had taken to cultivate an intimacy with the girl. And it so happens that when I see the face of an individual nailed down in the coffin, chilling and gloomy operation, I experience no particular wish to look upon it again. The spot where the body of McKenna was found, is now marked by a little heap of stones which has been collected since the melancholy event of his death.
Every person who passes it throws a stone upon the heap. But why this old custom is practiced, or what it means, I do not know, unless it be simply to mark the spot as a visible means of preserving the memory of the occurrence. Daly's house, the scene of the supposed apparition, is now A shapeless ruin, which could scarcely be seen were it not for the green spot that once was a garden, and which now shines at a distance like an emerald, but with no agreeable or pleasing associations. It is a spot which no solitary schoolboy will ever visit, nor, indeed, would the unflinching believer in the popular nonsense of ghosts wish to pass it without a companion. It is, under any circumstances, a gloomy and barren place, but when looked upon in connection with what we have just recited, it is lonely, desolate, and awful.
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22 21 - Witches, Fairy Doctors Bewitched 8:26
WITCHES.
Fairey DOCTORS. Witches and fairy doctors receive their power from opposite dynasties, the witch from evil spirits and her own malignant will, the fairy doctor from the fairies, and a something, a temperament, that is born with him or her. The first is always feared and hated. The second is gone to for advice, and is never worse than mischievous. The most celebrated fairy doctors are sometimes people the fairies loved and carried away and kept with them for seven years. Not that those the fairies love are always carried off. They may merely grow silent and strange and take to lonely wanderings in the gentle places. Such will, in aftertimes, be great poets or musicians or fairy doctors. They must not be confused with those who have a liananshee, for the liananshee lives upon the vitals of its chosen, and they waste and die.
She is of the dreadful solitary fairies. To her have belonged the greatest of the Irish poets, from machine down to the last century.
Those we speak of have for their friends the Trooping Fairies. The gay and sociable populace of raths and caves. Great is their knowledge of herbs and spells. These doctors, when the butter will not come on the milk, or the milk will not come from the cow, will be sent for to find out if the cause be in the course of common nature, or if there has been witchcraft. Perhaps some old hag in the shape of a hare has been milking the cow. Perhaps some user of the dead hand has drawn away the butter to her own churn. Whatever it be, there is a counter-charm. They will give advice, too, in cases of suspected changelings, and prescribe for the fairy blast. When the fairy strikes anyone, a tumor rises, or they become paralyzed.
This is called a fairy blast, or a fairy stroke. The fairies are, of course, visible to them. And many a new-built house have they bid the owner pull down, because it lay on the ferry's road. Lady Wilde thus describes one who lived in Inishark. He never touched beer, spirits, or meat, in all his life, but has lived entirely on bread, fruit, and vegetables. A man who knew him thus describes him. Winter and summer, his dress is the same, merely a flannel shirt and coat. He will pay his share at a feast. but neither eats nor drinks of the food and drinks set before him. He speaks no English, and never could be made to learn the English tongue, though he says it might be used with great effect to curse one's enemy.
He holds a burial-ground sacred, and would not carry away so much as a leaf of ivy from a grave. And he maintains that the people are right to keep to their ancient usages, such as never to dig a grave on a Monday. And to carry the coffin three times round the grave, following the course of the sun, for then the dead rest in peace. Like the people also, he holds suicides to be accursed, for they believe that all its dead turn over on their faces if a suicide is laid amongst them. Though well off, he never, even in his youth, thought of taking a wife, nor was he ever known to love a woman. He stands quite apart from life, and by this means holds his power over the mysteries. No money will tempt him to impart his knowledge to another, for if he did, he would be struck dead.
So he believes. He would not touch a hazel-stick, but carries an ash wand, which he holds in his hand when he prays, laid across his knees. And the whole of his life is devoted to works of grace and charity. And though now an old man He has never had a day's sickness. No one has ever seen him in a rage, nor heard an angry word from his lips but once, and then, being under great irritation, he recited the Lord's Prayer backwards as an imprecation on his enemy. Before his death he will reveal the mystery of his power, but not till the hand of death is on him for certain. When he does reveal it, we may be sure it will be to one person only, his successor. There are several such doctors in County Sligo, really well up in herbal medicine by all accounts, and my friends find them in their own counties.
All these things go on merrily. The spirit of the age laughs in vain, and is itself only a rippled pass, or already passing away. The spells of the witch are altogether different. They smell of the grave. One of the most powerful is the charm of the dead hand. With a hand cut from a corpse, they, muttering words of power, will stir well and skim from its surface a neighbor's butter. A candle held between the fingers of the dead hand can never be blown out. This is useful to robbers, but they appeal for the suffrage of the lovers likewise, for they can make love potions by drying and grinding into powder the liver of a black cat. Mixed with tea and poured from a black teapot, it is infallible.
There are many stories of its success in quite recent years, but, unhappily, the spell must be continually renewed, or all the love may turn into hate. But the central notion of witchcraft everywhere is the power to change into some fictitious form, usually in Ireland a hare or a cat. Long ago, a wolf was a favourite. Before Geraltus Cambrinces came to Ireland, A monk wandering in a forest at night came upon two wolves, one of whom was dying. The other entreated him to give the dying wolf the last sacrament. He said the Mass, and paused when he came to the viaticum. The other, on seeing this, tore the skin from the breast of the dying wolf, laying bare the form of an old woman. Thereon the monk gave the sacrament.
Years afterwards he confessed the matter, and when Geraltus visited the country, was being tried by the synod of the bishops. To give the sacrament to an animal was a great sin. Was it a human being, or an animal? On the advice of Geraltus, they sent the monk, with papers describing the matter, to the Pope for his decision. The result is not stated. Geraltus himself was of opinion that the wolf form was an illusion, for, as he argued, only God can change the form. His opinion coincides with tradition, Irish and otherwise. It is the notion of many who have written about these things that magic is mainly the making of such illusions. Patrick Kennedy tells a story of a girl who, having in her hand a sod of grass containing, unknown to herself, a four-leafed shamrock, watched a conjurer at a fair.
Now the four-leafed shamrock guards its owner from all beshoogues. Spells. And when the others were staring at a cock carrying along the roof of a shed a huge beam in its bill, she asked them what they found to wonder at in a cock with a straw. The conjurer begged from her the sod of grass to give to his horse, he said. Immediately she cried out in terror that the beam would fall and kill somebody. This, then, is to be remembered. The form of an enchanted thing is a fiction. and a caprice.
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23 22 - Bewitched Butter (Donegal) - A Queen's County Witch 11:01
XXII. Bewitched Butter.
Donegal. By Miss Letitia McClintock. Not far from Rathmullen lived, last spring, a family called Hanlon, an inner farmhouse, some fields distant, people named Doggetty. Both families had good cows, but the Hanlons were fortunate in possessing a Kerry-cow that gave more milk in yellower butter than the others. Grace Doherty, a young girl, who was more admired than loved in the neighbourhood, took much interest in the Kerry Cow, and appeared one night at Mrs. Hanlon's door with a modest request. "'Will you let me milk your moily cow?' "'And why would you wish to milk we moily, Grace there?' inquired Mrs. Hanlon. "'Oh, just because you're so a throng at the present time.' "'Thank you, kindly Grace, but I'm not too throng to do my own work.
I'll no trouble you to milk.' The girl turned away with a discontented air, but the next evening, and the next, found her at the cow-house door with the same request. At length Mrs. Hanlon, not knowing well how to persist in her refusal, yielded, and permitted Grace to milk the carry-cow. She soon had reason to regret her want of firmness. Moyley gave no more milk to her owner. When this melancholy state of things lasted for three days, the Hanlons applied to a certain Mark Macarion, Who lived near Binion. That cow has been milked by someone with an evil eye," said he. Will she give you a wee drop, do you think? The full of a pint, Masha, what do? Aye, aye, Mark, dear. I'll get that much milk for her, anyway.
Well, Mrs. Anlon, lock the door, and get nine new pins that was never used in clothes, and put them into a saucepan with a pint of milk, set them on the fire, and let them come to the boil. The nine-pins soon began to simmer in moyle's milk.
Rapid steps were heard approaching the door, agitated knocks followed, and Grace Doggertie's high-toned voice was raised in eager entreaty. "'Let me in, Mrs. Hanlon,' she cried. "'Take off that cruel pot, take out them pins, for they're pricking holes in my heart, and I'll never offer to touch Milkville's again.' There is hardier village in Ireland, where the milk is not thus believed to have been stolen times upon times. There are many counter-charms. Sometimes the counter of a plough will be heated red-hot, and the witch will rush in, crying out that she is burning. A new horseshoe or donkey-shoe heated and put under the churn, with three straws, if possible, stolen at midnight from over the witch's door, is quite infallible.
A Queen's County Witch. It was about eighty years ago, in the month of May, that a Roman Catholic clergyman, near Rathdowney, in the Queen's County, was awakened at midnight to attend a dying man in a distant part of the parish. The priest obeyed without a murmur, and, having performed his duty to the expiring sinner, saw him depart his world before he left the cabin. As it was yet dark, the man who had called on the priest offered to accompany him home. But he refused, and set forward on his journey alone. The grey dawn began to appear over the hills. The good priest was highly enraptured with the beauty of the scene, and rode on, now gazing intently at every surrounding object, and again cutting with his whip at the bats and big beautiful night-flies, which flitted ever and anon from hedge to hedge across his lonely way.
Thus engaged, he journeyed on slowly, until the narrow approach of sunrise began to render objects completely discernible. When he dismounted from his horse, and slipping his arm out of the rein, and drawing forth his breviary from his pocket, he commenced reading his morning office as he walked leisurely along. He had not proceeded very far, when he observed his horse, a very spiritual animal, Endeavouring to stop on the road, and gazing intently into a field on one side of the way, where there were three or four cows grazing. However, he did not pay any particular attention to this circumstance, but went on a little farther, when the horse suddenly plunged with great violence, and endeavoured to break away by force.
The priest with great difficulty succeeded in restraining him, and, looking at him more closely, observed him shaking from head to foot, and sweating profusely. He now stood calmly, and refused to move from where he was, nor could threats or entreaty induce him to proceed. The father was greatly astonished, but recollecting to have often heard of horses labouring under a fright, being induced to go by blindfolding them, he took out his handkerchief, and tied it across his eyes. He then mounted, and, striking him gently, he went forward without reluctance, but still sweating and trembling violently. They had not gone far when they arrived opposite a narrow path or bridleway, flanked at either side by a tall, thick hedge, which led from the high road to the field where the cows were grazing.
The priest happened by chance to look into the lane, and saw a spectacle which made the blood curdle in his veins. It was the legs of a man from the hips downwards, without head or body, trotting up the avenue at a smart pace. The good father was very much alarmed, but being a man of a strong nerve, he resolved, come what might, to stand and be further acquainted with this singular spectre. He accordingly stood, and so did the headless apparition, as if afraid to approach him. The priest, observing this, pulled back a little from the entrance of the avenue, and the phantom again resumed its progress. It soon arrived on the road, and the priest now had sufficient opportunity to view it minutely.
It wore yellow buckskin breeches, tightly fastened at the knees with green ribbon. It had neither shoes nor stockings on, and its legs were covered with long red hairs, and all full of wet blood and clay, apparently contracted in its progress through the thorny hedges. The priest, although very much alarmed, felt eager to examine the phantom, and for this purpose summoned all his philosophy to enable him to speak to it. The ghost was now a little ahead, pursuing its march at its own brisky trot, and the priest urged on his horse speedily, until he came up with it, and thus addressed it. "'Hillow, our friend! Who art thou, or whither art thou going so early?' The hideous spectre made no reply, but uttered a fierce and superhuman growl, or, umph.
"'A fine morning for a ghost to wander abroad,' again said the priest. Another, umph, was the reply. "'Why don't you speak?' Umph. "'You don't seem disposed to be very loquacious this morning.' Umph, again." The good man began to feel irritated at the obstinate silence of his unearthly visitor, and said with some warmth. "'In the name of all that's sacred, I command you to answer me. Who art thou, or where art thou travelling?' Another oomph, more loud and more angry than before, was the only reply. "'Perhaps,' said the father, "'a taste of whip-cord might rend you a little more communicative.' And so saying, he struck the apparition a heavy blow with his whip on the breech. The phantom uttered a wild and unearthly yell, and fell forward on the road.
And what was the priest's astonishment when he perceived the whole place running over with milk? He was struck dumb with amazement. The prostrate phantom still continued to eject vast quantities of milk from every part. The priest's head swam, his eyes got dizzy, a stupor came all over him for some minutes, and on his recovering the frightful spectre had vanished, and in its stead he found stretched on the road, and half drowned in milk, the form of Sarah Kennedy. An old woman of the neighbourhood, who had been long notorious in that district for her witchcraft and superstitious practices, and it was now discovered that she had, by infernal aid, assumed that monstrous shape, and was employed that morning in sucking the cows of the village.
Had a volcano burst forth at his feet, he could not be more astonished. He gazed a while, in silent amazement, the old woman groaning and writhing convulsively. Sarah! said he at length. I have long admonished you to repent of your evil ways, but you were deaf to my entreaties, and now, wretched woman, you are surprised in the midst of your crimes. "'Oh, Father! Father!' shouted the unfortunate woman. "'Can you do nothing to save me? I am lost. Hell is open for me. A legions of devils surround me this moment, waiting to carry my soul to perdition.' The priest had not power to reply. The old wretch's pains increased. Her body swelled to an immense size. Her eyes flashed as if on fire. Her face was black as night.
Her entire form rivaled in a thousand different contortions. Her outcries were appalling. Her face sunk. Her eyes closed. And in a few minutes she expired in the most equisite tortures. The priest departed homewards, and called at the next cabin, to give notice of the strange circumstances. The remains of Sarah Kennedy were removed to her cabin, situate at the edge of a small wood at a little distance. She had long been a resident in that neighborhood, but still she was a stranger, and came there no one knew from whence. She had no relation in that country but one daughter, now advanced in years, who resided with her. She kept one cow, but sold more butter, it was said, than any farmer in the parish, and it was generally suspected that she acquired it by devilish agency, as she never made a secret of being intimately acquainted with sorcery and fairyism.
She professed a Roman Catholic religion, but never complied with the practices enjoyed by that church, and her remains were denied Christian sepulchre, and were buried in a sand-pit near her own cabin. On the evening of her burial, the villagers assembled and burned her cabin to the earth. Her daughter made her escape, and never after returned.
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24 23 - The Witch Hare - Bewitched Butter (Queen's County) 24:41
Edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. Section 23. The Witch-Hare. Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall. I was out tracking heres meself, and I seen a fine pulse of a thing hopping, hopping in the moonlight, and whacking her ears about, now up, now down, and winking her great eyes, and, here goes, says I, and the thing was so close to me that she turned round and looked at me, and then bounced back, as well as to say, dear worst. So I had the least grain in life of blessed powder left, and I put it in the gun and banged at her. My jewel, the screed she gave would fight an arigment, and a mist like came betwixt me and her, and I seen her no more. But when the mist went off, I saw blood on the spot where she had been, and I followed its track, and at last it let me, whilst whisper, right up to Katie McShannon's door.
And when I was at the threshold, I heard a moaning within, a great moaning, and a groaning, and I opened the door, and there she was herself, sitting quite content in the shape of a woman, and the black cat that was sitting by her rose up its back and spit at me. But I went on, never hearing, and asked the old how she was, and what ailed her. "'Nothing,' says she. "'Was that on the floor?' says I." "'Oh,' she says, "'I was cutting a billet of wood,' she says, "'with a ripping-hook,' she says, "'and I've wounded myself in the leg,' she says, "'and that's drops of my precious blood,' she says." End of witch-hair.
Perichet Butter, Queens County.
Dublin University Magazine, 1839. About the commencement of the last century, there lived in the vicinity of the once famous village of Aghavau, the Field of Kyn, a beautiful and romantic village near Boris in Osury, in Daquines County. It was once a place of considerable importance. and for centuries the episcopal seat of the diocese of Osury. But for ages back it has gone to decay, and is now remarkable for nothing but the magnificent ruins of a priory of the Dominicans, erected here at an early period by St. Canis, the patron saint of Osury. A wealthy farmer named Brian Castigan, this man kept an extensive dairy and a great many milk cows. And every year mere considerable sums by the sale of milk and butter.
The luxuriance of the pasture lands in this neighborhood has always been proverbial, and consequently, Brian's cows were the finest and most productive in the country, and his milk and butter the richest and sweetest, and brought the highest price at every market at which he offered these articles for sale. Things continued to go on thus prosperously with Brian Costigan, when, one season, all at once, he found his cattle declining in appearance and his dairy almost entirely Profitless. Bryan, at first, attributed this change to the weather, or some such case, but soon found or fancied reasons to assign it to a far different source. The cows, without any visible disorder, daily declined, and were scarcely able to crawl about on their pasture.
Many of them, instead of milk, came nothing but blood, and a scanty quantity of milk which some of them continued to supply, was so bitter that even the pigs would not drink it, whilst the butter which it produced was of such a bad quality and stung so horribly that the very dogs would not eat it. Bryan applied for remedies to all the quacks and fairy women in the country, but in vain. Many of the impostors declared that the mysterious malady in this cattle went beyond their skill. Once others, although they found no difficulty in tracing it to superhuman agency, declared that they had no control in the matter, as the charm under the influence of which his property was made away with was too powerful to be dissolved by anything less than the special interposition of divine providence.
The poor farmer became almost distracted. He saw Rune staring him in the face. Yet what was he to do? Sell his cattle and purchase others? No, that was out of the question, as they looked so miserable and emaciated that no one would even take them as a present. Whilst it was also impossible to sell to a butcher, as the flesh of one which he killed for his own family, was as black as a coal, and stunk like any putrid carrion. The unfortunate man was thus completely bewildered. He knew not what to do. He became moody and stupid. His sleep forsook him by night, and all day he wandered about the fields amongst his fairy-striken cattle. Like a maniac. Affairs continued in this plight, when one very sultry evening, in the latter days of July, Brian Cossigan's wife was sitting at her own door, spinning at her wheel, in a very gloomy and agitated state of mind.
Happening to look down the narrow green lane, which led from the high road to her cabin. She espied a little old woman barefoot and enveloped in an old scarlet cloak, approaching slowly with the aid of a crutch which she carried in one hand and a cane or walking-stick in the other. The farmer's wife felt glad at seeing the odd-looking stranger. She smiled, and yet she knew not why, as she neared the house. A vague and indefinable feeling of pleasure. Crowded on her imagination, and, as the old woman gained the threshold, she bade her welcome with a warmth which plainly told that her lips gave utterance but to the genuine feelings of her heart. God bless this good house, and all belonging to it, said the stranger as she entered.
God save you kindly, and you are welcome, whoever you are, replied Mrs. Costigan. And I thought so. said the old woman with a significant grin. "'I thought so, or I wouldn't trouble you.' The farmer's wife ran and placed a chair near the fire for the stranger. The tree fused, and sat on the ground near where Mrs. C. had been spinning. Mrs. Castigran had now time to survey the old hag's person minutely. She appeared of great age. Her countenance was extremely ugly and repulsive. Her skin was rough and deeply inbound, as if from long exposure to the effects of some tropical climate. Her forehead was low, narrow, and intended with a thousand wrinkles. Her long gray hair fell in matted elf locks from beneath a white linen skull-cap.
Her eyes were blared, blood-shortened, and obitly set in their sockets, and her voice was croaking, tremulous, and at times partially unarticulate. As she squatted on the floor, she looked round the house with an inquisitive gaze. She peered primly from corner to corner, with an earnestness of look, as if she had the faculty, like the organot of old, to see through the very depths of the earth, whilst Mrs. C., kept watching her motions with minkled feelings of curiosity, awe, and pleasure. "'Mrs,' said the old woman, at length breaking silence, "'I am dry with the heat of the day. Can you give me a drink?' "'Alas,' cried the farmer's wife, "'I have no drink to offer you, except water, "'else you would have no occasion to ask me for it.' "'Are you not the owner of the cattle I see yonder?' said the old hag.
With a tone of voice and manner of gesticulation which plainly indicated her foreknowledge of the fact. Mrs. Costigan replied in the affirmative, and briefly related to her every circumstance connected with the affair. Whilst the old woman still remained silent, but shook her gray head repeatedly, and still continued gazing round the house with an air of importance and self-sufficiency. When Mrs. C. had ended, the old hag remained a while as if in a deep reverie. At length she said, "'Have you any of the milk in the house?' "'I have,' replied the other. "'Show me some of it.' She filled the jug from a vessel, and handed it to the old Sibyl, who smelled it, then tasted it, and spat out what she had taken on the floor.
"'Where is your husband?' she asked. "'Out in the fields,' was the reply. "'I must see him.' A messenger was dispatched for Brian, who shortly after made his appearance. "'Neighbor,' said the stranger, "'your wife informs me that your cattle are going against you this season.' "'She informs you right,' said Brian. "'And why have you not—' "'What sought a cure?' "'A cure?' reacquered the man. "'Why, woman, I have sought cures until I was heartbroken, and all in vain. They get worse every day. What will you give me if I cure them for you?' "'Anything in our power,' replied Brian and his wife, both speaking joyfully and with a breath. "'All I will ask from you is a silver sixpence, and that you will do everything which I will bid you,' said she.
The farmer and his wife seemed astonished at the moderation of her demand. They offered her a large sum of money. "'No,' said she, "'I don't want your money, I'm no cheat, and I would not even take sixpence, but that I can do nothing till I handle some of your silver.' The sixpence was immediately given her, and the most implicit obedience promised to her injunctions by both Brian and his wife. Who already began to regard the old beldame as their tutelary angel. The hag pulled off a black silk ribbon or fillet, which encircled her head inside her cap, and gave it to Brian, saying, Go now, and the first cow you touch with this ribbon, turn her into the yard, but be sure don't touch the second, nor speak a word until you return.
Be also careful not to let the ribbon touch the ground, for, if you do, All is over. Pryor took the talismanic ribbon, and soon returned, driving a red cow before him. The old hag went out, and approaching the cow, commenced pulling hairs off her tail, at the same time singing some verses in the Irish language in a low, wild, and unconnected strain. The cow appeared restive and uneasy, but the old witch still continued her mysterious chant until she had the ninth hair extracted. She then ordered the cow to be drove back to her pasture, and again entered the house. Go now. said she to the woman, and bring me some milk from every cow in your possession. She went, and soon returned with a large pail, filled with a frightful-looking mixture of blood, milk, and corrupt matter.
The old woman got it into the churn, and made preparations for churning. "'Now,' she said, "'you both must churn, make fast the door and windows, and let there be no light but from the fire. Do not open your lips until I desire you.' And by observing my directions, I make no doubt but, ere the sun goes down, we will find out the infernal villain who is robbing you. Paya secured the doors and windows, and commenced churning. The old sorceress sat down by a blazing fire, which had been especially Lighted for the occasion, and commenced singing the same wild song which she had sung at the pulling of the cow-hairs, and after a little time she cast one of the nine hares into the fire, still singing her mysterious strain, and watching with intense interest the witching process.
A loud cry, as if from a female in distress, was now heard approaching the house, though witch discontinued her incantations and listened attentively. The grand voice approached the door. "'Open the door quickly!' shouted the charmer. "'Bren unbared the door, and all three rushed out in the yard when they heard the same cry down the borheen, but could see nothing. "'It's all over,' shouted the old witch. "'Something has gone amiss, and our charm for the present is ineffectual.' They now turned back quite crestfallen when, as they were entering the door, The seabill cast her eyes downwards, and perceiving a piece of horseshoe nailed on the threshold. It was once a common practice in Ireland to nail a piece of horseshoe on the threshold of the door as a preservative against the influence of the fairies, who, it is thought, dare not enter any house thus guarded.
This custom, however, is much on the wane, but still it is prevalent in some of the more uncivilized districts of the country. End of footnote. She vociferated. Here! I have it! No wonder our charm was portive. The person that was crying abroad is the villain who has your cattle bewitched. I brought her to the house. But she was not able to come to the door on account of that horse-shoe. We move it instantly, and we will try our luck again. Brian removed the horse-shoe from the doorway, and by the hex directions placed it on the floor under the churn, having previously reddened it in the fire. They again resumed their manual operations. Brian and his wife began to turn, and the witch again to sing her strange verses, and casting her cowhairs into the fire until she had them all nearly exhausted.
Her countenance now began to exhibit evident traces of vexation and disappointment. She got quite pale, her feet gnashed, her hand trembled, and as she cast a knight and last hair into the fire, her person exhibited more the appearance of a female demon than of a human being. Last more the cry was heard, and an aged red-haired woman. Red-haired people are thought to possess magic power. Wasin approaching the house quickly. Ho, ho! roared the sorceress. I knew it would be so. My charm has succeeded. My expectations are realized, and here she comes, the villain who has destroyed you. What are we to do now? asked Brian. Say nothing to her, said Hank. Give her whatever she demands, and leave the rest to me.
The woman advanced, screeching vehemently, and Brian went out to meet her. She was a neighbor, and she said that one of her best cows was drowning in a pool of water, that there was no one at home but herself, and she implored Brian to go rescue the cow from destruction. Brian accompanied her without hesitation, and having rescued the cow from her perilous situation, was back again in a quarter of an hour. It was now sunset, and Mrs. Costigan set about preparing supper. During supper, they reverted to the singular transactions of the day. The old witch uttered many a Fiendish love at the success of her incantations, and inquired who was the woman who they had so curiously discovered. Friends satisfied her in every particular.
She was the wife of a neighboring farmer. Her name was Rachel Higgins, and she had been long suspected to be on familiar terms with the spirit of darkness. She had five or six cows, but it was observed by her sapient neighbors that she sold more butter every year than other farmers' wives who had twenty. Brown had, from the commencement of the decline in his cattle, suspected her for being the aggressor, but as he had no proof, he held his peace. "'Well,' said the old Beldam, with a green smile, "'it is not enough that we have merely discovered the robber.' All is in vain if we do not take steps to punish her for the past, as well as to prevent her inroads for the future. And how will that be done?"
said Brown. I will tell you. As soon as the hour of twelve o'clock arrives to-night, do you go to the pasture and take a couple of sweet running dogs with you. Conceal yourself in some place convenient to the cattle. Watch them carefully, and if you see anything, whether man or beast, Approach the cows, set on the dogs, and, if possible, make them draw the blood of the intruder. Then all will be accomplished. If nothing approaches before sunrise, we may return, and we will try something else. Convenient there lived the cowherd of a neighboring squire. He was a hardy, courageous young man, and always kept a pair of very ferocious bulldogs. To him, Brian replied for assistance, and he cheerfully agreed to accompany him, and, moreover, proposed to fetch a couple of his master's best greyhounds as his own dogs, although extremely fierce and bloodthirsty, would not be relied on for sweetness.
He promised Brian to be with him before twelve o'clock, and they parted. Brian did not seek sleep that night. He sat up anxiously, awaiting the midnight hour. It arrived at last, and his friend, the herdsman, true to his promise, came at the time appointed. After some further Admonitions from the Houlogh, they departed. Having arrived at the field, they consulted as to the best position they could choose for concealment. At last they pitched on a small break of fern, situated at the extremity of the field, adjacent to the boundary ditch, which was thickly sturdered with large old white-thorn bushes. Here they crouched themselves, and made the dogs, for a number, lie down beside them, eagerly expecting the appearance of their as yet unknown and mysterious visitor.
Here Brian and his comrade continued a considerable time in nervous anxiety, still nothing approached, and it became manifest that morning was at hand, they were beginning to grow impatient, and were talking of returning home. When on a sudden they heard a rushing sound behind them, as if proceeding from something, endeavouring to force a passage through the thick hedge in their rear. They looked in that direction, and judged of their astonishment when they perceived the large hare in the act of springing from the ditch and leaping on the ground quite near them. They were now convinced that this was the object which they had so impatiently expected, and they were resolved to watch her motions narrowly.
After arriving to the ground, she remained motionless for a few moments, looking around her sharply. She then began to skip and jump in a playful manner, now advancing at a smart pace towards the cows, and again retreating precipitately, but still drawing nearer and nearer at each sally. At length, she advanced up to the next cow and sucked her for a moment. Then on to the next, and so respectably to every cow on the field, the cows all the time blowing loudly, and appearing extremely frightened and agitated. Brian, from the moment the Herr Kamehs sucking the first, was with difficulty restrained from attacking her, but his more sagacious companion suggested to him that it was better to wait until she would have done As she would then be much heavier and more unable to effect her escape than at present.
And so the issue proved. For being now done sucking them all, her belly appeared enormously distanted, and she made her exit slowly and apparently with difficulty. She advanced towards the hedge where she had entered, and as she arrived just at the clump of ferns where her foes were couched, they started up with a fierce yell. and hallooed the dogs upon her path. The hare started off at a pice pace, squirting up the milk she had sucked from her mouth and nostrils, and the dogs making after her rapidly. Rachel Higgins' cabin appeared, through the grey of the morning twilight, at a little distance, and it was evident that Puss seemed bent on gaining it, although she made a considerable circuit through the fields in the rear.
Brian and his comrade, however, Had their thoughts, and made towards the cabin by the shortest route, and had just arrived as the hare came up. Panting and almost exhausted, and the dogs at her very scud, she ran round the house, evidently confused and disappointed at the presence of the man, but at length made for the door. In the bottom of the door was a small semicircular aperture, resembling those cut in full house doors for the ingress and egress of poultry. To gain this hope, Puss was now made a less and desperate effort, and had succeeded in forcing her head and shoulders through it, when the foremost of the dogs made a spring and seized her violently by the haunch. She uttered a loud and piercing scream, and struggled desperately to free herself from his grip, and at last succeeded, but not until she left a piece of a rump in his teeth.
The man now burst open the door. A bright turf! Fire blazed on the earth, and the whole floor was streaming with blood. No hair, however, could be found, and the men were more than ever convinced that it was old Rachel, who had, by the assistance of some demon, assumed the form of the hair, and they now determined to have her if she were over the earth. They entered the bedroom. and heard some smoother groaning, as if proceeding from someone in extreme agony. They went to the corner of the room from whence the moans proceeded, and there, beneath a bundle of freshly cut roaches, found the form of Rachel Higgins, breathing in the most excruciating agony, and almost smothered in a pool of blood.
The men were astonished. They addressed the wretched old woman, but she either could not or would not answer them. Her wounds still bled copiously. Her tortures appeared to increase, and it was evident that she was dying. The aroused family thronged around her with cries and lamentations. She did not seem to heed them. She got worse and worse, and her piercing yells fell awfully on the ears of the bystanders. At length she expired, and her corpse exhibited a most appealing spectacle, even before the spirit had well departed. Penn and his friend returned home. The old hag had been previously aware of the fate of Rachel Higgins, but it was not known by what means she acquired her supernatural knowledge.
She was delighted at the issue of her mysterious operations. Penn pressed her much to accept of some remuneration for her services, but she utterly rejected such proposals. She remained a few days at his house, And at length took her leave and departed. No one knew whither. Old Rachel's remains were interred that night in the neighboring churchyard. Her fate soon became generally known, and her family, ashamed to remain in their native village, disposed of their property and quitted the country forever. The story, however, is still fresh in the memory of the surrounding villagers, and often It is said, amid the gray haze of a summer bylight, may the ghost of Rachel Higgins, in the form of a hare, be seen scuttling over her favorite and well-remembered haunts.
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25 24 - The Horned Women - The Witches Excursion 10:20
Fairy and Folk-Tales of the Irish Peasantry, edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. Section 24. The Horned Women by Lady Wilde. A rich woman sat up late one night, carding and preparing wool, while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called, "'Open! Open!' "'Who's there?' said the woman of the house. "'I am the witch of the one horn,' was answered. The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool carders. and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to carve the wool with violent haste.
Suddenly she paused, and said aloud, "'Where are the women? They to lay too long.' Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before. "'Open! Open!' The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool. "'Give me place,' she said. "'I am the witch of the two horns.' And she began to spin as quick as lightning. And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire, the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns. And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning-wheels, and wound and wove, all singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house.
Strange to hear, and frightful to look upon, were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels, and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise, that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her. Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said, "'Rise, woman, and make us a cake!' Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well, that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none. And they said to her, Take a sieve and bring water in it. And she took the sieve and went to the well, but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept.
Then a voice came by her and said, Take yellow clay and moss, and bind them together, and plaster the sieve, so that it will hold. This she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake, and the voice said again, "'Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house, cry aloud three times, and say, The mountain of the Fenian woman and the sky over it is all on fire.' And she did so. When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to Sleever-Namon. Where was their chief abode? But the spirit of the well bade the mistress of the house to enter, and prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches, if they returned again.
And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child's feet, the feet-water, outside the door of the threshold. Secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her absence, of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed the bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored, and she took the cloth they had woven, and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock, and lastly she secured the door with a great cross-beam fastened in the jams, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she waited. Not long were the witches in coming back, and they raged and called for vengeance.
"'Open! Open!' they screamed. "'Open, Feetwater!' "'I cannot,' said the Feetwater. "'I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the low.' "'Open! Open, wooden trees and beam!' they cried to the door. "'I cannot,' said the door, "'for the beam is fixed in the jams, and I have no power to move.' "'Open! Open! Cake that we have made, and mingled with blood!' they cried again. "'I cannot,' said the cake, "'for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children.' Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Slyvianamon, uttering strange curses on the spirit of the well, who had wished their ruin. But the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches in her flight was kept hung up by the mistress as a sign of the night's awful contest, and this mantle was in possession of the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after.
The Witch's Excursion by Patrick Kennedy Seamus Rua Red James, awakened from his sleep one night by noises in his kitchen. Stealing to the door, he saw a half-dozen old women sitting round the fire, jesting and laughing, his old housekeeper, Madge, quite frisky and gay, helping her sister-crones to cheering glasses of punch. He began to admire the impudence and imprudence of Madge displayed in the invitation and the riot, but recollected on the instant her officiousness in urging him to take a comfortable posset, which he had brought to his bedside just before he fell asleep. Had he drunk it, he would have been just now deaf to the witch's glee. He heard and saw them drink his health in such a mocking style as nearly to tempt him to charge them, besom in hand, but he restrained himself.
The jug being emptied, one of them cried out, "'Is it time to be gone?' And at the same moment, putting on a red cap, she added, "'By yarrow and rue, and my red cap, too! High over to England!' Making use of a twig which she held in her hand as a steed, she gracefully sawed up the chimney, and was rapidly followed by the rest. But when it came to the housekeeper, Seamus interposed, "'By your leave, madam,' said he, snatching twig and cap. "'Ah, you disateful old crocodile. If I find you her on my return, there'll be wigs on the green. By Yarrow and Rue, and my red cap too. High over to England.' The words were not out of his mouth when he was soaring above the ridge-pole, and swiftly ploughing the air.
He was careful to speak no word, being somewhat conversant with witch-lore, as the result would be a tumble, and the immediate return of the expedition. In a very short time they had crossed the Wicklow Hills, the Irish Sea and the Welsh Mountains, and were charging, at whirlwind speed, the hall door of a castle. Seamus, only for the company in which he found himself, would have cried out for pardon, expecting to be mummy against the hard oak door in a moment. But, all bewildered, he found himself passing through the keyhole, along a passage, down a flight of steps, and through a cellar-door keyhole before he could form any clear idea of his situation. Waking to the full consciousness of his position, he found himself sitting on a stillen, plenty of lights glimmering round, and he and his companions, with full tumblers of frothing wine in hand, hobnobbing and drinking helts as jovely and recklessly as if the liquor was honestly come by, and they were sitting in Sheamus's own kitchen.
The red-bierent had assimilated Seamus's nature for the time being to that of his unholy companions. The heady lickies soon got into their brains, and a period of unconsciousness succeeded the ecstasy, the headache, the turning round of the barrels, and the scattered sight of poor Seamus. He woke up under the impression of being roughly seized, and shaken, and dragged upstairs, and subjected to a disagreeable examination by the lord of the castle, in his state parlour. There was much derision among the whole company, gentle and simple, on hearing Seamus's explanation, and, as the thing occurred in the Dark Ages, the unlucky linester-man was sentenced to be hung as soon as the gallows could be prepared for the occasion.
The poor Hibernian was in the cart proceeding on his last journey, with a label on his back and another on his breast, announcing him as the remorseless villain who for the last month had been draining the casks in my lord's vault every night. He was surprised to hear himself addressed by his name, and in his native tongue by an old woman in a crowd. "'Ach, shame is Alanna! Is it going to die you're in a strange place without your Kapindarayag?' These words infused hope and courage into the poor victim's heart. He turned to the Lord and humbly asked Leave to die in his red cap, which he supposed had dropped from his head in the vault. A servant was sent for the headpiece, and Seamus felt lively hope warming his heart, while placing it on his head.
On the platform he was graciously allowed to address the spectators, which he proceeded to do in the usual formula composed for the benefit of flying stationers. "'Good people, all!' A warning take by me. But when he had finished a line, my parents reared me tenderly, he unexpectedly added, by arrow and rude, etc., and the disappointed spectators saw him shoot up obliquely through the air in the style of a sky-rocket that had missed its aim. It is said that the Lord took the circumstance much to heart, and never afterwards hung a man for twenty-four hours after his offence.
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26 25 - The Confessions of Tom Bourke 31:44
The Confessions of Tom Burke, T. Croft & Crooker. Tom Burke lives in a low, long farmhouse, resembling in outward appearance a large barn placed at the bottom of the hill, just where the new road strikes off from the old one, leading from the town of Kilworth to that of Lismore. He is of a class of persons who are a sort of black swans in Ireland. He is a wealthy farmer. Tom's father had, in the good old times, when a hundred pounds were no inconsiderable treasure, either to lend or spend, Accommodated his landlord with that sum at interest, and obtained as a return for his civility along lees, about half a dozen times more valuable than the loan which procured it. The old man died worth several hundred pounds, the greater part of which, with his farm, he bequitted to his son Tom.
But besides all this, Tom received from his father, upon his dead-bed, another gift, far more valuable than worldly riches, greatly as he prized, and is still known to prize them. He was invested with a privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of communicating with those mysterious beings called the Good People. Tom Burke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about fifty-five years of age. His hair is perfectly white, short and bushy behind, but dressing in front, erect and thick above his forehead, like a new clothes-brush. His eyes are of that kind which I have often observed with persons of a quick but limited intellect. They are small, gray, and lively. The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather within, which they twinkle, give them an expression of shrewdness and intelligence, if not of cunning.
And this is very much the character of the man. If you want to make a bargain with Tom Burke, you must act as if you were a general besieging a town, And make your advances a long time before you can hope to obtain possession. If you march up boldly and tell him at once your object, you are for the most part sure to have the gates closed in your teeth. Some does not wish to part with what you wish to obtain, or another person has been speaking to him for the whole of the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems to meet the most favorable reception. Very well, sir. That's true, sir. I am very thankful to your honor. And other expressions of kindness and confidence greet you in reply to every sentence, and you part from him wondering how he can have obtained the character which he universally bears of being a man whom no one can make anything of in a bargain.
But when you next meet him, the flattering illusion is dissolved. You find you are a great deal further from your object than you were when you thought you had almost succeeded. His eye, And his tongue expressed a total forgetfulness of what the mind within never lost sight of for an instant, and you have to begin operations afresh with the disadvantage of having put your adversary completely upon his guard. Yet all that unbark is, whether from supernatural revealings or, as many will think more probable, from the telchered experience so distrustful of mankind and so close in his dealings with them, his lonely No man loves better the pleasures of the genial board. The love of money, indeed, which is with him, and who will blame him, a very ruling propensity, and the gratification which it has received from habits of industry, sustained throughout a pretty long and successful life, have taught him the value of sobriety.
During those seasons, at least, when a man's business requires him to keep possession of his senses, he has, therefore, a general rule. Never to get drunk, but on Sundays. But in order that it should be a general one, to all intents and purposes, he takes a method which, according to better logicians than he is, always proves the rule. He has many exceptions. Among these, of course, are the evenings of all the fair and market days that happen in his neighborhood. So also all the days in which funerals, marriages, and christenings take place among his friends within many miles of him. As to this last class of exceptions, it may appear at first very singular, that he is much more punctual in his attendance at the funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of his friends.
This may be constructed as an instance of disinterested affection for departed worth very uncommon in this selfish world. But I am afraid that the motives which lead Thunberg to pay more court to the dead than the living are precisely those which lead to the opposite conduct in the generality of mankind, a hope of future benefit and fear of future evil. For the good people, who are a race as powerful as they are capricious, have their favorites among those who inhabit this world, often show their affection by easing the objects of it from the load of dispensary life, and frequently reward or punish the living according to the degree of reverence paid to the obsequies and the memory of the elected dead.
Some may attribute to the same cause the apparently humane and charitable actions which Tom, and indeed the other members of his family, are known frequently to perform. A beggar has seldom left their farmyard with an empty wallet, or without obtaining a nice lodging. If required, With a sufficiency of potatoes and milk to satisfy even an Irish beggar's appetite, in appeasing which account must usually be taken of the auxiliary jaws of hungry dog, and of two or three still more hungry children, who line themselves well within to atone for their nakedness without. If one of the neighboring poor be seized with a fever, Tom will often supply the sick wretch with some untenanted hut, Upon one of his two large farms, for he has added one to his patrimony.
Or will send his laborers to construct a shed at the hedge-side, and supply straw for a bed while the disorder continues. His wife, remarkable for the largeness of her dairy, and the goodness of everything it contains, will furnish milk for weight, and their good offices are frequently Extended to the family of the patient, who are perhaps reduced to the extremity of wretchedness by even the temporary suspension of a father's or a husband's labor. And much of this arises from the hopes and fears of which I above alluded. I believe much of it flows from a mingled sense of compassion and of duty, which is sometimes seen to break from an Irish peasant's heart, even where it happens to be enveloped in a habitual covering of avarice and fraud, and which I once Heads speak in terms not to be misunderstood.
When we get a deal, it is only fair we should give back a little of it. It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of those good people with whom he is said to hold frequent and intimate communications. To the faithful, who believe in their power and their occasional delegation of it to him, He seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his high prerogative with any unfortunate being, is struck in his neighborhood. Still, he will not be one unsued. He is at first difficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by a little gentle violence. On these occasions, he is unusually sullen. and mysterious, and if one word or reward be mentioned, he at once abandons the unhappy patient, such a proposition being a direct insult to his supernatural superiors.
It is true that, as the laborer is worthy of his hire, most persons, gifted as he is, do not scruple to receive a token of gratitude from the patients or their friends after their recovery. It is recorded that a very handsome gratuity was once given to a female practitioner in this occult science. who deserves to be mentioned not only because she was a neighbor and a rival of Tom's, but from the singularity of a mother deriving her name from her son. Her son's name was Owen, and she was always called Owen Savoher, Owen's mother. This person was, on the occasion to which I have alluded, persuaded to give her assistance to a young girl who had lost the use of her right leg. Owen Savoher? found the cure a difficult one.
A journey of about eighteen miles was essential for the purpose, probably to visit one of the good people who resided at that distance, and this journey could only be performed by Owen Savoher, traveling upon the back of a white hen. The visit, however, was accomplished, and at a particular hour According to the prediction of this extraordinary woman, when the hen and her rider were to reach their journey's end, the patient was seized with an irresistible desire to dance, which he gratified with the most perfect freedom of the deceased leg, much to the joy of her anxious family. The gratuity in this case was, as it surely ought to have been, unusually large, from the difficulty of procuring a hen willing to go so long a journey with such a rider.
To do Tom Burke justice, He is on these occasions, as I have heard from many competent authorities, perfectly disinterested. Not many months since he recovered a young woman, The sister of a tradesman living near him, who had been struck speechless after returning from a funeral, and had continued so for several days, he steadfastly refused receiving any compensation, saying that even if he had not as much as would buy him his supper, he could take nothing in this case, because the girl had offended at the funeral of one of the good people belonging to his own family. And though he would do her kindness, he could take none from her. About the time this last remarkable affair took place, a friend Mr.
Martin, who is a neighbor of Tom's, had some business to transact with him, which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a conclusion. At last Mr. Martin, having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a legal process, which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was arranged to their mutual satisfaction and with perfect good humor between the parties. The accommodation took place After dinner at Mr. Martin's house, and he invited Tom to walk into the parlor and take a glass of punch made of some excellent potein which was on the table. He had long wished to draw out his highly endowed neighbor on the subject of his supernatural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who was in the room, was rather a favorite of Tom's, this seemed a good opportunity.
"'Well, Tom,' said Mr. Martin, "'that was a curious business of Molly Dwyer's. We recovered her speech so suddenly the other day.' You may say that, sir, replied Tom Burke, but I had to travel far for it. No matter for that now, you're held, ma'am," said he, turning to Mrs. Martin. Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once in that way in your own family, said Mrs. Martin. So I had, ma'am. Trouble enough. But you were only a child at that time. Come, Tom, said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupting him. Take another tumbler. And he then added, I wish you would tell us something of the manner in which so many of your children died. I am told they dropped off, one after another, by the same disorder, and that your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way when the physicians had given him over.
"'Tis true for you, sir,' returned Tom. "'Your father, the doctor, God be good to him. I won't belie him in his grave. Told me, when my fourth boy was a weed-sick, that himself and Dr. Barry did all that men could do for him, but they could not keep him from going after the rest. No more they could if the people that took away the rest wished to take him too, but they left him. And sorry to the heart I am, I did not know before why they were taking my boys from me. If I did, I would not be left trusting to two of them now. "'And how did you find it out, Tom?' inquired Mr. Martin. "'Well, then, I'll tell you, sir,' said Burke, "'when your father said what I told you,' I did not know very well what to do.
I walked down the little boy in. You know, sir, that goes to the river-side near Dick Heffy's ground, for it was a lonesome place, and I wanted to think of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me, when I thought I was to lose my little boy, and I did not well know how to face his mother with the news, for she doted down upon him. Besides, she never got the better of all. She cried at his brother, Baron, the week before. As I was going down the Burheen, I met an old Bacow that used to come about the place once or twice a year and used always to sleep in our barn while he stayed in the neighborhood. So he asked me how I was. Bad enough, Seamus. James And a footnote, says I. I'm sorry for your trouble, says he.
But you're a foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be well enough if you would only do what you ought with him. What more can I do with him, Seamus? Says I. The doctors give him over. The doctors know no more what ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her milk, says Seamus. But go to such a one, telling me his name, and try what he'll say to you. And who was that, Tom? asked Mr. Martin. I could not tell you that, sir, said Borg, with a mysterious look. Howsoever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this. But I had a trial of him before, and if I went to him at first, maybe I'd have now some of them that's gone, and so Seamus often told me. Well, sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house.
By course, I did everything as he bid me. According to his order, I took the little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and made a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay down by his side in the bed between two of the cows, and he fell asleep. He got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was drowned through the river, and breathed hard, with a great impression on his chest, and was very bad, very bad entirely through the night. I thought about twelve o'clock he was going at last, and I was just getting up to call the man I told you of. But there was no occasion. My friends were getting the better of them that wanted to take him away from me.
There was nobody in the cowhouse but the child and myself. There was only one half-penny candle lighting it, and that was stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough of light where we were lying to see a person walking or standing near us. And there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls. Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you—I won't belie my father, sir, he was a good father to me—I saw him standing at the bedside, holding out his right hand to me, and leaning his other on the stick he used to carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all as if he was telling me not to be afraid, for I would not lose the child.
Is that your father? says I. He said nothing. If that's you, says I again, for the love of them that gone, let me catch your hand. And so he did, sir. And his hand was as soft as a child's. He stayed about as long as you'd be going from this to the gate below at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him. And there isn't to-night a healthier boy of nineteen from this placid house of the town of Valley Pourine across the Kilworth Mountains. But I think Tom, said Mr. Martin, it appears as if you are more in-depth to your father than to the man recommended to you by Seamus. Or do you suppose it was he who made favor with your enemies among the good people, and that then your father—I beg your pardon, sir, said Burke, interrupting him—but don't call them my enemies, would not be wishing to me for a good deal to sit by when they are called so.
No offense to you, sir. Here's wishing you a good health and long life. "'I assure you,' returned Mr. Martin, "'I'm a no-offence, Tom.' But was it not, as I say? "'I can't tell you that, sir,' said Bourke. "'I'm bound down, sir. Howsoever you may be sure that men I spoke of, and my father, and those they know, settled it between them.' There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage to inquire of Tom whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and a pair of pigeons at the time of his son's illness. Circumstances often mysteriously hinted at by Tom. "'See that now?' said he, turning to Mr. Martin. "'How well she remembers it.' "'True for you, ma'am.' "'The goat I gave the mistress, your mother, when the doctors ordered her goat's way?' Mrs.
Martin nodded assent, and Tom Burke continued. "'Why, then, I'll tell you how that was. "'The goat was as well as ever goat ever was, for a month after she was sent to Killian, to your father's. "'The morning after the night I just told you off,' Before the child awoke, his mother was standing at the gap leading out of the barnyard into the road, and she saw the pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth off the church down towards her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till they came to the house on the hill at the other side of the river, facing your farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and after looking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight across the river, and stopped.
On the ridge of the cow-house where the child and I were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing, sir? Certainly not, Tom, returned Mr. Martin. Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to cry. "'Easy, too fool,' says I. "'Tis all for the better. It was true for me. But do you think, ma'am, the goat that I gave your mother, that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as merry as a bee, Dropped down dead, without anybody knowing why, before Jack's face, and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly from the top of the house out of the town towards the Lismore Road. "'Twas at the same time my woman saw them, as I just told you. "'Twas very strange, indeed, Tom,' said Mr.
Martin. "'I wish you could give us some explanation of it.' "'I wish I could, sir,' was Tom Burke's answer. "'But I'm bound down. I can't tell, but what I'm allowed to tell any more than a sentry is let walk more than his rounds.' "'I think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the man that assisted in the cure of your son,' said Mr. Martin. "'So I had, sir,' returned Burke. "'I had a trial of that man, but that's neither here nor there.' "'I can't tell you anything about that, sir, but would you like to know how he got his kill?' "'Oh, very much indeed,' said Mr. Martin. "'But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him better through the story,' added Mrs. Martin.
Tom Burke paused for a minute to consider this proposition. "'Well, I believe that I may tell you that, anyhow, his name is Patrick. He was always a smart cute—'a cute.' Boy, and would be a great clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother's wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to bury her. Her people and my father's people—I mean their friends, sir—among the good people—and Had the greatest battle that was known for many a year at Dunman Way Cross, to see to whose churchyard she'd be taken. They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to settle it. The neighbors wondered how long I was before I buried my mother. But I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that time.
Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried her in Kilcromper Churchyard, with my father's people. He was a valuable friend, Tom, said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty suppressing a smile. But you were about to tell how he became so skillful. So I will and welcome, replied Burke. Your help, ma'am. I'm drinking too much of this punch, sir, but to tell the truth, I never tasted the lack of it. It goes down one stroke like sweet oil. But what was I going to say? Yes, well, Patrick, many a long year ago, was coming home from a barren late in the evening, and walking by the side of a river opposite the big inch. Footnote.
Low meadow ground near a river. And a footnote. near Ballyhuffin Forth. He had taken a drop, to be sure, but he was only a little merry, as you may say, and knew very well what he was doing. The morning was shining, for it was the month of August, and the river was as smooth and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long time but the fall of the water at the mill. We were about a mile down the river, and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of the river. All at once, There was a noise of a great number of people laughing as if they'd break their hearts, and of a piper playing among them. It came from the inch at the other side of the fort, and he saw through the mist that hung over the river a whole crowd of people dancing on the inch.
Patrick was as fond of a dance as he was of a glass, and that sang enough for him. So he wiped off his shoes and stockings, and away with him across the fort. After putting on his shoes and stockings at the other side of the river, he walked over to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being minded. He thought, sir, that he'd show them better dancing than any of themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and the good right he had, for there was not a boy in the same parish, could foot a double or treble with him. But pho! his dancing was no more to theirs than mine would be to the mistress here. They did not seem as if they had a bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire them.
Patrick was shamed within himself, for he thought he had not his fellow in all the country round, and was going away, and a little old man, that was looking at the company bitterly, as if he did not like what was going on, came up to him. Patrick, says he. Patrick started, for he did not think anybody there knew him. Patrick, says he, you're discouraged, and no wonder for you, but you have a friend near you. I'm your friend, and your father's friend, and I think worse. More, and a footnote, of your little finger than I do of all that are here, though they think no one is as good as themselves. Go into the ring, and call for a little don't be afeared. I tell you the best of them did not do it as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.
Patrick felt something within him, as if he ought not to gainsay the old man. He went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the best double he had, and sure enough, All that the others were able for was nothing to him. He bound it like an eel, now here and now there, as light as a feather, although the people could hear the music answered by his steps, the beat time to every turn of it, like the left foot of the piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then they got a table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts from the whole company. At last he called for a trencher, and when they saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not know what to make of him.
Some praised him for the best answer that ever entered a ring. Others hated him because he was better than themselves, although they had a good right to think themselves better than him or any other man that ever went the long journey. "'And what was the cause of his great success?' inquired Mr. Martin. "'He could not help it, sir.' replied Tamborg. They that could make him do more than that made him do it. Also ever, when he had done, they wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not persuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your presence, that he would not dance a step more. And the word was hardly out of his mouth when he found himself all alone, with nothing but a white cowl quizzing by his side.
"'Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these extraordinary powers in the dance, Tom?' said Mr. Martin. "'I'll tell you that too, sir,' answered Bourke, when I come to it. When he was home, sir, he was taken with a shivering, and went to bed. And the next day they found he had got a fever, or something like it, for he raved like as if he was mad.' But he couldn't make out what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors gave him over. But it's little they knew what ailed him. When he was, as you may say, about ten days sick, and everybody thought he was going, one of the neighbors came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from Bellin-Cleckon, that was keeping with him some time before.
I can't tell you his name either. Only it was Darby. The minute Darby saw Patrick, he took a little bottle with a juice of herbs in it. Out of his pocket and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same every day for three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time before he came to himself, and he used to walk the whole day sometimes by the ditch side, talking to himself, like as if there was something along with him. And so there was, surely, or he wouldn't be the man he is today. I suppose it was from such companion. He learned his skill," said Mr. Martin. "'You have it all now, sir,' replied Burke. Herbie told him his friends were satisfied with what he did that night of the dance, and though they couldn't hinder the fever, they'd bring him over it, and teach him more than many knew beside him.
And so they did. For, you see, all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a different faction. Only the old man that spoke to him, he was a friend of Patrick's family, and it went again his heart. You see that the others were so light and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear them boasting how they'd danced with any set in the whole country round. So he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave him the skill that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to be sure, it was only learning he was at the time when he was wandering in his mind after the fever. I have heard many strange stories about that inch near Pallyhyphon Ford. said Mr. Martin. "'It is a great place for the good people, isn't it, Tom?' "'You may say that, sir,' returned Borg.
"'I could tell you a great deal about it. Many a time I sat for it as good as two hours by moonlight at the other side of the river, Looking at them playing goal as if they'd break their hearts over it, with their coats and waistcoats off, and white handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and red ones on the other, just as you'd see on a Sunday, in Mr. Simon's big field. I saw them one night play till the moon set without one party being able to take the ball from the other. I'm sure they were going to fight, only it was near morning. I'm told your grandfather, ma'am, used to see them there too. said Bourke, turning to Mrs. Martin. "'So I have been told, Tom,' replied Mrs. Martin, "'but don't they say that the churchyard of Kilcumber is just as favorite a place with the good people as Ballyhethine Inch?' "'Why, then, maybe you never heard, man, what happened to Davy Roach in that same churchyard?' said Bourke, and turning to Mr.
Martin added, "'It was a long time before he went into your service, sir. He was walking home, of an evening, from the fear of Kilcumber,' A little married, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with the barren. So he walked along with it, and though it were and thought it very clear that he did not know a mother's soul in the crowd, but one man, and he was sure that man was dead many years afore. Howsomever he went on with the barren till they came to Kilcumper Churchyard. And Faith, he went in and stayed with the rest to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was covered, what should they do but gather about the piper that come along with them, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding?
Davy longed to be among them, for he hadn't a bad food of his own that time, whatever he may know. But he was loved to begin, because they all seemed strange to him. Only the man I told you that he thought he was that. Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted. and came up to him. "'Baby,' says he, "'take out a partner and show what you can do, but take care and don't offer to kiss her. That I won't.' says Davy, although her lips were made of honey. Then with that he made his bow to the prettiest girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance. It was a jig they danced, and they did it to the admiration, do you see, of all that were there. It was all very well till the jig was over, but just as they had done, the day before he had a drop in, and was warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner, According to Castle, the smack was no sooner off of his lips, you see, than he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him, and all he could see was the tall tombstones.
Davy said they seemed as if they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that happened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it was a great many hours later than he thought it. It was new morning when he came home, but they couldn't get a word out of him. Till the next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o'clock. When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roach at the barren, it became quite evident that spirits of some sort were working too strong within him to admit of his telling many more tales of the good people. Tom seemed conscious of this. He muttered for a few minutes broken sentences concerning churchyards, riversides, leprechauns, and dinemouths.
The good people, and the footnote. which were quite unintelligible, perhaps to himself, certainly to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length he made a slight motion of the head upwards, as if he would say, I can talk no more, stretched his arm on the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly and with the most knowing and cautious air, and rising from his chair walked, or rather rolled, to the parlour door. Here he turned round to face his host and hostess. But after various ineffectual attempts to bid them good-night, the words as they rose, being always choked by a violent hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung to and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he was obliged to depart in silence.
The cowboy, sent by Tom's wife, who knew well what sort of allurement detained him, When he remained out after a certain hour, was in attendance to conduct his master home. I have no doubt that he returned without meeting any material injury, as I know that within the last month he was, to use his own words, as stout and hearty a man as any of his age in the country.
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27 26 - The Pudding Bewitched 29:44
William Carlton. Moreau Rafferty was the son, daughter, I mean, of old Jack Rafferty, who was remarkable for a habit he had of always wearing his hat under his hat. But indeed, the same family was a queer one, as everybody knew that was acquainted with them. It was said of them, But whether it was true or not, I won't undertake to say. For freight, I tell a lie, that whenever they didn't wear shoes or boots, they always went barefooted. But I heard afterwards that this was disputed, so rather than say anything to injure their character, I let that pass. Now, old Jack Rafferty had two sons, Paddy and Molly. Hut, what are you all laughing at? I mean a son and a daughter, and it was generally believed among the neighbors that they were brother and sister, which, you know, might be true or it might not.
But that's a thing that, with the help of goodness, we have nothing to say to. Throughout there was many ugly things put out on them that I don't wish to repeat. Such as that neither Jack nor his son Paddy ever walked a perch without putting one foot afore the other like a salmon. And I know it was whispered about that whenever Mole Row slept, she had an out-of-the-way custom of keeping her eyes shut. If she did, however, for that matter, the loss was her own. For sure we all know that when one comes to shut their eyes, they can't see as far before them as another. Mole Row was a fine young, bouncing girl. Large and lavish, with a pretty head or hair on her like scarlet, that being one of the reasons why she was called roe, or rat.
Her arms and cheeks were much the color of the hair, and her saddle-nose was the prettiest thing of its kind that ever was on a face. Her fists—for thank goodness she was well starved with them, too—had a long similarity to two hunkin' turnips rotten by the sun, and to keep all right and tight She had a temper as fiery as her head, for indeed it was well known that all the rapherties were warm-hearted. How, and Ivor, it appears that God gives nothing in vain, and of course the same fists, big and red as they were, if all that is said about them is true, were not so much given to her for ornament as use. At least, taking them in connection with her lively temper, we have it upon good authority That there was no danger of their getting blue-moulded for want of practice.
She had at least two in one of her eyes that was very becoming in its way, and made her poor husband, where she got him, take it into his head that she could see round a corner. She found him out in many queer things without doubt. But whether it was owing to that or not, I wouldn't undertake to say, for afraid I tell a lie. Well, Bagot, anyhow, it was Monroe that was the Dilsey.
It happened that there was a Nate Bagobone in the neighborhood, just as much overburdened with beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie. Gusty, the Lord Gardas, was what they call a blackmouthed Prosbyterian, and wouldn't keep Christmas Day, the Blackguard, except what they call Old style. Gusty was rather good-looking when seen in the dark, as well as Maugham herself, and indeed it was pretty well known that, according as the talk went, it was in nightly meetings that they had an opportunity of becoming detached to one another. The consequence was that, in due time, both families began to talk very seriously as to what was to be done. Maugham's brother, Faudenor Rafferty, Gave Gusty the best of two choices.
What they were, it's not worth speaking about. But at any rate, one of them was a poser, and as Gusty knew this man, he soon came to his senses. Accordingly, everything was deranged for their marriage, and it was appointed that they should be spliced by the Reverend Samuel McShuddle, The Prosbyterian Parson on the following Sunday. Now, this was the first marriage that had happened for a long time in the neighborhood between a blackmouth and a Catholic, and, of course, there were strong objections on both sides against it, and begged only for one thing, it would never attack place at all. At any rate, fakes, there was one of the brides Uncles, old Harry Connolly, a ferryman, who could cure all complaints with the secret he had, and as he didn't wish to see his niece married upon such a fellow, he fought bitterly against the match.
All Mole's friends, however, stood up for the marriage bearing him, and of course, a Sunday was appointed, as I said that they were to be dovetailed together. Well, that day arrived, and Mole, as became her, went to Mass and gusted to meeting, after which they were to join one another in Jack Rafferty's Where the priest, Father Messorley, was to sleep up after Mass to take his dinner with them, and to keep Mr. Messado, who was to marry them, company. Nobody remained at home, but old Jack Rafferty and his wife, who stopped to dress at dinner, for, to tell the truth, it was to be a great let-out entirely. Maybe, if all was known, too, that Father Messorley was to give them a cast of his office over and above the minister, in regard that Moll's friends were not altogether satisfied at the kind of marriage which Machado could give them.
No sorrow may care about that. Splice here, splice there. All I can say is that when Mrs. Rufferty was going to tie up a big-packed puddin', in walks Harry Connolly, the ferryman, in a ridge, and shouts out, "'Plood and blunderbushes! What are ye fear for?' Ah! Why, Harry, why, Elvick? Why, the sun's in the suds, and the moon in the heights horick. There's a clipstick coming, Anne, and there you're both as unconcerned as if it was about to rain matter. Go out and cross yourselves three times in the name of the four Mondraw-Mervins, for as prophecy says, fill the pot-eddy, supranaculum, or blazing stars, a rare spectaculum. Go out, both of you, and look at the sun, I say, and you'll see the conditions he's in.
Beggard, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, and his wife leaped like a two-year-old till they were both caught on a stile beside the house to see what was wrong in the sky. Ah, what is it, Jack? said she. Can you see anything? No, says he. Sort of full of my eye of anything I can spy bearing the sun himself that's not visible in regard of the clouds. God guard us. I doubt there's something to happen. If there wasn't, Jack, what would— Put Harry that knows so much in the state he's in. I doubt it's this marriage," said Jack. Between ourselves is not over and above religious for more to marry a blackmouth, and only for—but it can be helped now. Though, you see, not a taste of the sun is willing to show his face upon it.
As to that, says the wife, winking with both her eyes, if Gusty satisfied with more, it's enough. I know who carried the whip-hand anyhow, but in the meantime— Let us ask Harry, Ruthie, what ails the sun? Well, they accordingly went in and put a question to him. Harry, what's wrong, Agur? What is it now? For if anybody alive knows, it is yourself. Ah, said Harry, screwing his mouth with a kind of a trill smile. The sun has a head twist or a colic. But never mind that. I tell you, You'll have a merrier wedding than you think, that's all. And having said this, he put on his hat and left the house. Now Harry's answer relieved them very much, and so, after calling to him to be back for the dinner, Jack sat down to take a slot of the pipe, and the wife lost no time in tying up the puddin'n and putting it in the pot to be boiled.
In this way things went on, well enough for a while, Jack smoking away, and the wife cooking and wrestling at the rate of a hunt. At last Jack, while sitting, as I said, contentedly at the fire, thought he could perceive an odd dancing kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a good deal. Catty, said he, what a dickens is in the pot on the fire? Nere a thing but a big puddin. Why do you ask? says she. Why? said he. If ever a pot tuck it into its head to dance a jig, and this did. Thunder and Sparbles, look at it. Padded, it was true enough. There was the pot bobbing up and down from side to side, chinging it away as merry as a Greek, and it was quite easy to see that it wasn't the pot itself but what was inside of it that brought about the hornpipe.
Be the hole, my coat, shouted Jack. There's something alive in it, or it would never cut sick capers. Begora. There is, Jack. Something strange entirely has got into it. You're a man alive. What's to be done? Just as she spoke, the bud seemed to cut the buckle in prime style, and after a spring that would shame a dancing master, off blew the lid, and out bounced the puddin' itself, hopping as nimble as a pea on a drum-head about the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Catty crossed herself. Jack shouted, and Catty screamed. In the name of goodness, Keep your distance. No one here injured you. The puddin', however, made a sight at him, and Jack leaped first on a chair and then on the kitchen table to avoid it.
It then danced towards Kitty, who was now repeating her prayers at the top of her voice, while the cutting-tieff of a puddin' was hopping and jigging it round her, as if it was amused at her distress. "'If I could get the pitchfork,' said Jack, "'I'd dealt with it. If I coxed it, I'd swing its middle.' No, no, shouted Cathy, thinking there was a fair in it. Let us pick it fair. Who knows what harm it might do? Easy now, said she to the pudding. Easy, dear. Don't harm honest people that never meant to offend you. It wasn't us. No, in thought. It was old Harry Connolly that bewitched you. Pursue him, if you wish, but spare a woman like me. For, Mr. dear, I'm not in a condition to be frightened.
Throat I'm not. The pudding be dead. seemed to take her at her word, and danced away from her towards Jack, who, like the wife, believing there was a fair in it, and that speaking it fair was the best plan, thought he would give it a soft word as well as her. Please, your honor, said Jack. She always speaks the truth, and, upon my voracity, we both feel much obliged to your honor for your quaintness. Faith, it's quite clear that you weren't a gentleman we put in all out. You'd act otherwise. Old Harry the rogue is your mark. He's just gone down the road there, and if you go fast you'll overtake him. Be me song, your dancing master, did his duty anyhow. Thank your honor. God speed you, and may you never meet with a parson or elder man in your travels.
Just as Jack spoke, the pudding appeared to take the hint, for it quietly hopped out, and as the house was directly on the roadside, turned down towards the bridge, The very way that old Harry went. It was very natural, of course, that Jack and Katie should go out to see how it intended to travel. And as the day was Sunday, it was but natural, too, that a greater number of people than usual were passing the road. This was a fact. And when Jack and his wife were seen following the pudding, the whole neighborhood was soon up and after it. Jack Rafferty. What is it? Katie Allger. Will you tell us what it means? Why, replied Cathy, it's my big puddin' that's bewitched, and it's now hot food pursuing.
Here she stopped, not wishing to mention her brother's name. Some one or other that surely put be-shows on it. Put it under very influence. This was enough. Jack, now seeing that he had assistance, Fought his courage coming back to him. So says he to Katie, go home, says he, and lose no time in making another puddiness good. And here's Patty's canless wife, Bridget, says she'll let you boil it on her fire, as you want our own to dress the rest of the dinner. And Patty himself will lend me a pitch-work, for pursuing to the morsel of the same puddin will escape till I let the wind out of it. Now that I've the neighbors to back and support me, says Jack. This was agreed to, and Kathy went back to prepare fresh pudding, while Jack and half the town went, pursued the other with spades, grapes, pitchforks, sights, flayers, and all possible description of instruments.
On the pudding went, however, at the rate of about six Irish miles an hour, and sick a chase never was seen. Catholics, Protestants, and Prosbyterians, For all after it armed, as I said, and bad end to the thing but its own activity could save it. Here it made a hop, and there a prod was made at it. But off it went, and some one as eager as to get a slice at it on the other side got a prod instead of the pudding. Big Frank Farrell, the miller of palpable tea, got a prod backwards that brought a hullabaloo out of him, you might hear, at the other end of the parish. One got a slice of a side, another whack of a flail, a third a wrap of a spade that made him look nine ways at once. "'Where is it going?' asked one.
"'My life for you. It's on its way to meeting.' Three cheers for it if it turns to cantal. Brought us all out of it, if it's a protestant,' shouted the others. "'If it does to the left, slice it into pancakes. We'll have no protestant puddings here.' Because by this time the people were on the point of beginning to have a regular fight about it, and very fortunately they took a short turn down the little by-lane that led towards the Methodist preaching house, and in an instant all parties were in an uproar against it as a Methodist put in. "'It's a Wesleyan!' shouted several voices. And by this and by that Into a Methodist chapel it won't boot a foot to-day, or will lose a fall. Let the wind out of it.
Come, boys, where's your pitch-works? The devil pursuing to do one of them, however, ever could touch the pudding, and just when they thought they had it up against the gable of the Methodist chapel, Begett gave them the slip, and hops over to the left, clanging to the river, and sails away before all their eyes, as light as an eggshell. Now, it so happened that a little below this place, the demine wall of Colonel Braggshaw was built up to the very edge of the river on each side of its banks. And so, finding there was a stop, put to their pursuit of it, they went home again, every man, woman, and child of them, puzzled to think what the pudding was at all, what it meant, or where it was going.
Had Jack Rafferty and his wife been willing to let out the opinion they held about Harry Connolly bewitching it? There is no doubt of it, but poor Harry might be badly treated by the crowd when their blood was up. They had sense enough hound-diver to keep That to themselves, for Harry being an old bachelor was a kind fee friend to the Rafferties. So, of course, there was all kinds of talk about it, some guessing this and some guessing that, one party saying the Puddin was of their side, another party denying it, and insisting it belongs to them, and so on. In the meantime, Cathy Rafferty, for afraid dinner might come short, went home and made another puddin much about the same size as the one that had escaped, and bringing it over to their next neighbour, Paddy Scanlon's.
It was put into a pot and placed on the fire to boil, hoping that it might be done in time, especially as they were to have the minster, who loved a warm slice of a good puddin, as well as ever a gentleman in Europe. Anyhow, the day passed. Mole and Gusty were made man and wife, and no two could be more loving. Their friends that had been asked to the wedding were slaughtering about in pleasant little groups till dinner-time, chatting and laughing, but above all things striving to account for the figure of the pudding, for, to tell the truth, its adventures had now gone through the whole parish. Well, at any rate, dinner-time was drawing near, and Paddy Scanlon was sitting comfortably with his wife at the fire, the pudding boiled before their eyes, when in walks Harry Connolly in a flutter, shouting, "'Blood and plunderbushes!
What are you here for?' "'Ah, why, Harry, why, Vic,' says Mrs. Conlon. "'Why,' said Harry, "'the sun's in the suds, and the moon in the high horrocks. Here's a clipstick coming, and there you sit, as—' Unconcerned, as if it was about time to rain madder. Go off, both of you, and look at the sun. I say, and ye'll see the condition he's in. Off. Aye, but, Harry, what's that rolled up in the tail of your Cothamore? Irish Cothamore. Out with ye's, said Harry, and pray against the clipstick. The sky's falling. Bagot. It was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife got out first. They were so much alarmed by Harry's wild, thin face and piercing eyes, so out they went to see what was wonderfully in the sky, and kept looking and looking in every direction, but not a thing was to be seen, bearing the sun shining down with great good humor, and not a single cloud in the sky.
Paddy and the wife now came in laughing to scold Harry, who, no doubt, was a great wag in his way when he wished. Moshah, bad scrant to you, Harry. They had time to say no more how and divert, for as they were going into the door, they met him coming out of it with a reek of smoke out of his tail like a flamkin. Harry, shouted Bridget, I sold to glory. But the tail of your catamore's a fire. You'll be burned. Don't you see the smoke that's out of it? Cross yourselves three times, said Harry. Without stopping or even looking behind him. For, as the prophecy says, filled a pot, Eddie, they could hear no more. For Harry appeared to feel like a man that carried something a great deal harder than he wished, as anyone might see, by the laughliness of his motions and the queer faces he was forced to make as he went along.
What a dickens is he carrying in the skirts of his big coat? asked Paddy. Why so to happiness? But maybe he has stole the puddin', said Bridget. For it's known that many a strange things he does. They immediately examined the pot, but found that the puddin was there as safe as two pence, and this puzzled them the more to think what it was he could be carrying about with him in the manner he did. But little they knew what he had done while they were sky-gazing. Anyhow, the day passed, and the dinner was ready. And no doubt but a fine gathering there was to partake of it. The prosbyterian minister had met this preacher, a devilish treacher of an appetite he had in trough. On the way to Jack Avertee's, and as he knew he could take the liberty while he insisted on his dining with him, for after all began in them times The clergy of all descriptions lit upon the best pudding among one another, not all as one as now, but no matter.
Well, they had nearly finished the dinner, and Jack Rafferty himself axed Kathy for the pudding. But, just as she spoke, in it came as big as a mess-pot. Gentlemen, said he, I hope none of you will refuse tasting a bit of Kathy's pudding. I don't mean the dancing one that took to its travels to-day, but the good solid fellow that she made since. "'To be sure we won't,' replied the priest. "'So, Jack, put a trifle on them, three plates, at your right hand, and send them over there to the clergy.' "'And maybe,' he said, laughing, for he was drool, good-humoured man, "'maybe, Jack, we won't set you a proper example. "'With a heart and a half, your reverence and gentleman in trough is not a bad example every any of you set us at the likes, or ever will set us.
I go bail. And sure I only wish it was better fare I had for you.' But we're humble people, gentlemen, and so you can expect to meet here what you would in higher places. Better a male of herbs, said the matter, this preacher, where peace is. He had time to go no further, however, for much to his amazement, the priest and the minister started up from the table, just as he was going to swallow the first spoonful of the pudding, and before you could say Jack Robinson, started away at a lively jig down the floor. At this moment, A neighbor's son came running in and told them that the person was coming to see the new married couple and wish them all happiness, and the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he made his appearance.
What to think he knew not when he saw the minister putting it away at the rate of a wedding. He had very little time, however, to think, for before he could sit down, up starts the man to this preacher, And, grabbing his two fists in his sides, shines in, in great style along with him. Jack Rafferty, says he, and by the way Jack was his tenant. What a deacons does all this mean, says he. I'm amazed. The knot of particle on me can tell you, says Jack. But will your reverence just take a morsel of pudding, merely that a young couple may boast that you ate at their wedding? For sure, if you wouldn't, who would? Well, says he, to gratify them, I will, so just a morsel. But Jack, this bait's banger, says he again, putting the spoonful of pudding into his mouth.
Has there been drink here? Oh, the devil's spook, says Jack, for although there's an idea in the house, faith, it appears that the gentleman wouldn't wait for it, unless they tuck it elsewhere. I can make nothing of this. He has scarcely spoken, when the parson who was An active man cut a caper a yard high, and before you could bless yourself, the three clergy were hard at work dancing as if it were a wager. "'Hey, gad, I would be impossible for me to tell you the state the whole meeting was in when they seen this. Some were hoarse with laughing, some turned up their eyes with wonder. Many thought them mad, and others thought they had turned up their little fingers a trifle to them. Too often.' Peacock's deed is a burning shame, said one, to see three black-mouthed clergy in such a state at this early hour.
Thunder knows what's over them all, says others. Why, one would think they're bewitched. Only Moses who get a caper the Methodist cuts. And as for the rafter, who would think he could handle his feet as such a bait? Be that he cuts the buckle, and does the reverend stab-quill to Paddy Harragon, the dancing master himself. And see, pass this to the morsel of the parson that's not had a piece upon the trencher, and it of a Sunday too. We're a gentleman. The fancy news, after all. More power to ease. The store's own fun they had, and no wonder, but judge of what they felt when all at once they saw old Jack Rafferty himself bouncing in amongst them and footing it away like the best of them. Be that no play could come up to it, and nothing could be heard but laughing, shouts of encouragement, and grabbing of hands like mad.
Now the minute Jack Rafferty left the chair where he had been carving the pudding, Old Harry calmly comes over and claps himself down in his place, in order to send it round, of course. And he was scarcely seated. Who should make his appearance but Barney Hartigan, the piper? Barney, by the way, had been sent for early in the day, but being from home when the message for him went, he couldn't come any sooner. "'Megora,' said Barney, "'you're early at the work, gentlemen.' But what does this mean? But, child, many care, he shan't want the music while there's a blast in the pipes anyhow. So, seeing he gave them G-Pol a go, and after the Kiss, My Lady, in his best style. In the meantime, the fun went on thick and threefold, for it must be remembered that Harry, the old knave, was at the pudding.
And maybe he didn't start about it double-click time too. The first he helped was the bride, and before you could say chopstick, she was at it hard and fast before the methodist preacher, who gave a jolly spring before her that threw them into convulsions. I re-liked this, and made up his mind soon to find partners for the rest, so he accordingly sent the pudding about like lightning, and to make a long story short, bearing the piper and himself, there wasn't a pair of heels in the house, but was as busy as the dancing, as if their lives depended on it. Barney, says Harry, just taste a morsel of this pudding. The elf is such a bully of a pudding ever you eat. Here, you saw. Try a sneak of it.
It's beautiful. To be sure I will, says Barney. I'm not the boy to refuse a good thing, but, Harry, be quick, for you know my hands is engaged, and it would be a thousand pities not to keep them in music, and they so well inclined. Thank you, Harry. Back at that is this a famous pudding. But blood and turnips, what's this for? The word was scarcely out of his mouth when he bounced up, pipes and all, and dashed into the middle of the party. Hurrah! Your souls! Let us make a night of it. The belly-bolt-in boys forever. Go it, your reverence. Turn your partner, heel and toe, minister. Good, well done again. Wish, hurrah! Here's our bell-bunned-in, and the sky over it. Not like to the siege that set ever was seen together in this world, or will again.
I suppose. The worst, however, wasn't come yet, for just as they were, in the very hidden fury of the Thads, what do you think comes hopping in among them but another Puddin, as nimble and merry as the first. That was enough. They all had heard of, the ministers among the rest, and most of them had seen the other Puddin, and knew that there must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I said, it comes to the thick of them, but the very appearance of it was enough. Of the three clergy danced, and of the whole wet nurse danced after them, every one making the best of their way home, but not a soul of them able to break out of the step if they were to be hanged for it. But it wouldn't have loved in you to see the parson dancing down the road on his way home, and the minister and Methodist preacher cutting the buckle as they went along in the opposite direction.
To make short work of it, they all danced home at last, with scarce A puff of wind in them. The bride and bridegroom danced away to bed. And now, boys, come and let us dance. The hurl lay in the barn. I don't. But you see, boys, before we go, and in order that I may make everything clean, I had as good to tell you that Harry, in crossing the bridge of the Valley Bulletin, a couple of miles below Square Brackshaw's demise wall, saw the pudding floating down the river. The truth is he was waiting for it. But be this as it may, he took it out, for the water had made it as clean as a new pin, and tucking it up in the till of his big coat, contrived, as you all guess, I suppose, to change it while Paddy Slennon and his wife were examining the sky, and for the other he contrived to be witched in the same manner, by getting a fairy to go into it, for indeed it was pretty well known that the same Harry was hand a glove with the good people.
Others will tell you that it was half a pound of quicksilver he put into it, but that doesn't stand to reason. At any rate, boys, I've told you the adventures of the mad pudding of belly-bulletin, but I don't wish to tell you many other things about it that happened. For trade, I feel a lie. Some will insist that a fairy man or fairy woman has the power to bewitch a pudding by putting a fairy into it, whilst others maintain That the competent portion of quicksilver will make it dance over half the pattern.
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28 27 - Tyeer-Na-N-Oge The Legend of O'Donoghue 7:43
B. Yeats. Section 27. Tiernanog. There is a country called Tiernanog, which means the country of the young, for age and death have not found it. Neither tears nor loud laughter have gone near it. The shadiest bosquage covers it perpetually. One man has gone there and returned. The bard Oysin, who wandered away on a white horse, moving on the surface of the foam with his fairy Neum, lived there three hundred years, and then returned looking for his comrades. The moment his foot touched the earth, his three hundred years fell on him, and he was bowed double, and his beard swept the ground. He described his sojourn to the land of the youth to Patrick before he died. Since then, many have seen it in many places, some in the depths of lakes, and have heard rising therefrom a vague sound of bells.
More have seen it far off on the horizon as they peered out from the western cliffs. Not three years ago, a fisherman imagined that he saw it. It never appears unless to announce some national trouble. There are many kindred beliefs. A Dutch pilot, settled in Dublin, told M. de la Boulange-le-Camp, who travelled in Ireland in 1614, that round the poles were many islands, some hard to be approached because of the witches, who inhabit them, and destroy by storms those who seek to land. He had once, off the coast of Greenland, in 61 degrees of latitude, seen and approached an island, only to see it vanish. Sailing in an opposite direction, they met with the same island, and, sailing near, were almost destroyed by a furious tempest.
According to many stories, Tir-Ninog is the favorite dwelling of the fairies. Some say it is triple—the island of the living, the island of victories, and an underwater land. End of Tirnanogh.
The Legend of O'Donohue by T. Crofton Croker. In an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain named O'Donohue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic Laugh Lane, now called the Lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and justice distinguished his reign. And the prosperity and happiness of his subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as renowned for his warlike exploits as for his specific virtues, and as a proof that his domestic administration was not the less rigorous because it was mild. A rocky island is pointed out to strangers, called O'Donoghue's Prison, in which this prince once confined his own son for an act of disorder and disobedience.
His end, where it cannot correctly be called his death, was singular and mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he was engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen in ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapped in wonder, now fired with indignation, burning with shame, were melted into sorrow. As he faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions, he rose slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its unyielding surface.
When he had nearly reached the center, he paused for a moment, then, turning slowly around, Looked toward his friends, and, waving his arms to them, with the cheerful air of one taking a short farewell, disappeared from their view. The memory of the good O'Donoghue has been cherished by successive generations with affectionate reverence, and it is believed that at sunrise, on every May Day morning, the anniversary of his departure, he revisits his ancient domains. A favored few only are in general permitted to see him, and this distinction The winter is always an omen of good fortune to the beholders. When it is granted to many, it is a sure token of an abundant harvest, a blessing, the want of which, during this Prince's reign, was never felt by his people.
Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of O'Donoghue. The April of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy, but on May Day morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air was hushed and still. And the sky, which was reflected in the serene lake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles, after the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe that it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled. The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit of Glennaw, when the waters near the eastern shore of the lake became suddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface lay smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble.
The next morning, a foaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud, high-crested war-horse, exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake towards Toomey's Mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior, fully armed, mounted upon a milk-white steed. His snowy plume waved gracefully from a helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue scarf. The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burden, Sprung after the wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth, while showers of spray that glittered brightly in the morning sun were dashed up at every bound. The warrior was O'Donoghue. He was followed by numberless youths and maidens, who moved lightly and unconstrained over the watery plain, as the moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air.
They were linked together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they timed their movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O'Donoghue had nearly reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned his steed, and directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of Glenagh, preceded by the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as the horse's neck, whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long train of descendants followed with playful deviations the track of their leader, and moved on with unabated fleetness to their celestial music, till gradually, as they entered the narrow strait between Glenagh and Dines, They became involved in the mists which still partially floated over the lakes, and faded from the view of the wandering beholders.
But the sound of their music still fell upon the ear, and Echo, catching up the harmonious strains, fondly repeated and prolonged them in soft and softer tones, till the last faint repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from a dream of bliss.
This story comes from Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland.
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29 28 - Rent-Day - Loughleagh (Lake of Healing) 20:15
Fairey and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. Section 28. Rent Day.
O Ulughorn, Ulughorn, this is a wide world, but what will we do in it, or where will we go? muttered Bill Doody, as he sat on a rock by the lake of Killarney. What will we do? Tomorrow's Rent Day. And Tim the driver swears if we don't pay our rent, he'll cant every haperth we have. And then, sure enough, there's Judy and myself and the poor Grawls. Children, we'll be turned out to starve on the high road, for never a halfpenny of rent have I. Oh, hone that ever I should live to see this day. Thus did Bill Doody bemoan his hard fate, pouring his sorrows to the reckless waves of the most beautiful of lakes, which seemed to mock his misery as they rejoiced beneath the cloudless sky of a May morning.
That lake, glittering in sunshine, sprinkled with fairy isles of rock and verdure, and bounded by giant hills of ever-varying hues, Might, with its magic beauty, charm all sadness but despair. For alas, how ill the scene that offers rest, and heart that cannot rest agree. Yet Bill Doody was not so desolate as he supposed. There was one listening to him, he little thought of, and help was at hand from a quarter he could not have expected. What's the matter with you, my poor man? said a tall, portly-looking gentleman, at the same time stepping out of a firs-break. Now Bill was seated on a rock that commanded the view of a large field. Nothing in the field could be concealed from him except this firs-break, which grew in a hollow near the margin of the lake.
He was, therefore, not a little surprised at the gentleman's sudden appearance. and began to question whether the personage before him belonged to this world or not. He, however, soon mustered courage sufficient to tell him how his crops had failed, how some bad member had charmed away his butter, and how Tim, the driver, threatened to turn him out of the farm if he didn't pay up every penny of the rent by twelve o'clock next day. A sad story indeed, said the stranger. But surely if you represent the case to your landlord's agent, he won't have the heart to turn you out. Heart, Your Honour? Where would an agent get a heart? exclaimed Bill. I see Your Honour does not know him. Besides, he has an eye on the farm this long time for a fosterer of his own.
So I expect no mercy at all at all, only to be turned out.
Take this, my poor fellow, take this," said the stranger, pouring a purseful of gold into Bill's old hat, which in his grief he had flung on the ground. Pay the fellow your rent, but I'll take care, it shall do him no good. I remember the time when things went otherwise in this country, when I would have hung up such a fellow in the twinkling of an eye. These words were lost upon Bill, who was insensible to everything but the sight of the gold, and before he could unfix his gaze and lift up his head to pour out his hundred thousand blessings, the stranger was gone. The bewildered peasant looked around in search of his benefactor, and at last he thought he saw him riding on a white horse a long way off on the lake.
O'Donohue! O'Donohue! shouted Bill, the good, the blessed O'Donohue! And he ran capering like a madman to show Judy the gold, and to rejoice her heart with the prospect of wealth and happiness. The next day Bill proceeded to the agents, not sneakingly, with his hat in his hand, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his knees bending under him. But bold and upright, like a man conscious of his independence. Why don't you take off your hat, fellow? Don't you know you are speaking to a magistrate? said the agent. I know I'm not speaking to the king, sir, said Bill. And I never takes off my hat, but to them I can respect and love. The eye that sees all knows I've no right either to respect or love an agent.
You scoundrel, retorted the man in office, biting his lips with rage at such an unusual and unexpected opposition. I'll teach you how to be insolent again. I have the power, remember? To the cost of the country I know you have, said Bill, who still remained with his head as firmly covered as if he was the Lord King Sale himself. But come, said the magistrate, have you got the money for me? This is rent-day. If there's one penny of it wanting, or the running gale that's due, prepare to turn out before night, for you shall not remain another hour in possession. There is your rent," said Bill, with an unmoved expression of tone and countenance. You'd better count it, and give me a receipt in full for the running gale and all.
The agent gave a look of amazement at the gold, for it was gold, real guineas, and not bits of dirty ragged small notes that are only fit to light one's pipe with. However willing the agent may have been to ruin, as he thought, the unfortunate tenant, he took up the gold and handed the receipt to Bill, who strutted off with it as proud as a cat of her whiskers. The agent, going to his desk shortly after, was confounded at beholding a heap of gingerbread cakes instead of the money he had deposited there. He raved and swore, but all to no purpose. The gold had become gingerbread cakes, just marked like the guineas with the king's head. And Bill had the receipt in his pocket, so he saw there was no use in saying anything about the affair, as he would only get laughed at for his pains.
From that hour Bill Doody grew rich, all his undertakings prospered, and he often blessed the day that he met with O'Donoghue, the great prince that lives down under the Lake of Killarney.
Lough Lee, Lake of Healing "'Do you see that bit of a lake?' said my companion, turning his eyes towards the acclivity that overhung Loch Lee. "'Troth, and as little as you think of it, and as ugly as it looks with its weeds and its flags, it is the most famous one in all Ireland. Young and old, rich and poor, far and near, have come to that lake to get cured of all kinds of scurvy and sores.' The Lord keep us our limbs whole and sound, for it's a sorrowful thing not to have the use of them. "'Twas but last week we had a great grand Frenchman here, and though he came upon crutches, faith he went home sound as a bell, and well he paid Billy Riley for curing him." Then pray, how did Billy Riley cure him?
Oh, well enough. He took his long pole, dipped it down to the bottom of the lake, and brought up on the top of it as much plaster as would do for a thousand sores. What kind of plaster? What kind of plaster? Why, black plaster to be sure, for isn't the bottom of the lake filled with a kind of black mud which cures all the world? Then it ought to be a famous lake indeed. Famous? And so it is, replied my companion. But it isn't for its cures, neither, that it is famous. For sure, doesn't all the world know there is a fine beautiful city at the bottom of it, where the good people live just like Christians? Troth, it is the truth, I tell you. For Seamus Asnade saw it all when he followed his dun cow that was stolen.
Who stole her? I'll tell you all about it. Seamus was a poor Gossoon who lived on the brow of the hill, in a cabin with his old mother. They lived by hook and by crook, one way and another, in the best way they could. They had a bit of ground that gave them the pratee, and a little dun cow that gave them the dropper milk. And considering how times go, they weren't badly off, for Seamus was a handy Gossoon to boot. And while mindin' the cow, cut heath and made brooms, which his mother sold on a market day, and brought home the bitter tabacki, the grain of salt, and other knick-knackins, which the poor body can't well do without. Once upon a time, however, Seamus went further than usual up the mountain, lookin' for long heath, for townspeople don't like to stoop, and so like long handles to their brooms.
The little dun cow was almost as cunning as a Christian sinner, and followed Seamus like a lapdog everywhere he'd go, so that she required little or no herdin'. On this day she found nice picking on a round spot as green as a leek, and, as poor Seamus was weary, as a body would be on a fine summer's day, he lay down on the grass to rest himself, just as we're resting ourselves on the cairn here. Big Gad! He hadn't long lain there, sure enough, when, what should he see, but whole loads of gunconers, fairies, dancing about the place. Some of them were hurling, some kicking a football, and others leaping a kick-step in a lap. They were so supple and so active that Seamus was highly delighted with the sport.
And a little tanskin chap in a red cap pleased him better than any of them, because he used to tumble the other fellows like mushrooms. At one time he had kept the ball up for as good as half an hour, when Seamus cried out, Well done, my hurler! The word wasn't well out of his mouth when whap went the ball on his eye, and flash went the fire. Poor Seamus thought he was blind, and roared out, Millimurther! A thousand murders. But the only thing he heard was a loud laugh. Cross of Christ about us, says he to himself, what is this for? And after rubbing his eyes, they came to a little, and he could see the sun and the sky, and by and by he could see everything but his cow and the mischievous Gankonas.
They were gone to their wrath or mot. But where was the little dun cow? He looked and he looked, and he might have looked from that day to this, because she wasn't to be found, and good reason why. The Ganconers took her away with them. Seamus Asnade, however, didn't think so, but ran home to his mother. Where is the cow, Seamus? asked the old woman. "'Oh, Musha! Bad luck to her,' said Seamus. "'I don't know where she is.' "'Is that an answer, you big blaggard, for the likes of you to give your poor old mother?' said she. "'Oh, Musha!' said Seamus. "'I don't kick up such a ball-house about nothing. "'The old cow is safe enough. I'll be bail, some place or other. "'Though I could find her if I put my eyes upon Kipin's.
"'Sticks!' And speaking of eyes, Faith, I had very good luck o' my side, or I had never a one to look after her. Why, what happened your eyes, Zagra? asked the old woman. Oh, didn't the Gankonas, the Lord save us from all hurt and harm, drive their hurlin' ball into them both? And sure I was stone blind for an hour. And may be, said the mother, the good people took our cow. No, nor a devil are one of them, said Seamus, for by the powers that same cow is as known as a lawyer, and wouldn't be such a fool as to go with the Gankonas, while she could get such grass as I found for her today. In this way, continued my informant, they talked about the cow all that night, and next morning both of them set off to look for her.
After search in every place, high and low, what should Seamus see sticking out of a bog-hole but something very like the horns of his little beast? Oh, mother, mother, said he, I've found her. Where, Alana, asked the old woman. In the bog-hole, mother, answered Seamus. At this the poor old creature set up such a pull-a-loo that she brought the seven parishes about her, and the neighbours soon pulled a cow out of the bog-hole. You'd swear it was the same, and yet it wasn't, as you shall hear by and by. Seamus and his mother brought the dead beast home with them, and after skinning her they hung the meat up in the chimney. The loss of the drop of milk was a sorrowful thing, and though they had a good deal of meat, that couldn't last always.
Besides, the whole parish focht upon them for eating the flesh of a beast that died without bleeding. But the pretty thing was, they couldn't eat the meat after all, for when it was boiled, it was as tough as carrion and as black as a turf. You might as well think of sinking your teeth into an oak plank as into a piece of it, and then you'd want to sit a great piece from the wall for fear of knocking your head against it when pulling it through your teeth. At last, and at long run, they were forced to throw it to the dogs. But the dogs wouldn't smell to it. And so it was thrown into the ditch, where it rotted. This misfortune cost poor Seamus many a salt tear, for he was now obliged to work twice as hard as before, and be outcutten heath on the mountain late and early.
One day he was passing by this cairn with a load of brooms on his back, when what should he see but the little dun cow and two red-headed fellows herding her? That's my mother's cow, said Seamus Asnade. No, it is not, said one of the chaps. But I say it is, said Seamus, throwing the brooms on the ground and seizing the cow by the horns. At that the red fellows drove her as fast as they could to the steep place, and with one leap she bounced over, with Seamus stuck fast to her horns. They made only one splash in the loch, When the waters closed over him, and they sunk to the bottom. Just as Seamus O'Snayd thought that all was over with him, he found himself before a most elegant palace, built with jewels and all manner of fine stones.
Though his eyes were dazzled with the splendour of the place, faith he had gulsh enough, sense enough, not to let go his holt, but in spite of all they could do, he held his little cow by the horns. He was axed into the palace, but wouldn't go. The hubbub at last grew so great that the door flew open and out walked a hundred ladies and gentlemen as fine as any in the land. What does this boy want? axed one of them, who seemed to be the master. I want my mother's cow, said Seamus. That's not your mother's cow, said the gentleman. Beth a shin! Impossible, cried Seamus asnade. Don't I know her as well as I know my right hand? Where did you lose her? asked the gentleman. And so Seamus up and told him all about it, how he was on the mountain, how he saw the good people hurling, how the ball was knocked in his eye, and his cow was lost.
I believe you are right, said the gentleman, pulling out his purse. And here is the price of twenty cows for you. No, no, said Seamus. You'll not catch old birds with chaff. I'll have my cow and nothing else. You're a funny fellow, said the gentleman. Stop here and live in a palace. I'd rather live with my mother. Foolish boy, said the gentleman. Stop here and live in a palace. I'd rather live in my mother's cabin. Here you can walk through gardens loaded with fruit and flowers. I'd rather, said Seamus, be cutting heath on the mountain. Here you can eat and drink of the best. Since I've got my cow, I can have milk once more with the Prates. Oh, cried the ladies, gathering round him, sure, you wouldn't take away the cow that gives us milk for our tea.
Oh, said Seamus, my mother wants milk as bad as anyone, and she must have it, so there's no use in your palaver. I must have my cow. At this they all gathered about him and offered him bushels of gold, but he wouldn't have anything but his cow. Seeing him as obstinate as a mule, they began to thump and beat him. But still he held fast by the horns, till at length a great blast of wind blew him out of the place, and in a moment he found himself and the cow standing on the side of the lake, the water of which looked as if it hadn't been disturbed since Adam was a boy, and that's a long time since. Well, Seamus' snake drove home his cow, and right glad his mother was to see her. But the moment she said, God bless the beast.
She sunk down like the breesha, breaking a faterfrick. That was the end of Seamus Asnade's Dun Cow. And sure, continued my companion, standing up, it's now time for me to look after my brown cow, and God send the Gankonas haven't taken her. Of this, I assured him, there could be no fear. And so we parted.
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30 29 - Hy-Brasail - The Isle of the Blest - The Phantom Isle 4:16
XXIX. High Brasale, the Isle of the Blessed by J.
Old Griffin. On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, a shadowy land has appeared, as they tell. Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, and they called it High Brasile, the Isle of the Blast. From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim, the beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim. The golden clouds curtained to the deep where it lay, and it looked like an Eden away far away. A peasant who heard the wonderful tale, in the breeze of the orient loosened his sail. From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, for though Ara was holy, Hybrisael was blest. He heard not the voices that called from the shore. He heard not the rising winds menacing roar. Home, kindred, and safety he left on that day, and he sped to Hybrisael, away, far away.
Morn rose on the deep and that shadowy isle, O'er the faint rim of distance reflected its smile. Noon burned on the wave and that shadowy shore, Seemed lovelily distant and faint as before. Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track, And to Ara again he looked timidly back. Oh, far on the verge of the ocean it lay, Yet the isle of Blest was away, far away. Rash dreamer, return, O ye winds of the main! Bear him back to his own peaceful aura again. Rash fool, for a vision of fanciful bliss, To barter thy claim life of labor and peace. The warning of reason was spoken in vain. He never revisited aura again. Night fell in the deep amidst tempest and spray, And he died on the waters away, far away.
The Phantom Isle by Gerald Griffon. Among the other islands is one newly formed, which they call the Phantom Isle, which had its origin in this manner. One calm day a large mass of earth rose to the surface of the sea, where no land had ever been seen before, to the great amazement of islanders who observed it. Some of them said that it was a whale or other immense sea-monster. Others, remarking that it continued motionless, said, No, it is land. In order, therefore, to reduce their doubts to certainty, some picked young men of the island determined to approach nearer the spot in a boat. When, however, they came so near to it that they thought they should go on shore, the island sank in the water and entirely vanished from sight.
The next day, it reappeared, and again mocked the same youths with this like delusion. At length, on their rowing towards it on the third day, they followed the advice of an older man, and let fly an arrow, barbed with red-hot steel, against the island, and then landing, found it stationary and habitable. This adds one to many proofs that fire is the greatest of enemies to every sort of phantom. And so much that those who have seen apparitions fall into a swoon as soon as they are sensible of the brightness of fire. For fire, both from its position and nature, is the noblest of the elements, being a witness of the secrets of the heavens. The sky is fiery, the planets are fiery. The bush burnt with fire, but was not consumed.
The Holy Ghost sat upon the apostles in tongues of fire.
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31 30 - Saints, Priests The Priest's Soul - The Priest of Coloony 15:10
Saints.
Priests.
Everywhere in Ireland are the holy wells. People, as they pray by them, make little piles of stones that will be counted at the last day, and the prayers reckoned up. Sometimes they tell stories. These following are their stories. They deal with the old times, whereof King Alfred of Northumberland wrote, I found in Innisfail the fair in Ireland, while in exile there, women of worth, both grave and gay men, Many clerics and many laymen. Gold and silver I found, and money, plenty of wheat and plenty of honey. I found God's people rich in pity, found many a feast and many a city.
There are no martyrs in the stories. That ancient chronica, Giraldo, taunted the Archbishop of Cashel because no one in Ireland had received the crown of martyrdom. "'Our people may be barbarous,' the prelate answered, "'but they have never lifted their hands against God's saints. "'But now that a people have come amongst us who know how to make them,' it was just after the English invasion, "'we shall have martyrs plentifully.' "'The bodies of the saints are fastidious things. "'At a place called Four Mile Water in Wexford, "'there is an old graveyard full of saints. "'Once it was on the other side of the river. But they buried a rogue there, and the whole graveyard moved across in the night, leaving the rogue corpse in solitude.
It would have been easier to move merely the rogue corpse, but they were saints and had to do things in style.
The Priest's Soul, Lady Wilde. In former days there were great schools in Ireland, where every sort of learning was taught to the people. And even the poorest had more knowledge at that time than many a gentleman has now. But as to the priests, their learning was above all, so that the fame of Ireland went over the whole world, and many kings from foreign lands used to send their sons all the way to Ireland to be brought up in the Irish schools. Now, at this time there was a little boy learning at one of them, who was a wonder to everyone for his cleverness. His parents were only laboring people, and, of course, poor. But, young as he was, and as poor as he was, no king or lord's son could come up to him in learning.
Even the masters were put to shame, for when they were trying to teach him, he would tell them something they never heard of before, and show them their ignorance. One of his great triumphs was in argument, and he would go on till he proved to you that black was white, And then, when you gave in, for no one could beat him in talk, he would turn round and show you that white was black, or maybe that there was no colour at all in the world. When he grew up, his poor father and mother were so proud of him that they resolved to make him a priest, which they did at last, though they nearly starved themselves to get the money. Well, such another learned man was not in Ireland, and he was as great in argument as ever, so that no one could stand before him.
Even the bishops tried to talk to him, but he showed them at once that they knew nothing at all.
Now, there were no schoolmasters in those times, but it was the priests taught the people. And as this man was the cleverest in Ireland, all the foreign kings sent their sons to him, as long as he had house-room to give them. So he grew very proud, and began to forget how low he had been, and, worst of all, even to forget God, who made him what he was. And the pride of arguing got hold of him, so that from one thing to another he went on to prove that there was no purgatory, and then no hell, and then no heaven, and then no God, and at last that men had no souls, but were no more than a dog or a cow, and when they died there was an end of them. Whoever saw a soul, he would say, if you can show me one I will believe.
No one could make any answer to this. And at last they all came to believe that, as there was no other world, everyone might do as they liked in this, the priest setting the example, for he took a beautiful young girl to wife. But as no priest or bishop in the whole land could be got to marry them, he was obliged to read the service over for himself. It was a great scandal, yet no one dared to say a word, for all the king's sons were on his side, and would have slaughtered anyone who tried to prevent his wicked goings on. Poor boys, they all believed in him, and thought every word he said was the truth. In this way his notions began to be spread about, and the whole world was going to the bad.
When one night an angel came down from heaven, and told the priest he had but twenty-four hours to live, he began to tremble, and asked for a little more time. But the angel was stiff, and told him that could not be. What do you want time for, you sinner? He asked. "'Oh, sir, have pity on my poor soul,' urged the priest. "'Oh, no, you have a soul, then,' said the angel. "'Pray, how did you find that out?' "'It has been fluttering in me ever since you appeared,' answered the priest. "'What a fool I was not to think of it before.' "'A fool indeed,' said the angel. "'What good was all your learning, when it could not tell you that you had a soul?' "'Ah, my lord,' said the priest, "'if I am to die.' Tell me how soon I may be in heaven.
Never, replied the angel. You denied there was a heaven. Then, my lord, may I go to purgatory? You denied purgatory also. You must go straight to hell, said the angel. But, my lord, I denied hell also, answered the priest, so you can't send me there either. The angel was a little puzzled. Well, said he, I'll tell you what I can do for you. You may either live now on earth for a hundred years, enjoying every pleasure, and then be cast into hell forever, or you may die in twenty-four hours in the most horrible torments, and pass through purgatory, there to remain till the day of judgment. If only you can find some one person that believes, and through his belief, mercy will be vouchsafed to you, and your soul will be saved.
The priest did not take five minutes to make up his mind. "'I will have death in the twenty-four hours,' he said, "'so that my soul may be saved at last.' On this the angel gave him directions as to what he was to do, and left him. Then immediately the priest entered the large room where all the scholars and king's sons were seated, and called out to them, "'Now tell me the truth, and let none fear to contradict me. Tell me, what is your belief? Have men souls?' "'Master,' they answered, "'once we believed that men had souls.' But thanks to your teaching we believe so no longer. There is no hell, and no heaven, and no God. This is our belief, for it is thus that you taught us."
Then the priest grew pale with fear, and cried out, Listen, I taught you a lie. There is a God, and man has an immortal soul. I believe now all I denied before. But the shouts of laughter that rose up drowned the priest's voice. For they thought he was only trying them for argument. Prove it, master, they cried. Prove it! Who has ever seen God? Who has ever seen the soul? And the room was stirred with their laughter.
The priest stood up to answer them, but no word could he utter. All his eloquence, all his powers of argument had gone from him, and he could do nothing but wring his hands and cry out. There is a God. There is a God. Lord, have mercy on my soul. And they began to mock him and repeat his own words that he had taught them. Show him to us. Show us your God. And he fled from them, groaning with agony, for he saw that none believed, and how then could his soul be saved? But he thought next of his wife. She will believe, he said to himself. Women never give up God. And he went to her. But she told him that she believed only what he taught her, and that a good wife should believe in her husband first, and before, and above all things in heaven or earth.
Then despair came on him, and he rushed from the house, and began to ask every one he met if they believed. But the same answer came from one and all. We believe only what you have taught us, for his doctrine had spread far and wide through the country. Then he grew half mad with fear. For the hours were passing, and he flung himself down on the ground in a lonesome spot, and wept and groaned in terror, for the time was coming fast when he must die. Just then a little child came by. "'God save you kindly,' said the child to him. The priest started up. "'Do you believe in God?' he asked. "'I've come from a far country to learn about him,' said the child. "'Will your honour direct me to the best school they have in these parts?' "'The best school and the best teacher is close by,' said the priest, and he named himself.
"'Oh, no, not to that man,' answered the child, "'for I am told that he denies God and heaven and hell, "'and that even that man has a soul, because he cannot see it. "'But I would soon put him down.' The priest looked at him earnestly. "'How?' he inquired. Why," said the child, I would ask him if he believed he had life to show me his life. But he could not do that, my child, said the priest. Life cannot be seen. We have it, but it is invisible. Then, if we have life, though we cannot see it, we may also have a soul, though it is invisible, answered the child. When the priest heard him speak these words, he fell down on his knees before him, weeping for joy. For now he knew his soul was safe.
He had met one at last that believed. And he told the child his whole story, all his wickedness and pride and blasphemy against the great God, and how the angel had come to him and told him of the only way in which he could be saved, through the faith and prayers of someone that believed. Now then, he said to the child, take this penknife and strike it into my breast, and go on stabbing until you see the paleness of death on my face. Then watch. For a living thing will soar up from my body as I die, and you will then know that my soul has ascended to the presence of God. And when you see this thing, make haste, and run to my school, and call on all my scholars to come and see that the soul of their master has left the body, and that all he taught them was a lie, for there is a God who punishes sin, and a heaven, and a hell, and that man has an immortal soul destined for eternal happiness or misery.
I will pray, said the child, to have courage to do this work. And he kneeled down and prayed. Then when he rose up, he took the penknife and struck it into the priest's heart, and struck and struck again, till all the flesh was lacerated. But still the priest lived, though the agony was horrible, for he could not die until the twenty-four hours had expired. At last the agony seemed to cease, and the stillness of death settled on his face. Then the child who was watching saw a beautiful living creature with four snow-white wings mount from the dead man's body into the air and go fluttering round his head.
So he ran to bring the scholars, and when they saw it they all knew it was the soul of their master, and they watched with wonder and awe until it passed from sight into the clouds. And this was the first butterfly that was ever seen in Ireland, and now All men know that the butterflies are the souls of the dead, waiting for the moment when they may enter purgatory, and so pass through torture to purification and peace.
But all the schools of Ireland were quite deserted after that time, for people said, What's the use of going so far to learn, when the wisest man in all Ireland did not know if he had a soul till he was near losing it, and was only saved at last? Through the simple belief of a little child.
The Priest of Coluny, W. B. Yeats. Good father John O'Hart in penal days rode out to a shonin in his free lands with his snipe marsh and his trout. In trust took he John's lands. Slyvenes were all his race, and he gave them as dowers to his daughters, and they married beyond their place. But Father John went up, and Father John went down, and he wore small holes in his shoes, and he wore large holes in his gown. All loved him, only the Shonin, whom the devils have by the hair, from their wives and their cats and their children, to the birds in the white of the air. The birds, for he opened their cages as he went up and down, and he said with a smile, Have peace now, and went his way with a frown.
But if when any one died, Came keeners, hoarser than rooks. He bade them give over their keening, for he was a man of books. And these were the works of John, when weeping score by score, people came into Kaloony, for he died at ninety-four. There was no human keening. The birds from Nochnareya, and the world round Nochnashi, came keening in that day. Keening from Innesmurray, nor stayed for bit or sup. This way were all reproved who dig old customs up. Coluny is a few miles south of the town of Sligo. Father O'Hart lived there in the last century, and was greatly beloved. These lines accurately record the tradition. No one who has held the stolen land has prospered. It has changed owners many times.
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32 31 - The Story of the Little Bird - Conversion King Laoghaire's Daughters 5:27
Edited and selected by W. B. Yeats.
The Story of the Little Bird by T. Crofton Croker. Many years ago there was a very religious and holy man, one of the monks of a convent, and he was one day kneeling at his prayers in the garden of his monastery, when he heard a little bird singing in one of the rose-trees of the garden, and there never was anything that he had heard in the world so sweet as the song of that little bird. And the holy man rose up from his knees where he was kneeling at his prayers to listen to its song, For he thought he never in all his life heard anything so heavenly. And the little bird, after singing for some time longer on the rose-tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from the monastery, and the holy man followed it to listen to its singing, for he felt as if he would never be tired of listening to the sweet song it was singing out of its throat.
And the little bird after that went away to another distant tree, and sung there for a while, and then to another tree, and so on in the same manner, but ever further and further away from the monastery, and the holy man still followed it farther, and farther, and farther, still listening delighted to its enchanting song. But at last he was obliged to give up, as it was growing late in the day, and he returned to the convent. And as he approached it in the evening, the sun was setting in the west, with all the most heavenly colours that were ever seen in the world, And when he came into the convent, it was nightfall. And he was quite surprised at everything he saw, for there were all strange faces about him in the monastery that he had never seen before, and the very place itself, and everything about it, seemed to be strangely altered, and, altogether, it seemed entirely different from what it was when he had left it in the morning.
And the garden was not like the garden where he had been kneeling at his devotion, when he first heard the singing of the little bird.
And while he was wondering at all he saw, one of the monks of the convent came up to him, and the holy man questioned him. "'Brother, what is the course of all these strange changes that have taken place here since the morning?' And the monk that he spoke to seemed to wonder greatly at his question, and asked him what he meant by the change since morning. For sure there was no change. That all was just as before. And then he said, "'Brother, why do you ask these strange questions, and what is your name?' "'For you were the habit of our order, though we have never seen you before.' So upon this the holy man told his name, and said that he had been at mass in the chapel in the morning before he had wandered away from the garden, listening to the song of a little bird that was singing among the rose-trees, near where he was kneeling at his prayers.
And the brother, while he was speaking, Gazed at him very earnestly, and then told him there was in the convent a tradition of a brother of his name, who had left it two hundred years before, but that what was become of him was never known. And while he was speaking, the holy man said, My hour of death is come. Blessed be the name of the Lord for all his mercies to me, through the merits of his only begotten Son. And he kneeled down that very moment, and said, Brother, take my confession, for my soul is departing. And he made his confession, and received his absolution, and was anointed, and before midnight he died. The little bird, you see, was an angel, one of the cherubims or seraphims, and that was the way the Almighty was pleased in his mercy to take to himself the soul of that holy man.
Conversion of King Leary's Daughters Once, when Patrick and his clerics were sitting beside a well in the rath of Croghan, with books open on their knees, they saw coming towards them two young daughters of the King of Conahal. "'Twas early morning, and they were going to the well to bathe. The young girls said to Patrick, "'Whence are ye, and whence come ye?' And Patrick answered, "'It was better for you to confess to the true God, than to inquire concerning our race.' "'Who is God?' said the young girls. "'And where is God? And of what nature is God? And where is his dwelling-place? Has your God's sons and daughters, gold and silver? Is he everlasting? Is he beautiful? Did Mary foster her son?
Are his daughters dear and beauteous to men of the world? Is he in heaven or on earth, in the sea, in rivers, in mountainous places, in valleys?' Patrick answered them, and made known who God was, and they believed, and were baptized, and a white garment put upon their heads. And Patrick asked them, would they live on, or would they die and behold the face of Christ? They chose death, and died immediately, and were buried near the well Kleber.
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33 32 - King O'Toole and His Goose 9:58
The End of the day.
Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, edited and selected by W. B. Eighth, Section 32. King O'Toole and His Goose by S. Lover. Begar, I thought all the world far and near here the King O'Toole. Well, well, but the darkness of mankind is untellable. Well, sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, That there was a king called King O'Toole, who was the fine old king in the old ancient times long ago, and it was him that owned the churches in the early days. The king, you see, was the right sort. He was the real boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and hunting in particular, and from the rising of the sun up He got, and away he went over the mountains beyond after the deer, and the fine times them were.
Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health, but you see, in the course of time the king grew old. By raising he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got stricken in years his heart failed him. And he was lost entirely for want of diversion, because he couldn't go a-hunting no longer. And bedad, the poor king was obliged at last for to get a goose to divert him. Oh, you may laugh if you like, but it's truth I'm telling you. And the way the goose diverted him was this-a-way. You see, The goose used for to swim across the lake and go diving for throat and catch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round the lake, diverted the poor king. All went on mighty well until, bedad, the goose got stricken in years like her master and couldn't divert him no longer.
And then it was that the poor king was last complete. The king was walking one morning by the edge of the lake, lamenting his cruel fate, and thinking of drowning himself that could get no diversion in life, when all of a sudden, turning round the corner beyond, who should he meet but a mighty decent young man coming up to him? "'God save you,' said the king to the young man. "'God save you kindly, King O'Toole,' said the young man. "'True for you,' said the king." I am King O'Toole, s'y, Prince, and Plenny-penny tingelly o' these parts, s'y. But how kem ye to know that, s'y, oh, never mind, said St. Cavan. Ye see, it was St. Cavan, sure enough, the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else.
Oh, never mind, s'y, I know more than that. May I make bold to axe How is your goose, King O'Toole says he? Blurring, niggers, how come you to know about me? Goose, said the king. Oh, no matter. I was given to understand it, said St. Cavan. After some more talk, the king said, What are you? I'm an honest man, said St. Cavan. Well, honest man, says the king. And how is it you make your money so easy? "'By making old things as good as new,' said St. Cavan. "'Is it a tinker you are?' said the king. "'No,' said the saint. "'I'm no tinker by trade, King O'Toole.' "'I've a better trade than a tinker,' says he. "'What would you say, Tessie, if I made your old goose as good as new?' "'Me dear,' at the word of making his goose as good as new, You'd think the poor old king's eyes were ready to jump out of his head.
With that the king whistled, and down came the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddling up to the poor cripple, her master, and as like him as two peas. The minute the saint clapped eyes on the goose, I'll do the job for you, said he, King O'Toole. Be Gemini, said King O'Toole, if you do, But I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the Sivin parishes. Oh, bedad, said St. Kevin. You must say more nor that. My horn's not so soft all out, to see, as to repair your old goose for nothing. What'll you give me if I do the job for you? That's the chat, said St. Kevin. I'll give you whatever you ask, said the king. Isn't that fair? "'Divile affair,' said the saint. "'That's the way to do business.' "'Now,' says he, "'this is the bargain I'll make with you, King O'Toole.
"'Will you give me all the ground as the goose flies over, "'the first offer, "'after I make her as good as new?' "'I will,' said the king. "'You won't go back on your word,' says St. Cavan. "'On her bright,' says King O'Toole, "'holding out his fist. "'On her bright!' said St. Kevin back again. It's a bargain. Come here," says he to the poor old goose. Come here, you unfortunate cripple, and it's I that'll make you the Spartan bird. With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings. Chris saw my cross on you, says he, making her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute, and throwing her up into the air. Phew! says he. Just to give her a blash to help her, and with that, me jewel, she took to her heels, flying like one of those eagles themselves, and cutting as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.
Well, me dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standing with his mouth open, looking at the poor old goose, flying as light as a lark, and better nor ever she was. And when she lit at his foot, patted her on the head, and, Ma vourneen, says he, but you are the darlint of the world. And what do you say to me, says Saint Kevin, for making her the like? Begar, says the king, I say nothing but the art of man barring the beave. And do you say no more nor that, says Saint Kevin? "'And that I'm beholden to you,' said the king. "'But will you give me all the ground as the goose flew over?' says Saint Calvin. "'I will,' said the king, "'and you're welcome to it,' says he. "'So it's the last acre I have to give.' "'But you'll keep your word through,' said the saint.
"'As through as the sun,' said the king. "'It's well for you, King O'Too, that you said that word,' says he.' For if you didn't say that word, the devil were safe that bit of your goose would ever fly again. When the king was as good as his word, St. Kevin was pleased with him, and then it was that he made himself known to the king. And he says, King O'Toole, you're a decent man, for I only came here to try you. You don't know me, says he, because I'm disguised. Mushe is in, said the king. Who are you? I'm Saint Coven, said the Saint, blessing himself. Oh, Queen of Heaven, said the King, making the sign of the cross between his eyes and falling down on his knees before the Saint. Is it a great Saint Coven, says he, that I've been discoursing all this time without knowing it, says he?
All as one, as if he was a lump of a goose oon. And so you're a Saint. said the king. "'I am?' said Saint Kevin. "'Begar, I thought I was only talking to a decent boy,' said the king. "'Well, you know the differ now,' said the saint. "'I'm Saint Kevin,' says he, "'the greatest of all the saints.' And so the king had his goose as good as new to divert him as long as he lived, and the saint supported him after he came into his property, as I told you, Until the day of his death, and that was soon after, for the poor goose thought he was catching a throat one Friday. But, my jewel, it was a mistake he made, and instead of a throat, it was a thieving horse-eel. And, begar, instead of the goose killing a throat for the king's supper, bedad the eel killed the king's goose, and small blame to him.
But he didn't ate her. "'Because he daredn't eat what St.
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34 33 - The Devil The Demon Cat - The Long Spoon - The Countess Kathleen 13:35
The Devil. The Demon Cat. Lady Wilde. There was a woman in Connemara, the wife of a fisherman, as he had always good luck. She had plenty of fish at all times stored away in the house, ready for market. But, to her great annoyance, she found that a great cat used to come in at night and devour all the best and finest fish. So she kept a big stick by her and determined to watch. One day, as she and a woman were spinning together, The house suddenly became quite dark, and the door was burst open, as if by the blast of the tempest, when in walked a huge black cat, who went straight up to the fire, then turned round and growled at them. "'Why, surely this is the devil,' said a young girl, who was by sorting fish.
"'I'll teach you how to call me names,' said the cat. And, jumping at her, he scratched her arm till the blood came. "'There now,' he said, "'you will be more civil another time when a gentleman comes to see you.' And with that, he walked over to the door and shut it close, to prevent any of them going out, for the poor young girl, while crying loudly from fright and pain, had made a desperate rush to get away. Just then a man was going by, and hearing the cries, he pushed open the door and tried to get in. But the cat stood on the threshold, and would let no one pass. On this the man attacked him with his stick, and gave him a sound blow. The cat, however, was more than a match in the fight, for it flew at him and tore his face and hands so badly that the man at last took to his heels and ran away as fast as he could.
Now it's time for my dinner," said the cat, going up to examine the fish that was laid out on the tables. I hope the fish is good today. Now, don't disturb me, nor make a fuss. I can help myself. With that, he jumped up, and began to devour all the best fish, while he growled at the woman. Away out of this, you wicked beast, she cried, giving it a blow with the tongs that would have broken its back. Only it was a devil. Out of this, no fish shall you have to-day. But the cat only grinned at her. and went on tearing and spoiling, and devouring the fish, evidently not a bit the worse for the blow. On this, both the women attacked it with sticks, and struck hard blows enough to kill it, on which the cat glared at them, and spitt fire.
Then, making a leap, it tore their heads and arms till the blood came, and the frightened women rushed, shrieking from the house. But presently the mistress returned, Carrying with her a bottle of holy water, and looking in, she saw the cat still devouring the fish and not minding. So she crept over quietly, and threw holy water on it without a word. No sooner was this done than a dense black smoke filled the place, through which nothing was seen but the two red eyes of the cat, burning like coals of fire. Then the smoke gradually cleared away, and she saw the body of the creature burning slowly, Till it became shrivelled and black like a cinder, and finally disappeared. And from that time, the fish remained untouched and safe from harm, for the power of the evil one was broken, and the demon cat was seen no more.
The Long Spoon. Patrick Kennedy. The devil and the half-money collector for Bantry set out one summer morning to decide a bet they made the night before over a jug of punch. They wanted to see which would have the best load at sunset, and neither was to pick up anything that wasn't offered with the goodwill of the giver. They passed by a house, and they heard the poor Banatai cry out to her lazy daughter. Oh, Musha! Take you for a lazy, strone such of a girl. Do you intend to get up to-day? Oh, oh, says the taxman. There's a job for you, Nick. Oh, Vock, says the other. It wasn't from her heart she said it. We must pass on. The next cabin they were passing. The woman was on the Bournditch, crying out to her husband that was mending one of his brogues inside.
Oh, tatheration to you, Nick. You never wrung them pigs, and then they are in the potato drills rooting away. The run to lusk with them. Another windfall for you, says the man of the ink horn. But the old thief only shook his horns and wagged his tail. So they went on. And ever so many prizes were offered to the black fellow, without him taking one. Here it was a gawson playing marvels, when he should be using his clappers in the cornfield, and then it was a lazy drone of a servant asleep with his face to the sod, when he ought to be weeding. No one thought of offering the half-money man even a drink of buttermilk, and at last the sun was within half a foot of the edge of Culea. They were just then passing Monomolin, And a poor woman that was straining her supper in a schiodge outside her cabin door, seeing the two standing at the Bourne gate, bawled out.
"'Oh, here's the half-money man. Run away with him. Got a bite at last,' says Nick. "'Oh, no, no. It wasn't from her heart,' says the collector. "'Indeed, and it was from the very foundation stones it came.' "'No help for misfortunes. In with you,' says he.' Opening the mouth of his big black bag, and whether the devil was ever after seen taking the same walk or not, nobody ever laid eyes on his fellow traveller again. The Countess Kathleen O'Shea. A very long time ago, there suddenly appeared in Old Island two unknown merchants of whom nobody had ever heard, and who nevertheless spoke the language of the country with the greatest perfection. Their locks were black, and bound round with gold, and their garments were of rare magnificence.
Both seemed of like age. They appeared to be men of fifty, for their foreheads were wrinkled, and their beards tinged with grey. In the hostelry, where the pompous traders alighted, it was sought to penetrate their designs, but in vain they led a silent and retired life, and whilst they stopped there, They did nothing but count over and over again out of their money-bags pieces of gold, whose yellow brightness could be seen through the windows of their lodging. "'Gentlemen,' said the landlady one day, "'how is it that you are so rich, and that, being able to succour the public misery, you do no good works?' "'Fair hostess,' replied one of them, "'we didn't like to present arms to the honest poor.' In dread we might be deceived by make-believe paupers.
Let want knock at our door, we shall open it. The following day, when the rumour spread that two rich strangers had come, ready to lavish their gold, a crowd besieged their dwelling. But the figures of those who came out were widely different. Some carried pride in their mien. Others were shamefaced. The two chapmen traded in souls for the demon. The soul of the aged was worth twenty pieces of gold, not a penny more, for Satan had had time to make his valuation. The soul of a matron was valued at fifty, when she was handsome, and a hundred when she was ugly. The soul of a young maiden fetched an extravagant sum. The freshest and purest flowers are the dearest. At that time there lived in the city an angel of beauty.
The Countess Kathleen O'Shea. She was the idol of the people, and the providence of the indigent. As soon as she learned that these miscreants profited to the public misery to steal away hearts from God, she called to her butler. Patrick, said she to him, how many pieces of gold in my coffers? A hundred thousand. How many jewels? The money's worth of the gold. How much property in castles, forests, and lands? Double the rest. Very well, Patrick. Sell all that is not gold, and bring me the account. I only wish to keep this mansion, and the domain that surrounds it. Two days afterwards, the orders of the pious Kathleen were executed, and the treasure was distributed to the poor, in proportion to their wants.
This, says the tradition, did not suit the purposes of the evil spirit, who found no more souls to purchase. Aided by an infamous servant, they penetrated into the retreat of the noble dame, and purloined from her the rest of her treasure. In vain, she struggled with all her strength to save the contents of her coffers. The diabolical thieves were the stronger. If Kathleen had been able to make the sign of the cross, adds the legend. She would have put them to flight, but her hands were captive. The larceny was effected. Then the poor called for aid to the plundered Kathleen. Alas, to no good. She was able to succour their misery no longer. She had to abandon them to the temptation. Meanwhile, but eight days had to pass before the grain and provender would arrive in abundance from the western lands.
Eight such days were an age. Eight days required an immense sum to relieve the exigencies of the dearth, and the poor should either perish in the agonies of hunger, or, denying the holy maxims of the gospel, vend for base lucre their souls, the richest gift from the bounteous hand of the Almighty. And Kathleen hadn't anything, for she had to give up her mansion to the unhappy. She passed twelve hours in tears and mourning, rending her sun-tinted hair and bruising her breast of the whiteness of the lily. Afterwards she stood up, resolute, animated by a vivid sentiment of despair. She went to the traders in Soles. "'What do you want?' they said. "'You buy Soles? Yes, a few still in spite of you.
Isn't that so, Saint, with the eyes of Sapphire?' "'Today I come to offer you a bargain,' replied she. "'What?' "'I have a soul to sell, but it is costly. What does that signify if it is precious? The soul, like the diamond, is appraised by its transparency. It is mine.' The two emissaries of Satan started. Their claws were clutched under their gloves of leather. Their grey eyes sparkled. The soul, pure, spotless, Virginal of Kathleen, it was a priceless acquisition. Beauteous lady, how much do you ask? A hundred and fifty thousand pieces of gold. It's at your service, replied the traders, and they tendered Kathleen a parchment sealed with black, which she signed with a shudder. The sum was counted out to her.
As soon as she got home, she said to the butler, Here, distribute this. With this money that I give you, the poor can tide over the eight days that remain, and not one of their souls will be delivered to the demon. Afterwards she shut herself up in her room, and gave orders that none should disturb her. Three days passed. She called nobody. She did not come out. When the door was opened, they found her cold and stiff. She was dead of grief. But the sale of this soul so adorable in its charity, was declared null by the Lord, for she had saved her fellow-citizens from eternal death. After the eight days had passed, numerous vessels brought into famished Island immense provisions in grain. Hunger was no longer possible.
As to the traders, they disappeared from their hotel without anyone knowing what became of them. But the fishermen of the Blackwater Pretend that they are enchained in a subterranean prison by order of Lucifer, until they shall be able to render up the soul of Kathleen, which escaped from them.
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35 34 - The Three Wishes Part 1 25:13
Edited and selected by W.B. Yates. Section 34. The Three Wishes.
In ancient times there lived a man called Billy Dawson. He was known to be a great rogue. They say he was descended from the family of the Dawsons, which was the reason, I suppose, of his carrying their name upon him. Billy, in his youthful days, was the best hand at doing nothing in all Europe. Devil a mortal could come next or near him at idleness. And in consequence of his great practice that way, you may be sure that if any man could make a fortune by it, he would have done it. Billy was the only son of his father, barring two daughters, but they have nothing to do with the story I'm telling you. Indeed, it was kind father and grandfather for Billy to be handy at the knavery as well as at the idleness, for it was well known that not one of their blood ever did an honest act.
Except with a roguish intention. In short, they were altogether a decant connection and a credit to the name. As for Billy, all the villainy of the family, both plain and ornamental, came down to him by way of legacy, for it so happened that the father, in spite of all his cleverness, had nothing but his roguery to lave him. Billy, to do him justice, improved the fortune he got. Every day advanced him farther into dishonesty and poverty, until at the long run he was acknowledged on all hands to be the completest swindler and the poorest vagabond in the whole parish. Billy's father, in his young days, had often been forced to acknowledge the inconvenience of not having a trade, in consequence of some nice point in law called the Vagrant Act, that sometimes troubled him.
On this account he made up his mind to give Bill an occupation, and he accordingly bound him to a blacksmith. But whether Bill was to live or die by forgery was a puzzle to his father, though the neighbours said that both was most likely. At all events he was put apprenticed to a smith for seven years, and a hard card his master had to play in managing him. He took the proper method, however, for Bill was so lazy and roguish That it would vex a saint to keep him in order. Bill, says his master to him one day, that he had been sunning himself about the ditches, instead of minding his business. Bill, my boy, I'm vexed to the heart to see you in such a bad state of health. You're very ill with that complaint called the all-overness.
However, says he, I think I can cure you. Nothing will bring you about, but three or four sound doses every day. Of a medicine called the oil of the hazel. Take the first dose now, says he, and he immediately banged him with a hazel cudgel until Bill's bones ached for a week afterwards. If you were my son, said his master, I tell you that as long as I could get a piece of advice growing convenient in the hedges, I'd have you a different youth from what you are. If working was a sin, Bill. Not an innocenter boy ever broke bread than you would be. Good people scarce, you think, but however that may be, I throw it out as a hint that you must take your medicine till you're cured, whenever you happen to get unwell in the same way.
From this out, he kept Bill's nose to the grinding stone, and whenever his complaint returned, he never failed to give him a hearty dose for his improvement. In the course of time, however, Bill was his own man and his own master, but it would puzzle a saint to know whether the master or the man was the more precious youth in the eyes of the world. He immediately married a wife, and devil a doubt of it, but if he kept her in whisky and sugar, she kept him in hot water. Bill drank and she drank. Bill fought and she fought. Bill was idle and she was idle. Bill whacked her, and she whacked Bill. If Bill gave her one black eye, she gave him another, just to keep herself in countenance. Never was there a blessed pair so well met, and a beautiful sight it was, to see them both at breakfast-time, blinking at each other across the potato basket, Bill with his right eye black, and she with her left.
In short, they were the talk of the whole town, And to see Bill of a morning staggering home drunk, his shirt sleeves rolled up on his smutted arms, his breast open, and an old tattered leather apron, with one corner tucked up under his belt, singing one minute and fighting with his wife the next, she reeling beside him with a discoloured eye, as aforesaid. A dirty ragged cap on one side of her head, a pair of Bill's old slippers on her feet, a squalling child on her arm. Now cuffing and dragging Bill, and again kissing and hugging him. Yes, it was a pleasant picture to see this loving pair in such a state. This might do for a while, but it could not last. They were idle, drunken and ill-conducted, and it was not to be supposed that they would get a farthing candle on their words.
They were, of course, drove to great straits, and faith they soon found that their fighting and drinking and idleness made them the laughing sport of the neighbours, but neither brought food to their children, put a coat upon their backs, nor satisfied their landlord when he came to look for his own. Still, the nevererone of Bill was a funny fellow with strangers, though, as we said, the greatest rogue unhanged. One day he was standing against his own anvil. completely in a brown study, being brought to his wits' end how to make out a breakfast for the family. The wife was scolding and cursing in the house, and the naked creatures of children squalling about her knees for food. Bill was fairly at an amplush, and knew not where or how to turn himself, when a poor withered old beggar came into the forge, tottering on his staff.
A long white beard fell from his chin, and he looked as thin and hungry that you might blow him, one would think, over the house. Bill, at this moment, had been brought to his senses by distress, and his heart had a touch of pity towards the old man, for, on looking at him a second time, he clearly saw starvation and sorrow in his face. God save you, honest man," said Bill. The old man gave a sigh, and raising himself with great pain on his staff, he looked at Bill in a very beseeching way. "'Musher, God save you kindly,' says he. "'Maybe you could give a poor, hungry, helpless old man a mouthful of something to eat. You see yourself I'm not able to work. If I was, I'd scorn to be beholding to anyone.' "'Faith, honest man,' said Bill.
"'If you knew who you're speaking to, you'd as soon ask a monkey for a churn staff as me for either mate or money.' There's not a blackguard in the Three Kingdoms, so fairly on the chagren as I am, for both the one and the other. The wife within is sending the curses thick and heavy on me, and the children's playing the cat's melody to keep her in comfort. Take my word for it, poor man. If I had either mate or money, I'd help you, for I know particularly well what it is to want them at the present speaking. An empty sack won't stand, neighbour." So far Bill told him truth. The good thought was in his heart, because he found himself on a footing with the beggar, and nothing brings down pride, or softens the heart, like feeling what it is to want.
Why, you are in a worse state than I am," said the old man. You have a family to provide for, and I have only myself to support. You may kiss the book on that, my old worthy," replied Bill. But come. "'What I can do for you I will. Plant yourself up here beside the fire, and I'll give it a blast or two of my bellows that will warm the old blood in your body. It's a cold, miserable, snowy day, and a good heat will be of service.' "'Thank you kindly,' said the old man. "'I am cold, and a warming at your fire will do me good, sure enough. Oh, it is a bitter, bitter day. God bless it.' He then sat down. And Bill blew a rousing blast that soon made the stranger edge back from the heat. In a short time he felt quite comfortable, and when the numbness was taken out of his joints, he buttoned himself up and prepared to depart.
"'Now,' says he to Bill, "'you hadn't the food to give me, but what you could you did. Ask any three wishes you choose, and be they what they may, take my word for it, they shall be granted.' Now the truth is that Bill—' Though he believed himself a great man in point of cuteness, wanted, after all, a full quarter of being square, for there is always a great difference between a wise man and a knave. Bill was so much of a rogue that he could not, for the blood of him, ask an honest wish, but stood scratching his head in a puzzle. "'Three wishes,' said he. "'Why?' Let me see. Did you say three?' "'Aye,' replied the stranger. Three wishes. That was what I said. Well, said Bill, here goes. Ha! Ha!
Let me alone, my old worthy. Faith, I'll overreach the parish, if what you say is true. I'll cheat them in dozens, rich and poor, old and young. Let me alone, man. I have it here. And he tapped his forehead with great glee. Faith, you're the sort to meet of a frosty morning, when a man wants his breakfast. And I'm sorry that I have neither money nor credit to get a bottle of whisky, that we might take our morning together. Well, but let us hear the wishes," said the old man. My time is short, and I cannot stay much longer. Do you see this sledgehammer," said Bill. I wish in the first place that whoever takes it up in their hands may never be able to lay it down till I give them lave. And that whoever begins to sledge with it may never stop sledging till it's my pleasure to release him.
Secondly, I have an armchair, and I wish that whoever sits down in it may never rise out of it till they have my consent. And thirdly, that whatever money I put into my purse, nobody may have power to take it out of it but myself. You devil's rip, says the old man in a passion, shaking his staff across Bill's nose. Why did you not ask something that would serve you both here and hereafter? Sure, it's as common as the market cross that there's not a vagabond in His Majesty's dominions stands more in need of both." Oh, by the elevens, said Bill, I forgot that altogether. Maybe you'd be civil enough to let me change one of them. The sorra-pertier wish ever was made than I'll make if you'll give me another chance.
Get out, you reprobate, said the old man. Still in a passion. Your day of grace is past. Little you knew who was speaking to you all this time. I'm St. Morricky, you blaggard, and I gave you an opportunity of doing something for yourself and your family. But you neglected it, and now your fate is cast. You dirty, bog-trotting profligate. Sure it's well known what you are. Aren't you a byword in everybody's mouth, you and your scold of a wife? By this and by that, if ever you happen to come across me again, I'll send you to where you won't freeze, you villain. He then gave Bill a rap of his cudgel over the head, and laid him at his length beside the bellows, kicked a broken coal-scuttle out of his way, and left the forge in a fury.
When Bill recovered himself from the effects of the blow, and began to think on what had happened, he could have quartered himself with vexation for not asking great wealth as one of the wishes at least, but now the die was cast on him, and he could only make the most of the three he pitched upon. He now bethought him how he might turn them to the best account, and here his cunning came to his aid. He began by sending for his wealthiest neighbours on pretence of business, and when he got them under his roof, he offered them the arm-chair to sit down in. He now had them safe. Nor could all the art of man relieve them, except worthy Bill was willing. Bill's plan was to make the best bargain he could before he released his prisoners, and let him alone for knowing how to make their purses bleed.
There wasn't a wealthy man in the country he did not fleece. The parson of the parish bled heavily, so did the lawyer, and a rich attorney, who had retired from practice, swore that the court of Chancery itself was paradise compared to Bill's chair. This was all very good for a time. The fame of his chair, however, soon spread. so did that of his sledge, and a short time neither man, woman, nor child would darken his door. All avoided him and his fixtures as they would a spring gun or man-trap. Bill, so long as he fleeced his neighbours, never wrought a hand's turn, so that when his money was out he found himself as badly off as ever. In addition to all this, his character was fifty times worse than before.
For it was the general belief that he had dealings with the old boy. Nothing now could exceed his misery, distress, and ill-temper. The wife and he and their children all fought among one another. Everybody hated them, cursed them, and avoided them. The people thought they were acquainted with more than Christian people ought to know. This, of course, came to Bill's ears, and it vexed him very much. One day he was walking about the fields, thinking of how he could raise the wind once more. The day was dark, and he found himself, before he stopped, in the bottom of a lonely glen, covered by great bushes that grew on each side. Well, thought he, when every other means of raising money failed him.
It's reported the time in league with the old boy, and as it's a folly to have the name of the connection without the profit, I'm ready to make a bargain with him any day. So said he, raising his voice. Nick, you sinner, if you be convenient and willing, why stand out here? Show your best leg. Here's your man. The words were hardly out of his mouth when a dark, sober-looking old gentleman, not unlike a lawyer, walked up to him. Bill looked at the foot and saw the hoof. Morrow, Nick, said Bill. Morrow, Bill, said Nick. Well, Bill, what's the news? "'Devil and much myself hears of late,' says Bill. "'Is there anything fresh below?' "'I can't exactly say, Bill. I spend little of my time down now.
The Tories are in office, and my hands are consequently too full of business here to pay much attention to anything else.' "'A fine place, this, sir,' says Bill. "'To take a constitutional walk-in. When I want an appetite, I often come this way myself.' High feeding is very bad without exercise. High feeding? Come, come, Bill. You know you didn't taste a morsel these four-and-twenty hours. You know that's a bounce, Nick. I eat a breakfast this morning that would put a stone of flesh on you if you only smelt at it. No matter. This is not to the purpose. What's that you were muttering to yourself a while ago? If you want to come to the brunt, here I'm for you. Nick, said Bill. You're complete. You want nothing barring a pair of Brian O'Lynn's breeches.
Bill, in fact, was bent on making his companion open the bargain, because he had often heard that, in that case, with proper care on his own part, he might defeat him in the long run. The other, however, was his match. What was the nature of Brian's garment? inquired Nick. Why, you know the song, said Bill. Brian Olin had no breeches to wear, so he got a sheepskin for to make him a pair. With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in, they'll be pleasant and cool," says Brian Olin. A cool pair would serve you, Nick. You're mighty waggish to-day, Mr. Dawson. And good right I have," said Bill. I'm a man snug and well to do in the world. Have lots of money, plenty of good eating and drinking, and what more need a man wish for?
True," said the other. In the meantime, it's rather odd that so respectable a man should not have six inches of unbroken cloth in his apparel. You are as naked a tattered Amalion as I ever laid my eyes on. In full dress for a party of scarecrows, William. That's my own fancy dress, Nick. I don't work at my trade like a gentleman. This is my forged dress, you know. Well, but what did you summon me here for? said the other. You may as well speak out, I tell you. For my good friend, unless you do, I shan't. Smell that. I smell more than that," said Bill. And by the way, I'll thank you to give me the windy side of you. Curse all sulphur, I say. There. That's what I call an improvement in my condition.
But as you are so stiff, says Bill, why, the short and long of it is, that, hem, you see, I'm, er, sure, you know I have a thriving trade of my own. and that if I like I needn't be at a loss. But in the meantime, I'm rather in a kind of so-so, don't you take? And Bill winks knowingly, hoping to trick him into the first proposal. "'You must speak above board, my friend,' says the other. "'I'm a man of few words, blunt and honest. If you have anything to say, be plain. Don't think I can be losing my time with such a pitiful rascal as you are.' "'Well,' says Bill, "'I want money, then, and am ready to come into terms. What have you to say to that, Nick?' "'Let me see. Let me look at you,' says his companion, turning him about.
"'Now, Bill, in the first place, are you not as finished a scarecrow as ever stood upon two legs?' "'I play second fiddle to you there again,' says Bill. "'There you stand with the blackguard's coat of arms, quartered under your eye, and—' "'Don't make little of blackguards,' said Bill. Nor speak disparagingly of your own crest. Why, what would you bring, you brazen rascal, if you were fairly put up at auction? Faith, I'd bring more bidders than you would," said Bill. If you were to go off at auction tomorrow, I tell you they should bid downwards to come to your value, Nicholas. We have no coin small enough to purchase you. Well, no matter," said Nick. If you are willing to be mine at the expiration of seven years, I will give you more money than ever the rascally breed of you was worth.
Done," said Bill. But no disparagement to my family in the meantime. So down with the hard cash, and don't be a nager. The money was accordingly paid down, but as nobody was present, except the giver and receiver, the amount of what Bill got was never known. Won't you give me a luck penny," said the old gentleman. Tut," said Billy. So prosperous an old fellow as you cannot want it. However, bad luck to you, with all my heart, and it's rubbing grease to a fat pig to say so. Be off now, or I'll commit suicide on you. Your absence is a cordial to most people, you infernal old profligate. You have injured my morals even for the short time you have been with me, for I don't find myself so virtuous as I was.
Is that your gratitude, Billy? Is it gratitude you speak of, man? I wonder you don't blush when you name it. However, when you come again, if you bring a third eye in your head, you will see what I mean, Nicholas Ahager. The old gentleman, as Bill spoke, hopped across the ditch on his way to Downing Street, where of late, tis thought, he possesses much influence. Bill now began by degrees to show off, but still wrought a little at his trade to blindfold the neighbours. In a very short time, however, he became a great man. So long, indeed, as he was a poor rascal, no decent person would speak to him. Even the proud serving men at the big house would turn up their noses at him. And he well deserved to be made little of by others, because he was mean enough to make little of himself.
But when it was seen and known that he had oceans of money, it was wonderful to think, although he was now a greater blackguard than ever, How those who despised him before began to come round him and court his company. Bill, however, had neither sense nor spirit to make those sunshiny friends know their distance. Not he. Instead of that he was proud to be seen in decent company, and so long as the money lasted, it was hail fellow well met, between himself and every fair-faced sponger who had a horse under him. A decent coat to his back, and a good appetite to eat his dinners. With riches and all, Bill was the same man still. But somehow or other, there is a great difference between a rich profligate and a poor one, and Bill found it so to his cost in both cases.
Before half the seven years was passed, Bill had his carriage, and his equipages was hand and glove, with my lord this and my lord that. Kept hounds and hunters, was the first sportsman at the Curragh, patronised every boxing ruffian he could pick up, and betted night and day on cards, dice and horses. Bill, in short, should be a blood, and except he did all this, he could not presume to mingle with the fashionable bloods of this time. It's an old proverb, however, that what is got over the devil's back is sure to go off under it, and in Bill's case this proved true. In short, the old boy himself could not supply him with money so fast as he made it fly. It was come easy, go easy, with Bill, and no sign was on it.
Before he came within two years of his time, he found his purse empty. And now came the value of his summer friends to be known, when it was discovered that the cash was no longer flush with him. That stud and carriage and hounds were going to the hammer. Whish! Off they went. Friends, relations, pot companions, dinner-eaters, black-legs and all, like a flock of crows that had smelt gunpowder. Down Bill soon went, week after week and day after day, until at last he was obliged to put on the leather apron and take to the hammer again. And not only that, for as no experience could make him wise, he once more began his taproom brawls, his quarrels with Judy, and took to his high feeding at the dry potatoes and salt.
Now, too, came the cutting tongues of all who knew him, like razors upon him. Those that he scorned because they were poor and himself rich, now paid him back his own with interest, and those that he measured himself with because they were rich, and who had countenanced him in consequence of his wealth, gave him the hardest word in their cheek. The devil meant him. He deserved it all. And more if he had got it. Bill, however, who was a hardened sinner, never fretted himself down an ounce of flesh by what was said to him or of him. Not he. He cursed and fought and swore, and schemed away as usual, taking in every one he could, and surely none could match him at villainy of all sorts and sizes.
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36 35 - The Three Wishes Part 2 29:35
Edited and selected by W.B. Yeats. Section 35. The Three Wishes, Part Two. At last, the seven years became expired, and Bill was one morning sitting in his forge, sober and hungry, the wife cursing him and the children squalling as before. He was thinking how he might defraud some honest neighbour out of a breakfast, to stop their mouths and his own too, when who walks in to him but old Nick to demand his bargain? "'Morrow, Bill,' says he with a sneer. "'The devil welcome you,' says Bill. But you have a fresh memory. A bargain's a bargain between two honest men any day, says Satan. When I speak of honest men, I mean yourself and me, Bill. And he put his tongue in his cheek to make game of the unfortunate rogue he had come for.
Nick, my worthy fellow, said Bill. Have bowels. You wouldn't do a shabby thing. You wouldn't disgrace your own character by putting more weight upon a falling man. "'You know what it is to get a come-down yourself, my worthy, so just keep your toe in your pump and walk off with yourself somewhere else. A cool walk will serve you better than my company, Nicholas.' "'Bill, it's no use in shirking,' said his friend. "'Your swindling tricks may enable you to cheat others, but you won't cheat me, I guess. You want nothing to make you perfect in your way but to travel.' And travel you shall under my guidance, Billy. No, no, I'm not to be swindled, my good fellow. I have rather a—a better opinion of myself, Mr.
D., than to think that you could outwit one Nicholas Cloutey, Esquire. Ahem. You may sneer, you sinner, replied Bill, but I tell you that I have outwitted men who could buy and sell you to your face. Despair you, villain. when I tell you that no attorney could stand before me. Satan's countenance got blank when he heard this. He wriggled and fidgeted about, and appeared to be not quite comfortable. In that case, then, says he, the sooner I deceive you, the better. So turn out for the Low Countries. Is it come to that in earnest, said Bill, and are you going to act the rascal at the long run? Pon honour, Bill. Have patience, then, you sinner, till I finish this horseshoe. It's the last of a set I'm finishing for one of your friend, the attorney's horses.
And here, Nick, I hate idleness. You know it's the mother of mischief. Take this sledgehammer, and give a dozen strokes or so till I get it out of hands, and then here's with you, since it must be so. He then gave the bellows a puff that blew half a peck of dust in Clubfoot's face. Whipped out the red-hot iron, and set Satan sledging away for bare life. Faith, says Bill to him, when the shoe was finished, it's a thousand pities ever the sledge should be out of your hand. The great Paragow was a child to you at sledging. You're such an able tyke. Now just exercise yourself till I bid the wife and children good-bye, and then I'm off. Out went Bill, of course, without the slightest notion of coming back.
No more than Nick had that he could not give up the sledging, and indeed neither could he, but was forced to work away as if he was sledging for a wager. This was just what Bill wanted. He was now compelled to sledge on until it was Bill's pleasure to release him, and so we leave him very industriously employed while we look after the worthy who outwitted him. In the meantime, Bill broke cover and took to the country at large, wrought a little journey-work wherever he could get it, and in this way went from one place to another, till, in the course of a month, he walked back, very coolly, into his own forge, to see how things went on in his absence. There he found Satan in a rage, the perspiration pouring from him in torrents, hammering with might and main upon the naked anvil.
Bill calmly leaned his back against the wall, placed his hat upon the side of his head, put his hands into his breeches' pockets, and began to whistle Sean Gow's hornpipe. At length, he says, in a very quiet and good-humoured way. "'Morrow, Nick.' "'Oh,' says Nick, still hammering away, "'oh, you double-distilled villain! Ha-cough! May the most refined ornamental ha-cough!' Double-rectified, super-extra and original. Heck. Collection of curses that ever was gathered. Heck. Into a single nose-gate of ill-fortune. Heck. Shining a buttonhole of your conscience. Heck. While your name is Bill Dawson, I denounce you. Heck. As a double-milled villain. A finished, hot-pressed knave. Heck. In comparison of whom all the other knaves I ever knew.
Heck. Attorneys included are honest men. I brand you, heck, as the pearl of cheats, a tip-top taking, heck. I denounce you, I say again, for the villainous treatment, heck. I have received at your hands in this most untoward, heck, and unfortunate transaction between us, for, heck, unfortunate in every sense is he that has anything to do with, heck. Such a prime and finished imposter. "'You're very warm, Nicky,' says Bill. "'What puts you into a passion, you old sinner?' "'Sure if it's your own will and pleasure to take exercise at my anvil. "'I'm not to be abused for it.' "'Upon my credit, Nicky, you ought to blush for using such blackguard language, "'so unbecoming your grave character. "'You cannot say that it was I set you a-hammering at the empty anvil, you profligate.
"'However,' As you are so industrious, I simply say it would be a thousand pities to take you from it, Nick. I love industry in my heart, and I always encourage it. So work away. It's not often you spend your time so creditably. I'm afraid if you weren't at that, you'd be worse employed. Bill, have bowels, said the operative. You wouldn't go to lay more weight on a falling man, you know. You wouldn't disgrace your character by such a piece of iniquity as keeping an inoffensive gentleman, advanced in years, at such an unbecoming and rascally job as this. Generosity's your top virtue, Bill. Not but that you have many other excellent ones, as well as that, among which, as you say yourself, I reckon industry.
But still, it is in generosity you shine. "'Come, Bill. Honour Brighton, release me. Name the terms you profligate.' "'You're above terms, William. A generous fellow like you never thinks of terms.' "'Good-bye, old gentleman,' said Bill, very coolly. "'I'll drop in to see you once a month.' "'No, no, Bill, you infern—ah—you excellent, worthy, delightful fellow. Not so fast, not so fast. Come, name your terms, you—slant—' My dear Bill, name your terms. Seven years more. I agree, but... And the same supply of cash as before, down on the nail here. Very good, very good. You're rather simple, Bill. Rather soft, I must confess. Well, no matter. I shall yet turn the tab. You are exceedingly simple fellow, Bill.
Still, there will come a day, my dear Bill. There will come... Do you grumble, you vagrant? Another word, and I double the terms. Mum, William, Mum. Tastes Latin for a candle. Seven years more of grace and the same measure of the needful that I got before. Aye or no? Of grace, Bill. Aye, aye, aye. There's the cash. I accept the terms. Oh, blood. The rascal of grace. Bill. Well, now, drop the hammer and vanish, says Billy. But what would you think to take this sledge while you stay and give me a... Eh? Why in such a hurry? He added, seeing the Satan withdrew in double-quick time. "'Hollow, Nicholas,' he shouted. "'Come back. You forgot something.' And when the old gentleman looked behind him, Billy shook the hammer at him, on which he vanished altogether.
Billy now got into his old courses, and what shows the kind of people the world is made of, he also took up with his old company. When they saw that he had the money once more, and was sewing it about him in all directions, they immediately began to find excuses for his former extravagance. "'Say what you will,' said One. "'Bill Dawson's a spirited fellow, and bleeds like a prince. He's a hospitable man in his own house, or out of it, as ever lived,' said another. "'His only fault is,' observed a third, "'that he is, if anything, too generous, and doesn't know the value of money.' His fault's on the right side, however. "'He has the spunk in him,' said a fourth. "'Keeps a capital table, prime wines, and a standing welcome for his friends.' "'Why,' said a fifth.
"'If he doesn't enjoy his money while he lives, he won't when he's dead, so more power to him and a wider throat to his purse.' Indeed, the very persons who were cramming themselves at his expense despised him at heart. They knew very well, however, how to take him on the weak side. Praise his generosity, and he would do anything. Call him a man of spirit, and you might fleece him to his face. Sometimes he would toss a purse of guineas to this knave, another to the flatterer, a third to a bully, and a fourth to some broken-down rake, and all to convince them that he was a sterling friend, a man of mettle and liberality, But never was he known to help a virtuous and struggling family, to assist the widow or the fatherless, or to do any other act that was truly useful.
It is to be supposed the reason of this was that as he spent it, as most of the world do, in the service of the devil, by whose aid he got it, he was prevented from turning it to a good account. Between you and me, dear reader, There are more persons acting after Bill's fashion in the same world than you dream about. When his money was out again, his friends played him the same rascally game once more. No sooner did his poverty become plain than the knaves began to be troubled with small fits of modesty, such as an unwillingness to come to his place when there was no longer anything to be got there. A kind of virgin bashfulness prevented them from speaking to him. When they saw him getting out on the wrong side of his clothes, many of them would turn away from him in the prettiest and most delicate manner when they thought he wanted to borrow money from them, all for fear of putting him to the blush by asking it.
Others again, when they saw him coming towards their houses about dinner hour, would become so confused from mere gratitude as to think themselves in another place and their servants, seized as it were with the same feeling, would tell Bill that their masters were not at home. At length, after travelling the same villainous round as before, Bill was compelled to betake himself as the last remedy to the forge. In other words, he found that there is, after all, nothing in this world that a man can rely on so firmly and surely as his own industry. Bill, however, wanted the organ of common sense. For his experience, and it was sharp enough to leave an impression, ran off him like water off a duck.
He took to his employment sorely against his grain, but he had now no choice. He must either work or starve, and starvation is like a great doctor. Nobody tries it till every other remedy fails them. Bill had been twice rich, twice a gentleman among blaggards, but always a blaggard among gentlemen. For no wealth or acquaintance with decent society could rub the rust of his native vulgarity off him. He was now a common blinking sot in his forge, a drunken bully in the taproom, cursing and brow-beating everyone as well as his wife, boasting of how much money he had spent in his day, swaggering about the high doings he carried on, telling stories about himself, and lord this at the currer, the dinners he gave.
how much they cost him, and attempting to extort credit upon the strength of his former wealth. He was too ignorant, however, to know that he was publishing his own disgrace, and that it was a mean-spirited thing to be proud of what ought to make him blush through a deal-board nine inches thick. He was one morning industriously engaged in a quarrel with his wife, who, with a three-legged stool in her hand, appeared to mistake his head for his own anvil. He, in the meantime, paid his addresses to her with his leather apron, when who steps in to jog his memory about the little agreement that was between them, but old Nick. The wife, it seems, in spite of all her exertions to the contrary, was getting the worst of it, and Sir Nicholas, willing to appear a gentleman of great gallantry, thought he could not do less than take up the ladies' quarrel.
Particularly as Bill had laid her in a sleeping posture. Now Satan thought this too bad, and as he felt himself under many obligations to the sex, he determined to defend one of them on the present occasion. So as Judy rose, he turned upon the husband and floored him by a clever facer. "'You unmanly villain,' said he. "'Is this the way you treat your wife?' "'Pon honour, Bill, I'll chastise you on the spot.'" I could not stand by a spectator of such ungentlemanly conduct without giving up all claim to gallant. Whack! The word was divided in his mouth by the blow of a churn staff from Judy, who no sooner saw Bill struck than she nailed Satan, who fell once more. "'What, you villain? That's for striking my husband like a murderer behind his back,' said Judy, and she suited the action to the word.
That's for interfering between man and wife. Would you murder the poor man before my face, eh? If he baits me, you shabby dog, you. Who has a better right? I'm sure it's nothing out of your pocket. Must you have your finger in every pie? This was anything but idle talk, for at every word she gave him a remembrance hot and heavy. Nicholas backed, danced, and hopped. She advanced, still drubbing him with great perseverance. Till at length he fell into the redoubtable armchair, which stood exactly behind him. Bill, who had been putting in two blows for Judy's one, seeing that his enemy was safe, now got between the devil and his wife. A situation that few will be disposed to envy him. "'Tenderness, Judy,' said the husband.
"'I hate cruelty. "'Go put the tongs in the fire and make them red-hot.' "'Nicholas, you have a nose,' said he." Satan began to rise, but was rather surprised to find that he could not budge. "'Nicholas,' says Bill, "'how is your pulse?' "'You don't look well. That is to say, you look worse than usual.' The other attempted to rise, but found it a mistake. "'I'll thank you to come along,' said Bill. "'I have a fancy to travel under your guidance. And we'll take the Low Countries in our way, won't we?' Get to your legs, you sinner. You know a bargain's a bargain between two honest men, Nicholas. Meaning yourself and me. Judy, are the tongs hot? Satan's face was worth looking at, as he turned his eyes from the husband to the wife, and then fastened them on the tongs, now nearly at a furnace heat in the fire, conscious at the same time that he could not move out of the chair.
Billy, said he, You won't forget that I rewarded your generosity the last time I saw you, in the way of business. Faith, Nicholas. It fails me to remember any generosity I ever showed you. Don't be womanish. I simply want to see what kind of stuff your nose is made of, and whether it will stretch like a rogue's conscience. If it does, we will flatter it up the chimney with red-hot tongs, and when this old hat is fixed on top of it, Let us alone for a weathercock. Have a fellow feeling, Mr. Dawson. You know we ought not to dispute. Drop the matter and I give you the next seven years." We know all that, says Billy, opening the red-hot tongs very coolly. Mr. Dawson, said Satan, if you cannot remember my friendship to yourself, don't forget how often I stood your father's friend, your grandfather's friend, and the friend of all your relations up to the tenth generation.
I intended also to stand by your children after you, so long as the name of Dawson, and a respectable one it is, might last. Don't be blushing, Nick," says Bill. You are too modest. That was ever your failing. Hold up your head. There's money bid for you. I'll give you such a nose, my good friend, that you will have to keep an outrider before you to carry the end of it on his shoulder. Mr. Dawson, I pledge my honour to raise your children in the world as high as they can go, no matter whether they desire it or not. That's very kind of you," says the other, and I'll do as much for your nose. He gripped it as he spoke, and the old boy immediately sung out. Bill pulled, and the nose went with him like a piece of warm wax.
He then transferred the tongs to Judy, got a ladder, resumed the tongs, ascended the chimney, and tugged stoutly at the nose until he got it five feet above the roof. He then fixed the hat upon the top of it and came down. "'There's a weathercock,' said Billy. "'I defy Ireland to show such a beauty. Faith, Nick. It would make the prettiest steeple for a church in all Europe, and the old hat fits it to a shaving.' In this state, with his nose twisted up the chimney, Satan sat for some time, Experiencing the novelty of what might be termed a peculiar sensation, at last the worthy husband and wife began to relent. I think, said Bill, that we have made the most of the nose as well as the joke. I believe, Judy, it's long enough.
What is? says Judy. Why, the joke, said the husband. Faith, and I think so, is the nose, said Judy. What do you say yourself, Satan? said Bill. Nothing at all, William, said the other. But that, ha-ha, it's a good joke, an excellent joke, and a goodly nose, too, as it stands. You were always a gentlemanly man, Bill, and did things with a grace. Still, if I might give an opinion on such a trifle. It's no trifle at all, says Bill, if you speak of the nose. Very well it is not, says the other. Still, I am decidedly of opinion that if you could shorten both the joke and the nose without further violence. You would lay me under very heavy obligations, which I shall be ready to acknowledge and repay as I ought.
Come," said Bill, shell out once more and be off for seven years, as much as you came down with the last time, and vanish. The words were scarcely spoken, when the money was at his feet, and Satan invisible. Nothing could surpass the mirth of Bill and his wife at the result of this adventure. They laughed till they fell down on the floor. It is useless to go over the same ground again. Bill was still incorrigible. The money went as the devil's money always goes. Bill caroused and squandered, but could never turn a penny of it to a good purpose. In this way, year after year went, till the seventh was closed and Bill's hour came. He was now, and had been for some time past, as miserable a knave as ever.
Not a shilling had he, nor a shilling's worth. With the exception of his forge, his cabin, and a few articles of crazy furniture. In this state he was standing in his forge as before, straining his ingenuity how to make out a breakfast, when Satan came to look after him. The old gentleman was sorely puzzled how to get at him. He kept skulking and sneaking about the forge for some time, till he saw that Bill hadn't a cross to bless himself with. He immediately changed himself into a guinea. and lay in an open place where he knew Bill would see him. If, said he, I once get into his possession, I can manage him. The honest smith took the bait, for it was well gilded. He clutched the guinea, put it into his purse, and closed it up.
Ho, ho! shouted the devil out of the purse. You're caught, Bill. I've secured you at last, you knave you. Why don't you despair you, villain, when you think of what's before you? "'Why, you unlucky old dog,' said Bill. "'Is it there you are? Will you always drive your head into every loophole that's set for you?' "'Faith, Nicocora, I never had you bag till now.' Satan then began to tug and struggle with a view of getting out of the purse, but in vain. Mr. Dawson,' said he, "'we understand each other. I'll give the seven years additional and the cash on the nail. Be easy, Nicholas.' You know the weight of the hammer, that's enough. It's not a whipping with feathers you're going to get anyhow. Just be easy, Mr.
Dawson. I grant I'm not your match. Release me, and I double the cash. I was merely trying your temper when I took the shape of a guinea. Faith, and I'll try yours before I leave it. I've an ocean." He immediately commenced with the sledge, and Satan sang out with a considerable want of firmness. Am I heavy enough? said Bill. Lighter, lighter, william, if you love me. I haven't been well latterly, Mr. Dawson. I have been delicate. My health, in short, is in a very precarious state, Mr. Dawson. I can believe that," said Bill. And it will be more so before I have done with you. Am I doing it right, Bill? said Nick. Is this gentlemanly treatment in your own respectable shop? Do you think if you dropped into my little place, "'That I'd act this rascally part towards you.
Have you no compunction?' "'I know,' replied Bill, sledging away with vehemence, "'that you're notorious for giving your friends a warm welcome. "'Divol and old youth more so, but you must be dealing in bad coying, must you? "'However good or bad, you're in for a sweat now, you sinner. "'Am I doing it purty? "'Lovely, William, but if possible a little more delicate. "'Oh, how delicate you are!' Maybe a cup of tea will serve you, or a little small gruel to compose your stomach. Mr. Dawson, said the gentleman in the purse, hold your hand and let us understand one another. I have a proposal to make. Hear the sinner anyhow, said the wife. Name your own sum, said Satan, only set me free. No, the sorrow may take the toe you'll budge till you let Bill off, said the wife.
Hold him hard, Bill. Barring he sets you clear of your engagement. There it is, my posy, said Bill. That's the condition. If you don't give me up, here's at you once more, and you must double the cash you gave the last time too. So if you're of that opinion, say aye. Leave the cash and be off. The money again appeared in a glittering heap before Bill, upon which he exclaimed, The aye has it, you dog. Take to your pumps now, and fair weather after you, you vagrant. But Nicholas, Nick, hear, hear. The other looked back and saw Bill, with a broad grin upon him, shaking the purse at him. Nicholas, come back, said he. I'm short a guinea. Nick shook his fist and disappeared. It would be useless to stop now, merely to inform our readers that Bill was beyond improvement.
In short, he once more took to his old habits, and lived on exactly in the same manner as before. He had two sons, one as great a blackguard as himself, and who was also named after him. The other was a well-conducted, virtuous young man called James, who left his father, and having relied upon his own industry and honest perseverance in life, arrived afterwards to great wealth, and built the town called Castle Dawson, which is so called from its founder until this day. Bill, at length, in spite of all his wealth, was obliged, as he himself said, to travel. In other words, he fell asleep one day and forgot to awaken, or in still plainer terms, he died. Now, it is usual when a man dies to close the history of his life and adventures at once, but with our hero, this cannot be the case.
The moment Bill departed, He very naturally bent his steps towards the residence of St. Morroquy, as being, in his opinion, likely to lead him towards the snuggest berth he could readily make out. On arriving, he gave a very humble kind of a knock, and St. Morroquy appeared. "'God save your reverence,' said Bill, very submissively. "'Be off. There's no admittance here for so poor a youth as you are,' said St. Morroquy. He was now so cold and fatigued. that he cared little where he went, provided only, as he said himself, he could rest his bones and get an air of the fire. Accordingly, after arriving at a large black gate, he knocked as before, and was told he would get instant admittance the moment he gave his name.
Billy Dawson, he replied. Off instantly, said the porter to his companions, and let His Majesty know that the rascal he dreads so much is here at the gate. Such a racket and tumult were never heard as the very mention of Billy Dawson created. In the meantime his old acquaintance came running towards the gate, with such haste and consternation that his tail was several times nearly tripping up his heels. "'Don't admit that, rascal,' he shouted. "'Bar the gate, make every chain and lock and bolt fast. I won't be safe, and I won't stay here, nor none of us need stay here if he gets in.' My bones are sore yet after him. No, no. Be gone, you villain. You'll get no entrance here. I know you too well."
Bill could not help giving a broad, malicious grin at Satan, and putting his nose through the bars, he exclaimed, Ha! you old dog! I have you afraid of me at last, have I? He had scarcely uttered the words when his foe, who stood inside, instantly tweaked him by the nose. And Bill felt as if he had been gripped by the same red-hot tongs with which he himself had formerly tweaked the nose of Nicholas. Bill then departed, but soon found that in consequence of the inflammable materials which strong drink had thrown into his nose, that organ immediately took fire, and indeed, to tell the truth, kept burning night and day, winter and summer, without ever once going out from that hour to this. Such was the sad fate of Billy Dawson, who has been walking without stop or stay from place to place ever since, and in consequence of the flame on his nose, and his beard being tangled like a wisp of hay, he has been christened by the country folk, Willow the Wisp, while, as it were, to show the mischief of his disposition, the circulating knave, knowing that he must seek the coldest bogs and quagmires in order to cool his nose, seizes upon that opportunity of misleading the unthinking and tipsy night-travellers from their way, just that he may have the satisfaction of still taking in as many as possible.
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37 36 - Giants - The Giant's Stairs 14:58
Jones. kylebjonesvo.com Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry Edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. Section 36. Giants. When the pagan gods of Ireland, the Tuath de Danyan, robbed of worship and offerings grew smaller and smaller in the popular imagination until they turned into the fairies. The pagan heroes grew bigger and bigger until they turned into giants.
The Giant's Stairs. T. Crofton Croker. On the road between Passage and Cork, there is an old mansion called Ronan's Court. It may be easily known from the stack of chimneys and the gable-ends which are to be seen. Look at it which way you will. Here it was that Maurice Ronan... His wife, Margaret Gould, kept house, and may be learned to this day from the great old chimney-piece on which is carved their arms. They were a mighty worthy couple, and had but one son, who was called Philip, after no less a person than the king of Spain. Immediately, on his smelling the cold air of this world, the child sneezed, which was naturally betaken for a good sign of his having a clear head. And the subsequent rapidity of his learning was truly amazing.
From the very day a primer was put into his hands, he tore out the A, B, C page and destroyed it, as a thing quite beneath his notice. No wonder, then, that both father and mother were proud of their heir, who gave such indisputable proof of genius, or, as they called it in that part of the world, genus.
One morning, however, Master Phil, who was then just seven years old, was missing, and no one could tell what had become of him. Servants were sent in all directions to seek him, on horseback and on foot, but they returned without any tidings of the boy, whose disappearance altogether was most unaccountable. A large reward was offered, but it produced them no intelligence, and years rolled away without Mr. and Mrs. Ron Yang. Having obtained any such fattery account of the fate of their lost child. There lived at this time near Cairngelain, one Robert Kelly, a blacksmith by trade. He was what termed a handyman, and the abilities were held in much estimation by the lads and the lasses of the neighborhood, for, independent of shoeing horses, which he did a great perfection in making plow-irons, He interpreted dreams to the young women, sung Arthur O.
Bradley at their weddings, and was such a good-natured fellow at a christening that he was gossiped half the country round. Now it happened that Robin had a dream himself, and young Philip Ronien appeared to him in it at the dead hour of the night. Robin thought he saw the boy mounted upon a beautiful white horse. Then he told him how he was made a page to the giant Mahon, Mac Mahon, who had carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of the rock. "'The seven years my time of service are clean out, Robin,' said he. "'And if you release me this night, I will be making of you forever after.' "'And how will I know,' said Robin, cunning enough even in his sleep, that this is all a dream.' Take that," said the boy, for a token.
And at the word, the white horse struck out with one of his hind legs, and gave poor Robin such a kick in the forehead that, thinking he was a dead man, he roared as loud as he could after his brains and woke up, calling a thousand murders. He found himself in bed, but he had the mark of the blow, the regular print of a horseshoe upon his forehead as red as blood, and Robin Kelly, Who never before found himself puzzled at the dream of any other person, did not know what to think of his own.
Robin was well acquainted with the giant stairs, as, indeed, who is not that knows the harbor? They consist of great masses of rock, which piled one above another, rise like a flight of steps from very deep water, against the bold cliff of Keringamahan. Nor were they badly suited for stairs to those who have legs of sufficient length to stride over a moderate-sized house, or to enable them to clear the space of a mile in a hop, step, and jump. Both these feats, the giant Macbohom was said to have performed in the days of Finian glory, and the common tradition of the country placed its dwelling within the cliff up whose side the stairs led. Such was the impression which the dream made on Robin.
That he determined to put its truth to the test. It occurred to him, however, before setting out on this adventure, that a plow iron may be no bad companion, as, from experience, he knew it was an excellent knock-down argument. Having on more occasions than one settled a disagreement very quietly so, putting one on his shoulder, off he marched in the cool of the evening through Glon-Atoque, the Hawks' Glen, to Monkstown. Here an old gossip of his, Tom Clancy by name, lived, who, on hearing Robin's dream, promised him the use of his skiff, and moreover, offered to assist in rowing it to the giant stairs. After a supper, which was of the best, they embarked. It was a beautiful, still night, and the little boat glided swiftly along.
The regular dip of the oars, the distant song of the sailor, and sometimes the voice of a bleated traveler at the ferry of Caring Golo. Lone brought the quietness of the land, and the sea and sky. The tide was in their favor, and in a few minutes, Robin and his gosset rested on their oars under the dark shadow of the giant's stairs. Robin looked anxiously for the entrance of the giant's palace. Which it was said to be found by anyone seeking it at midnight, but no such entrance could be seen. His impatience had hurried him there before that time, and after waiting a considerable space in a state of suspense not to be described, Robin, with pure vexation, could not help exclaiming to his companion, "'There's a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancy, for coming here at all on the strength of a dream.' "'And whose doing is that?' said Tom.
But your own. At the moment he spoke, they perceived a faint glimmering of light to proceed from the cliff which gradually increased until a porch, big enough for a king's palace, unfolded itself almost on a level with the water. They pulled the skiff directly towards the opening, and Robin Kelly, seizing his plow-iron boldly, entered with a strong hand and a stout heart. Wild and strange was that entrance. The whole of which appeared formed of grim and grotesque faces, blending so strangely each with the other that it was impossible to find any. The chin of one formed the nose of another. What appeared to be a fixed and stern eye, it dwelt upon, changed to a gaping mouth, and aligned the lofty forehead, grew into a majestic and flowing beard.
The more Robin allowed himself to contemplate the forms around him, The more terrific they became, and the stony expression on the crowd of faces assumed a savage ferocity, as his imagination converted feature to feature into a different shape and character, losing the twilight in which these indefinite forms were visible. He advanced through a dark and devious passage whilst a deep and rumbling noise sounded as if the rock was about to close upon him and swallow him up alive forever. Now, indeed, poor Robin felt afraid. Robin! Robin! he said. If you were a fool for coming here, what in the name of fortune are you now? But, as before, he had scarcely spoken when he saw a small light twinkling through the darkness of the distance, like a star in the midnight sky.
To retreat was out of the question, for so many turnings and windings around the passage that he considered he had but little chance of making his way back. He therefore proceeded towards the bit of light, and came at last into a spacious chamber, from the roof of which hung the solitary lamp that had guided him. Emerging for such profound gloom, the single lamp afforded Robin abundant light to discover several gigantic figures, seated round a massive stone table, as if in serious deliberation. But no word disturbed the breathless silence which prevailed. At the head of the table sat Mahon MacMahon himself, whose majestic beard had taken root, and in the course of ages grown into the stone slab.
He was the first to perceive Robin, and instantly, starting up, drew his long beard from out of the huge piece of rock in such haste and with so sudden a jerk. Then it was shattered into a thousand pieces. What seek you? He demanded in a voice of thunder. I come, answered Robin, with as much boldness as he could put on, for his heart was almost fainting with him. I come, said he, to claim Philip Ronyan, whose time of service is out this night. And who sent you here? said the giant. "'Twas my own accord that I came," said Robin. "'Then you must single him out from among my pages," said the giant. "'And if you've fixed on the wrong one, your life is forfeit. Follow me.'" He led Robin into a hall of vast extent, and filled with lights, along either side of which were rows of beautiful children, all apparently seven years old, and none beyond that age.
Dressed in green, and everyone exactly dressed alike. Here," said Mahon. You are free to take Philip Ronyad, if you will. But remember, I give you but one choice.
Roman was sadly perplexed, for there were hundreds upon hundreds of children, and he had no very clear recollection of the boy he sought. But he walked along the hall by the side of Mahon. As if nothing was the matter, although his great iron dress clanked fearfully at every step, sounding louder than Robin's own sledge battering on his anvil. They had nearly reached the end without speaking, when Robin, seeing that the only means he had was to make friends with the giant, determined to try what effect a few soft words might have. "'Tis a fine, wholesome appearance the poor children carry," remarked Robin. Although they have been here so long shut out from the fresh air and the blessed light of heaven, "'Tis tenderly your honor must have reared them."
"'Aye,' said the giant, "'that is true for you. So give me your hand, for you are, I believe, a very honest fellow for a blacksmith.'" Robin at first looked, did not much like the huge size of the hand, and therefore presented his plow-iron. Which the giant, seizing, twisted in his grap round and round again as if it had been a potato stalk.
On seeing this, all the children set up a shout of laughter. In the midst of their mirth, Robin thought he heard his name called, and all ear and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he fancied had spoken, crying out at the same time, Let me live or die, for—but this is young Phil Rornian. "'It is Philip Ronyan! Happy Philip Ronyan!' said his young companions. In an instant the hall became dark, crashing noises were heard, and all was in strange confusion. But Robin held fast his prize, and found himself lying in the grey dawn of the morning at the head of the giant stairs with the boy clasped in his arms. Robin had plenty of gossips to spread the story of his wonderful adventure. Passage, Monkstown, Keringaland, the whole barony of Keringaturi, rung with it.
"'Are you quite sure, Robin, is young Phil Ronriand you have brought back with you?' was the regular question, for although the boy had been seven years away, his appearance now was just the same as on the day he was missed. He had neither grown taller nor older in look. And he spoke of things which had happened before he was carried off, as one awakened from sleep, or as if they had occurred yesterday. "'Am I sure? Well, that's a queer question,' was Robin's reply. "'Seeing the boy as the blue eye of his mother, and the foxy hair of the father, to say nothing of the purdy ward on the right side of his nose.' However, Robin Kelly may have in question the worthy couple of Ronan's court doubted not.
That he was the liver of their child from the power of the giant Mac Mahon, and the reward they bestowed on him equaled their gratitude. Philip Ronan lived to be an old man, and he was remarkable to the day of his death for his skill in working brass and iron, which is believed he had learned during his seven years' apprenticeship to the giant Mac Mahon.
End of section number 36. Recording by Kyle B. Jones.
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38 37 - A Legend of Knockmany 25:47
H. Yeats. Section 37, A Legend of Nockminy, by William Carlton. What Irish man, woman, or child has not heard of our renowned Hibernian Hercules, the great and glorious Finn McCool? Not one from Cape Clear to the Giant's Causeway, nor from that back again to Cape Clear. And by the way, speaking of the Giant's Causeway brings me at once to the beginning of my story. Well, it so happened that Finn and his gigantic relatives were all working at the causeway in order to make a bridge. Or what was still better, a good stout pad-road across to Scotland. When Finn, who was very fond of his wife Una, took it into his head that he would go home and see how the poor woman got on in his absence. To be sure, Finn was a true Irishman, and so the sorrow thing in life brought him back, only to see that she was snug and comfortable, and above all things, that she got her rest well at night.
For he knew that the poor woman, when he was with her, used to be subject to nightly qualms and configurations that kept him very anxious, decent man, striving to keep her up to the good spirits and health that she had when they were first married. So, accordingly, he pulled up a fir tree, and after lopping off the roots and branches, made a walking stick of it, and set out on his way to Una. Una, or rather Finn, lived at this time on the very tip-top of Knockmany Hill. Now the truth is, for it must come out, that Honest Finn's affection for his wife, though cordial enough in itself, was by no manner of means the real cause of his journey home. There was at that time another giant named Cacullan.
Some say he was Irish, and some say he was Scotch. But whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubted of it but that he was a Targa. No other giant of the day could stand before him, and such was his strength that when well vexed, he could give a stamp that shook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and near, and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance with him in a fight. Whether the story is true or not, I cannot say, but the report went that by one blow of his fists he flattened a thunderbolt and kept it in his pocket in the shape of a pancake to show all his enemies when they were about to fight him. Undoubtedly, he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable beating, barring Finn McCool himself.
And he swore, by the solemn contents of Mole Kelly's primer, that he would never rest, night or day, winter or summer, till he would serve Finn with the same sauce, if he could catch him. Finn, however, who no doubt was the cock of the walk on his own dunghill, had a strong disinclination to meet a giant who could make a young earthquake, or flatten a thunderbolt when he was angry. So he accordingly kept dodging about from place to place, not much to his credit as a Trojan, to be sure. Whenever he happened to get the hard word that Cuchulain was on the scent of him. This, then, was the marrow of the whole movement, although he put it on his anxiety to see Una, and I am not saying but that there was some truth in that, too.
However, the long and short of it was, with reverence be it spoken, that he heard Cuchulain was coming to the causeway to have a trial of strength with him, and he was naturally enough, seized in consequence, with a very warm and sudden sit of affection for his wife. Poor woman, who was delicate in her health, and leading, besides, a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it, he assured them, in his absence. He accordingly pulled up the fir tree, as I said before, and having snetted it into a walking stick, set out on his affectionate travels to see his darling Una, on the top of Nockmini, by the way. In truth, to state the suspicions of the country at the time, the people wondered very much why it was that Finn selected such a windy spot for his dwelling house.
And they even went so far as to tell him as much. What can you mane, Mr. McCool? said they. By pitching your tent upon the top of Nakmini, where you never are without a breeze, day or night, winter or summer, and where you're often forced to take your nightcap without either going to bed or turning up your little finger, aye, and where, besides this, there's the sorrow's own want of water. Why? said Finn. Ever since I was the height of a round tower, I was known to be fond of having a good prospect of my own, and where the Dickens neighbours could I find a better spot for a good prospect than the top of Nockminy. As for water, I am sinking a pump, and, ples goodness, as soon as the causeway is made, I intend to finish it.
Now, this was more of Finn's philosophy, for the real state of the case was that he pitched upon the top of Nockminy in order that he might be able to see Cuchulain coming towards the house, and, of course, that he himself might go to look after his distant transactions in other parts of the country, rather than... But no matter. We do not wish to be too hard on Finn. All we have to say is that if he wanted a spot from which to keep a sharp lookout, and between ourselves he did want it grievously... Barring Sleeve Krub or Sleeve Dornard, or its own cousin, Colomore, he could not find a neater or more convenient situation for it than the sweet and sagacious province of Ulster. "'God save all here,' said Finn good-humouredly, on putting his honest face through his own door.
"'Musha, Finn, a vik and your welcome home to your own oona, you darling bully.'" Here followed a smack that is said to have made the waters of the lake at the bottom of the hill curl, as it were, with kindness and sympathy. Faith, said Finn. Beautiful! And how are you, Una? And how did you sport your figure during my absence, my Bilberry? Never a merrier, as bouncing a grass widow as ever there was in sweet Tyrone among the bushes. Finn gave a short, good-humoured cough, and laughed most heartily, to show her how much he was delighted that she made herself happy in his absence. "'And what brought you home so soon, Finn?' said she. "'Why, Voronin,' said Finn, putting his answer in the proper way.
"'Never the thing but the purest of love and affection for yourself. Sure, you know that's truth anyhow, Una.' Finn spent two or three happy days with Una, and felt himself very comfortable. Considering the dread he had of Cuchulainn. This, however, grew upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something lay on his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman alone, in the meantime, for ferreting or wheedling a secret out of her good man when she wishes. Finn was a proof of this. It's this Cuchulainn, said he, that's troubling me. When the fellow gets angry and begins to stamp, he'll shake you the whole townland. And it's well known that he can stop a thunderbolt, for he always carries one about him in the shape of a pancake to show to anyone that might misdoubt it.
As he spoke, he clapped his thumb in his mouth, which he always did when he wanted to prophesy, or to know anything that happened in his absence. And the wife, who knew what he did it for, said very sweetly, Finn, darling, I hope you don't bite your thumb at me, dear. No, said Finn. But I bite my thumb, Makushla, said he. Yes, Jule, but take care and don't draw blood, said she. Ah, Finn, don't, my bully, don't. He's coming, said Finn. I see him below Dungannon. Thank goodness, dear. And who is it, Avic? Glory be to God. That based Cucullan, replied Finn. And how to manage, I don't know. If I run away, I am disgraced, and I know that sooner or later I must meet him, for my thumb tells me so. When will he be here?
said she. Tomorrow, about two o'clock, replied Finn with a groan. Well, my bully, don't be cast down, said Una. Depend on me, and maybe I'll bring you better out of this scrape than you ever could bring yourself by your rule of thumb. This quieted Finn's heart very much, for he knew that Una was hand and glove with the fairies, and indeed, to tell the truth, she was supposed to be a fairy herself. If she was, however, she must have been a very kind-hearted one, for by all accounts she never did anything but good in the neighbourhood. Now it so happened that Una had a sister named Granoire, living opposite them, on the very top of Colomore, which I have mentioned already, and this Granoire was quite as powerful as herself.
The beautiful valley that lies between them is not more than about three or four miles broad, so that, of a summer's evening, Granois and Una were able to hold many an agreeable conversation across it from the one hilltop to the other. Upon this occasion, Una resolved to consult her sister as to what was best to be done in the difficulty that surrounded them. "'Granois,' said she, "'are you at home?' "'No,' said the other. "'I'm picking bilberries in Atheldwan.' In English, the Devil's Glen. Well, said Una, get up to the top of Cullamore, look about you, and then tell us what you see. Very well, replied Granois after a few minutes. I'm there now. What do you see? asked the other. Goodness be about us, exclaimed Granois.
I see the biggest giant that ever was known coming up from Dungannon. Aye, said Una. There's our difficulty. That giant is the great Cucullan, and now he's coming up to Leather Finn. What's to be done? I'll call to him, she replied, to come up to Cullamore and refresh himself, and maybe that will give you and Finn time to think of some plan to get yourselves out of the scrape. But, she proceeded, I'm short of butter, having in the house only half a dozen firkins, and, as I'm to have a few giants and giantesses to spend the evening with me, I'd feel thankful, Una, if you'd throw me up fifteen or sixteen tubs, or the largest miscarne you've got, and you'd oblige me very much. I'll do that with a heart and a half," replied Una.
And indeed, Granois, I feel myself under great obligations to you for your kindness in keeping him off of us till we see what can be done. For what would become of us all if anything happened to Finn, poor man? She, accordingly, got the largest miscon of butter she had, which might be about the weight of a couple of dozen millstones, so that you may easily judge of its size, and calling up to her sister, "'Granois,' said she, "'are you ready? I'm going to throw you up a miscon, so be prepared to catch it.' "'I will,' said the other. "'A good throw now, and take care it just not fall short.' Una threw it, but in consequence of her anxiety about Finn and Cucullin, she forgot to say the charm that was to send it up, so that, instead of reaching Cullimore as she expected, it fell about halfway between the two hills, at the edge of the broad bog near Orha.
My curse upon you! she exclaimed. You've disgraced me. I now change you into a grey stone. Lie there as a testimony of what has happened, and may evil betide the first living man that will ever attempt to remove or injure you. And sure enough, there it lies to this day, with the mark of the four fingers and thumb imprinted in it, exactly as it came out of her hand. Never mind," said Granwa. I must only do the best I can with Coo Cullen. If all fail, I'll give him a cast of heather broth to keep the wind out of his stomach, or a panada of oak bark to draw it in a bit. But, above all things, think of some plan to get Finn out of the scrape he's in, otherwise he's a lost man. You know you used to be sharp and ready-witted, and my own opinion, Una, is that it will go hard with you, or you'll outdo Coo Cullen yet.
She then made a high smoke on the top of the hill, after which she put her finger in her mouth and gave three whistles, and by that Cucullan knew he was invited to Cullamore, for this was the way that the Irish, long ago, gave a sign to all strangers and travellers to let them know they were welcome to come and take a share of whatever was going. In the meantime, Finn was very melancholy, and did not know what to do, or how to act at all. Cuckullen was an ugly customer, no doubt, to meet with, and, moreover, the idea of the confounded cake aforesaid flattened the very heart within him. What chance could he have, strong and brave though he was, with a man who could, when put in a passion, walk the country into earthquakes and knock thunderbolts into pancakes?
The thing was impossible, and Finn knew not on what hand to turn him. Right or left, backward or forward. Where to go he could form no guess whatsoever. "'Una,' said he, "'can you do nothing for me? Where's all your invention? Am I to be skivered like a rabbit before your eyes, and to have my name disgraced forever in the sight of all my tribe, and me the best man among them?' How am I to fight this man-mountain, this huge cross between an earthquake and a thunderbolt, with a pancake in his pocket that was once... Be easy, Finn, replied Una. Troth, I'm ashamed of you. Keep your toe in your pump, will you? Talking of pancakes, maybe we'll give him as good as any he brings with him, thunderbolt or otherwise.
If I don't treat him to as smart feeding as he's got this many a day, never trust Una again. Leave him to me, and do just as I bid you. This relieved Finn very much, for after all he had great confidence in his wife, knowing, as he did, that she had got him out of many a quandary before. The present, however, was the greatest of all, but still he began to get courage and was able to eat his vittles as usual. Una then drew the nine woollen threads of different colours, which she always did to find out the best way of succeeding in anything of importance she went about. She then plaited them into three plaits with three colours each, putting one on her right arm, one round her heart, and the third round her right ankle, for then she knew that nothing could fail with her that she undertook.
Having everything now prepared, she sent round to the neighbours and borrowed one and twenty iron griddles, which she took and kneaded into the hearts of one and twenty cakes of bread, and these she baked on the fire in the usual way, setting them aside in the cupboard according as they were done. She then put down a large pot of new milk, which she made into curds and whey, and gave Finn due instructions how to use the curds when Cuchulain should come. Having done all this, she sat down quite contented, waiting for his arrival on the next day about two o'clock, that being the hour at which he was expected, for Finn knew as much by the sucking of his thumb. Now, this was a curious property that Finn's thumb had, but, notwithstanding all the wisdom and logic he used to suck out of it, It never could have stood to him here were it not for the wit of his wife.
In this very thing, moreover, he was very much resembled by his great foe, Cullen, for it was well known that the huge strength he possessed all lay in the middle finger of his right hand, and that, if he happened by any mischance to lose it, he was no more, notwithstanding his bulk, than a common man. At length the next day he was seen coming across the valley, and Una knew that it was time to commence operations. She immediately made the cradle, and desired Finn to lie down in it, and cover himself up with the clothes. "'You must pass for your own child,' said she. "'So just lie there snug and say nothing but be guided by me.' This, to be sure, was wormwood to Finn. I mean, going into the cradle in such a cowardly manner.
But he knew Una well, and finding that he had nothing else for it, with a very rueful face he gathered himself into it and lay snug, as she had desired him. About two o'clock, as he had been expected, Cucullan came in. "'God save all here,' said he. "'Is this where the great Finn McCool lives?' "'Indeed it is, honest man,' replied Una. "'God save you kindly. Won't you be sitting?' "'Thank you, ma'am,' says he sitting down. "'You're Mrs. McCool, I suppose?' "'I am,' said she. "'And I have no reason, I hope, to be ashamed of my husband?' "'No,' said the other. He has the name of being the strongest and bravest man in Ireland, but for all that, there's a man not far from you that's very desirous of taking a shake with him.
Is he at home?" Why then, no," she replied. If ever a man left his house in a fury, he did. It appears that someone told him of a big bastoon of a giant called Coo Cullen being down at the causeway to look for him, so he set out there to try if he could catch him. Troth, I hope for the poor giant's sake he won't meet with him, for if he does, Finn will make paste of him at once. Well," said the other, I am Cucullan, and I have been seeking him these twelve months, but he always kept clear of me, and I will never rest night nor day till I lay my hands on him. At this Una set up a loud laugh of great contempt, by the way, and looked at him as if he was only a mere handful of a man. "'Did you ever see Finn?' said she, changing her manner all at once.
"'How could I?' said he. "'He always took care to keep his distance.' "'I thought so,' she replied. "'I judged as much, and if you take my advice, you poor-looking creature, you'll pray night and day that you may never see him, for I tell you it will be a black day for you when you do.' But in the meantime, you perceive that the wind's on the door, and as Finn himself is from home, maybe you'd be civil enough to turn the house, for it's always what Finn does when he's here. This was a startler, even to Cucullin. But he got up, however, and after pulling the middle finger on his right hand until it cracked three times, he went outside, and getting his arms about the house, completely turned it as she had wished.
When Finn saw this, he felt a certain description of moisture, which shall be nameless, oozing out through every pore of his skin. But Una, depending upon her woman's wit, felt not a wit daunted. "'Ah, then,' said she, "'as you are so civil, maybe you'd do another obliging turn for us, as Finn's not here to do it himself. You see, after this long stretch of dry weather we've had, we feel very badly off for want of water.' Now, Finn says there's a fine spring-well somewhere under the rocks behind the hill here below, and it was his intention to pull them asunder, but having heard of you, he left the place in such a fury that he never thought of it. Now, if you try to find it, Troth, I'd feel it a kindness.
She then brought Cucullan down to see the place, which was then all one solid rock, and after looking at it for some time, he cracked his right middle finger nine times, and stooping down, Tore a cleft about four hundred feet deep and a quarter of a mile in length, which has since been christened by the name of Lumford's Glen. This feat nearly threw Una off her guard, but what won't a woman's sagacity and presence of mind accomplish? "'You'll now come in,' said she, "'and eat a bit of such humble fare as we can give you. Finn, even though he and you are enemies, would scorn not to treat you kindly in his own house, and, indeed, if I didn't do it even in his absence, he would not be pleased with me.'" She accordingly brought him in, and placing half a dozen of the cakes we spoke of before him, together with a can or two of butter, a side of boiled bacon and a stack of cabbage, she desired him to help himself, for this, be it known, was long before the invention of potatoes.
Cucullan, who, by the way, was a glutton as well as a hero, put one of the cakes in his mouth to take a huge whack out of it, when both Finn and Una were stunned with a noise that resembled something between a growl and a yell. "'Blood and fury,' he shouted. "'How is this? Here are two of my teeth out. What kind of bread is this you gave me?' "'What's the matter?' said Una coolly. "'Matter!' shouted the other again. "'Why, here are the two best teeth in my head, gone!' "'Why,' said she, "'that's Finn's bread, the only bread he ever eats when at home, but—' Indeed, I forgot to tell you that nobody can eat it but himself, and that child in the cradle there. I thought, however, that, as you are reported to be a rather stout little fellow of your size, you might be able to manage it, and I did not wish to affront a man that thinks himself able to fight Finn.
Here's another cake. Maybe it's not so hard as that. Cucullin at the moment was not only hungry but ravenous, so he accordingly made a fresh set at the second cake. And immediately another yell was heard. He was twice as loud as the first. Thunder and giblets, he roared. Take your bread out of this, or I will not have a tooth in my head. There's another pair of them gone. Well, honest man, replied Una, if you are not able to eat the bread, say so quietly, and don't be wakening the child in the cradle there. There now, he's awake upon me. Finn now gave a skull that startled the giant as coming from such a youngster as he was represented to be. "'Mother,' said he. "'I'm hungry. Get me something to eat.' Una went over, and putting into his hand a cake that had no griddle in it, Finn, whose appetite in the meantime was sharpened by what he saw going forward, soon made it disappear.
Coochallan was thunderstruck, and secretly thanked his stars that he had the good fortune to miss meeting Finn, for, as he said to himself, I'd have no chance with a man who could eat such bread as that, when even his son that's but in his cradle can munch before my eyes. I'd like to take a glimpse at the lad in the cradle, said he to Una, for I can tell you that the infant who can manage that nutriment is no joke to look at, or to feed of a scarce summer, with all the veins of my heart. replied Una. Get up, Akushla, and show this decent little man something that won't be unworthy of your father, Finn McCool. Finn, who was dressed for the occasion as much like a boy as possible, got up, and bringing Kukulan out, "'Are you strong?' said he.
"'Thunder and zounds!' exclaimed the other. "'What a voice in so small a chap!' "'Are you strong?' said Finn again. "'Are you able to squeeze water out of that white stone?' He asked, putting one into Cacullin's hand. The latter squeezed and squeezed the stone, but to no purpose. He might pull the rocks of Lumford's Glen asunder and flatten a thunderbolt, but to squeeze water out of a white stone was beyond his strength. Finn eyed him with great contempt, as he kept straining and squeezing and squeezing and straining till he got black in the face with his efforts. Oh, you're a poor creature. Said Finn. You, a giant! Give me the stone here, and when I show what Finn's little son can do, you may then judge of what my Daddy himself is.
Finn then took the stone, and, slyly exchanging it for the curds, he squeezed the latter until the whey, as clear as water, oozed out in a little shower from his hand. I'll now go in, said he, to my cradle, for I scorn to lose my time with anyone that's not able to eat my Daddy's bread or squeeze water out of a stone. "'Bedad, you'd better be off out of this before he comes back, for if he catches you, it's in flummery he'd have you in two minutes.' Cuckullen, seeing what he had seen, was of the same opinion himself. His knees knocked together with the terror of Finn's return, and he accordingly hastened in to bid Una farewell, and to assure her that from that day out he never wished to hear of, much less to see, her husband.
"'I admit fairly that I'm not a match for him,' said he. Strong as I am, tell him I will avoid him as I would the plague, and that I will make myself scarce in this part of the country while I live. Finn, in the meantime, had gone into the cradle where he lay very quietly, his heart in his mouth with delight, that Cucullan was about to take his departure, without discovering the tricks that had been played off on him. It's well for you, said Una, that he doesn't happen to be here, for it's nothing but hawksmeat he'd make of you. I know that, says Cucullan. "'Divile a thing else he'd make of me. But before I go, will you let me feel what kind of teeth they are that can eat griddle bread like that?' And he pointed to it as he spoke.
"'With all pleasure in life,' said she, "'only, as they're far back in his head, you must put your longest finger a good way in.' Cuckullen was surprised to find such a powerful set of grinders in one so young. But he was still much more so on finding, when he took his hand from Finn's mouth, that he had left the very finger upon which his whole strength depended behind him. He gave one loud groan, and fell down at once with terror and weakness. This was all Finn wanted, who now knew that his most powerful and bitterest enemy was completely at his mercy. He instantly started out of the cradle, and in a few minutes the great Cucullan, that was for such a length of time the terror of him and all his followers, lay a corpse before him.
Thus did Finn, through the wit and invention of Una, his wife, succeed in overcoming his enemy by stratagem, which he could never have done by force. And thus also is it proved that the women, if they bring us into many an unpleasant scrape, can sometimes succeed in getting us out of others that are as bad.
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39 38 - Kings, Queens, Princesses, Earls, Robbers - The Twelve Wild Geese 10:38
Edited and selected by W.B. Yeats, Section 38. There was once a king and queen that lived very happily together, and they had twelve sons and not a single daughter. We are always wishing for what we haven't, and don't care for what we have. And so it was with the queen. One day, in winter, when the bond was covered with snow, she was looking out the parlor window, and saw there a calf that was just killed by the butcher, and a raven standing near it. Oh, says she, if only I had a daughter with her skin as white as that snow, her cheeks as red as that blood, and her hair as black as that raven, I'd give every one of my twelve sons for her. The moment she said the word, she got a great fright. And a shiver went through her, and in an instant after, a severe-looking old woman stood before her.
That was a wicked wish you made, said she, and to punish you it will be granted. You will have such a daughter as you desire, but the very day of her birth you will lose your other children. She vanished the moment she said the words. In that very way it turned out. When she expected her delivery, she had her children all in a large room of the palace, with guards all around it. But the very hour her daughter came into the world, The guards inside and outside heard a great whirling and whistling, and the twelve princes were seen flying one after the other through the open window, and away like so many arrows over the woods. Well, the king was in great grief for the loss of his sons, and he would be very enraged with his wife if only he knew that she was so much to blame for it.
Everyone called the little princess Snow White and Rose Red on account of her beautiful complexion. She was the most loving and lovable child that could be seen anywhere. When she was twelve years old, she began to be very sad and lonely, and to torment her mother, asking her about her brothers that she thought were dead, for none up to that time had told her the exact thing that happened to them. The secret was weighing very heavy on the queen's conscience, and as the little girl persevered in her questions, at last she told her, "'Well, mother,' said she, "'it was on my account my poor brothers were changed into wild geese, and are now suffering all sorts of hardships. Before the world is a day older, I'll be off to seek them.'" The king and queen had her well watched, but all was no use.
Next night, she was getting through the woods that surrounded the palace, and she went on and on that night till the evening of the next day. She had a few cakes with her, and she got nuts and muggerines, fruit of the sweetbriar, and some sweet crabs as she went along. At last she came to a nice wooden house just at sunset. There was a fine garden round it, full of the handsomest flowers and a gate in the hedge. She went in, and saw a table laid out with twelve plates, and twelve knives and forks, and twelve spoons, and there were cakes, and cold wild fowl, and fruit along with plates, and there was a good fire, and in another long room there were twelve beds. Well, while she was looking about her, she heard the gate opening, and footsteps along the walk, and in came twelve young men, and there was great grief and surprise on all their faces when they laid eyes on her.
Oh, what misfortune sent you here, said the eldest. For the sake of a girl, we were obligated to leave our father's court and be in the shape of wild geese all day. That's twelve years ago, and we took a solemn oath that we would kill the first young girl that came into our hands. It's a pity to put such an innocent and handsome girl as you out of the world, but we must keep our oath. But, said she, I'm your only sister that never knew anything about this till yesterday, and I stole away from our father's and mother's palace last night to find you out and relieve you if I can. Every one of them clasped his hands. And looked down on the floor, and you could hear a pin fall till the eldest cried out.
A curse light on our oaths. What shall we do? I'll tell you what, said an old woman that appeared at the instant among them. Break your wicked oath, which no one should keep. If you attempted to lay an uncivil finger on her, I'd change you into twelve bouleons bouas, stalks of ragweed. But I wish well to you, as well as to her. She is appointed to be your deliverer in this way. She must spin and knit twelve shirts for you out of Bogdown, to be gathered by her own hands on the moor, just outside of the wood. It will take her five years to do it, and if she speaks, or laughs, or cries the whole time, you will have to remain wild geese by day till you are called out of this world. So take care of your sister.
It is worth your while. The fairy then vanished, and it was only a strife with the brothers to see who would be first to kiss and hug their sister. So for three long years, the poor young princess was occupied pulling bog down, spinning it, and knitting it into shirts. And at the end of the three years, she had eight made. During all that time, she never spoke a word, nor laughed, nor cried. The last was the hardest to refrain from. One fine day, she was sitting in the garden spinning. When in sprung a fine greyhound and bounded up to her and laid its paws on her shoulder and licked her forehead and her hair. The next minute, a beautiful young prince rode up to the little garden gate. She took off his hat and asked for leave to come in.
She gave him a little nod, and then he walked. He made ever so many apologies for intruding, and asked her ever so many questions, but not a word he could get out of her. He loved her so much from the first moment that he could not leave her till he told her that he was the king of a country just bordering on the forest, and he begged her to come home with him and be his wife. She couldn't help loving him as much as he did her, and though she shook her head very often and was very sorry to leave her brothers, At last she nodded her head and put her hand in his. She knew well enough that the good fairy and her brothers would be able to find her out. Before she went, she brought out a basket holding all her bog down and another holding the eight shirts.
The attendants took charge of these, and the prince placed her before him on his horse. The only thing that disturbed him while riding along was the displeasure his stepmother would feel at what he had done. However, he was the full master at home, and as soon as he arrived he sent for the bishop, got his bride nicely dressed, And the marriage was celebrated, the bride answering by signs. He knew by her manner she was of high birth, and no two could be fonder of each other. The wicked stepmother did all she could to make mischief, saying she was sure that she was only a woodsman's daughter, but nothing could disturb the young king's opinion of his wife. In good time, the young queen was delivered of a beautiful boy, and the king was so glad he hardly knew what to do for joy.
All the grandeur of the christening and the happiness of the parents tormented the bad woman more than I can tell you. She got a sleeping cassette given to the young mother, and while she was thinking and thinking how she could best make away with the child, she saw a wicked-looking wolf in the garden, looking up at her and licking his chops. She lost no time, but snatched the child from the arms of the sleeping woman and pitched it out. The beast caught it in his mouth and was over the garden fence in a minute. The wicked woman then pricked her own fingers and dabbled the blood round the mouth of the sleeping mother. While the young king was just then coming into the big barn from hunting, and as soon as he entered the house, she beckoned to him, shed a few crocodile tears, began to cry and wring her hands, and hurried him along the passage to the bedchamber.
Oh, wasn't the poor king frightened when he saw the queen's mouth bloody and missed his child? It would take two hours to tell you the devilment of the old queen, the confusion and fright, and the grief of the young king and queen. The bad opinion he began to feel for his wife, and the struggle she had to keep down her bitter sorrow, and not give way to it by speaking or lamenting. The young king would not allow anyone to be called, and ordered his stepmother to give out that the child fell from the mother's arms at the window, and that a wild beast ran off with it. The wicked woman pretended to do so, but she told underhand to everyone she spoke to what the king and herself saw in the bedchamber.
The young queen was the most unhappy woman in the Three Kingdoms for a long time. Between sorrow for her child and her husband's bad opinion, still she neither spoke nor cried, and she gathered bog down and went on with the shirts. Often the twelve wild geese would be seen lighting on the trees in the park, or on the smooth sod, and looking in at her windows. So she worked on to get the shirts finished, but another year was at the end, and she had the twelfth shirt finished except one arm, when she was obliged to take to her bed, and a beautiful girl was born. Now the king was on his guard. And he would not let the mother and child be left alone for a minute. But the wicked woman bribed some of the attendants, set others to sleep, gave the sleepy posset to the queen, and had a person watching to snatch the child away and kill it.
But what would she see but the same wolf in the garden looking up and licking its chops again? Out went the child, and away flew the wolf. And she smeared the sleeping mother's mouth and face with blood, and then roared and bawled and cried out to the king and to everyone she met. The poor mother thought now her life would leave her. She was in such a state, she could neither think nor pray, but she sat like a stone and worked away at the arm of the twelfth's shirt. The king was for taking her to the house in the wood where he found her, but the stepmother and the lords of the court and the judges would not hear of it, and she was condemned to be burned in the big bawn at three o'clock the same day.
When the hour drew near, the king went to the farthest part of his castle. And there was no more unhappy man in his kingdom at that hour. When the executioners came and led her off, she took the pile of shirts in her arms. There were still a few stitches wanted, and while they were tying her to the stakes, she still worked on. At the last stitch, she seemed overcome and dropped a tear on her work. But the moment after, she sprang up and shouted, I am innocent! Call my husband! The executioners stayed their hand, except one wicked disposed creature. Who set fire to the faggot next to him, and while all were struck in a maze, there was a rushing of wings, and in a moment twelve wild geese were standing around the pile.
Before you could count to twelve, she flung a shirt over each bird, and there in the twinkling of an eye were twelve of the faggot. While some were untying their sister, the eldest, taking a strong stake in his hand, struck the busy executioner such a blow that he never needed another. While they were comforting the queen, and the king was hurrying to the spot. A fine-looking woman appeared among them, holding the babe on one arm and the little prince by the hand. There was nothing but crying for joy, and laughing for joy, and hugging and kissing. And when anyone had time to thank the good fairy, who in the shape of a wolf carried the child away, she was not to be found. Never was such happiness enjoyed in any palace that ever was built.
And if the wicked queen and her helpers were not torn by wild horses, they richly deserved it. End of Section 38. Recorded by Brian Naylor.
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40 39 - The Lazy Beauty and Her Aunts 12:30
Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. Section 39. The Lazy Beauty and Her Aunts. Patrick Kennedy's Fireside Stories of Ireland.
There was once a poor widow woman who had a daughter that was as handsome as the day, and as lazy as a pig, saving your presence. The poor mother was the most industrious person in the townland, and was a particularly good hand at the spinning wheel. It was the wish of her heart that her daughter should be as handy as herself, but she'd get up late, eat her breakfast before she'd finish her prayers, and then go about dawdling, and anything she handled seemed to be burning her fingers. She drawled her words as if it was a great trouble to her to speak, or as if her tongue was as lazy as her body. Many a heart scowled her poor mother got with her, and still she was only improving like dead fowl in August.
Well, one morning the things were as bad as they could be, and the poor woman was giving tongue at the rate of a mill-clapper. Who should be riding by but the king's son? Oh dear, oh dear, good woman, said he, you must have a very bad child to make you scold so terribly. Sure, it can't be this handsome girl that vexed you. Oh, please, Your Majesty, not at all, says the old dissembler. I was only checking her for working herself too much. Would Your Majesty believe it? She spins three pounds of flax in a day, weaves it into linen the next, and makes it all into shirts the day after. My gracious, says the Prince, she's the very lady that will just fill my mother's eye, and herself's the greatest spinner in the kingdom.
Will you put on your daughter's bonnet and cloak, if you please, ma'am, and set her behind me? Why, my mother will be so delighted with her that perhaps she'll make her her daughter-in-law in a week. That is, if the young woman herself is agreeable. Well. Between the confusion and the joy and the fear of being found out, the women didn't know what to do, and before they could make up their minds, young Auntie, Anastasia, was set behind the prince, and away he and his attendants went, and a good heavy purse was left behind with the mother. She, Pulilud, a long time after all was gone, in dread of something bad happening to the poor girl. The prince couldn't judge of the girl's breeding or wit from the few answers he pulled out of her.
The queen was struck in a heap when she saw a young country girl sitting behind her son. But when she saw her handsome face and heard all she could do, she didn't think she could make too much of her. The prince took an opportunity of whispering her that if she didn't object to be his wife, she must strive to please his mother. Well, the evening went by, and the prince and auntie were getting fonder and fonder of one another. But the thought of the spinning used to send the cold to her heart every moment. When bedtime came, the old queen went along with her to a beautiful bedroom, and when she was bidding her good night, she pointed to a heap of fine flax and said, You may begin as soon as you like tomorrow morning, and I'll expect to see these three pounds in a nice thread the morning after.
Little did the poor girl sleep that night. She kept crying and lamenting that she didn't mind her mother's advice better. When she was left alone next morning, she began with a heavy heart, and though she had a nice mahogany wheel and the finest flax you ever saw, the thread was breaking every moment. One while it was as fine as a cobweb, and the next as coarse as a little boy's whipcord. At last she pushed her chair back, let her hands fall in her lap, and burst out a-crying. A small old woman with surprising big feet appeared before her at the same moment, and said, What ails you, handsome Colleen? And haven't I all that flax to spin before tomorrow morning, and I'll never be able to have even five yards of fine thread of it put together?
And would you think bad to ask poor Collach-Coshmore? Old woman Bigfoot, to your wedding with the young prince. If you promise me that, all your three pounds will be made into the finest of thread while you're taking your sleep tonight. Indeed you must be there, and welcome, and I'll honour you all the days of your life. Very well. Stay in your room till tea-time, and tell the Queen she may come in for her thread as early as she likes tomorrow morning. It was all as she said, and the thread was finer and evener than the gut you see with flyfishers. My brave girl you were, says the Queen. I'll get my own mahogany loom brought into you, and you needn't do anything more today. Work and rest, work and rest, is my motto.
Tomorrow you'll weave all this thread, and who knows what may happen. The poor girl was more frightened this time than the last, and she was so afraid to lose the prince. She didn't even know how to put the warp in the gears, nor how to use the shuttle, and she was sitting in the greatest grief when a little woman, who was mighty well shouldered about the hips, all at once appeared to her, told her her name was Kollach Cromenmore. And made the same bargain with her as Kollach Kushmor.
Great was the Queen's pleasure when she found, early in the morning, a web as fine and white as the finest paper you ever saw. The darling you were, says she. Take your ease with the ladies and gentlemen today. And if you have all this made into nice shirts tomorrow, you may present one of them to my son, and be married to him out of hand.
Oh, wouldn't you pity poor Auntie the next day! She was now so near the prince, and, maybe, would be soon so far from him. But she waited as patiently as she could, with scissors, needle, and thread in hand, till a minute after noon. Then she was rejoiced to see the third old woman appear. She had a big red nose, and informed Auntie that people called her Shron Moorua, on that account. She was up to her as good as the others, for a dozen fine shirts were lying on the table when the queen paid her an early visit. Now there was nothing talked of but the wedding. And I needn't tell you it was grand. The poor mother was there along with the rest. And at the dinner the old queen could talk of nothing but the lovely shirts, and how happy herself and the bride would be after the honeymoon, spinning and weaving and sewing shirts and shifts without end.
The bridegroom didn't like the discourse, and the bride liked it less. And he was going to say something when the footman came up to the head of the table and said to the bride, Your ladyship's aunt, Kala Koshmore, bade me ask you, might she come in? The bride blushed and wished she was seven miles under the floor, but well became the prince. Tell Mrs. Koshmore, said he, that any relation of my bride's will be always heartily welcome wherever she and I are. In came the woman with the big foot, and got a seat near the prince. The old queen didn't like it much, and after a few words she asked rather spitefully, Dear ma'am, what's the reason your foot is so big? Mush of faith, your majesty, I was standing almost all my life at the spinning wheel, and that's the reason.
I declare to you, my darling, said the prince, I'll never allow you to spend one hour at the same spinning wheel. The same footman said again, Your ladyship's aunt, Collecrom and Moe, wishes to come in, if the genteels and yourself have no objection. Very charouse, displeased was Princess Antti, but the prince sent her welcome. And she took her seat and drank healths apiece to the company. May I ask, ma'am, says the old queen, why you're so wide halfway between the head and the feet? That, your majesty, is owing to sitting all my life at the loom. By my sceptre, says the prince, my wife shall never sit there an hour. The footman again came up. Your Ladyship's aunt, Kolach Shonmurua, is asking leave to come into the banquet.
More blushing on the bride's face, but the bridegroom spoke out cordially. Tell Mrs. Shonmurua she's doing us an honour. In came the old woman, and great respect she got near the top of the table. But the people down low put up their tumblers and glasses to their noses to hide the grins. Ma'am, says the old queen, will you tell us, if you please, why your nose is so big and red? Troth, your majesty, my head was bent down over the stitching all my life, and all the blood in my body ran into my nose. My darling, said the prince to Auntie, if ever I see a needle in your hand, I'll run a hundred miles from you. And in troth, girls and boys, though it's a diverting story, I don't think the moral is good.
And if any of you Thakins go about imitating Auntie in her laziness, you'll find it won't thrive with you as it did with her. She was beautiful beyond compare, which none of you are. And she had three powerful fairies to help her besides. There's no fairies now, and no prince or lord to ride by, and catch you idling or working. And maybe, after all, the prince and herself were not so very happy when the cares of the world or old age came on them. Thus was the tale ended by poor old Shibail. Sibylla. Father Murphy's housekeeper, in Coolbourne, barony of Bantry, about half a century.
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41 40 - The Haughty Princess - The Enchantment of Gearoidh Iarla 13:37
Jones March 20, 2016 Fairy and Folk Tales the Irish Peasantry Edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. Section 36. The Haughty Princess by Patrick Kennedy. There was once a very worthy king, whose daughter was the greatest beauty that could be seen far or near. But she was as proud as Lucifer, and no king or prince would she agree to marry. Her father was tired out at last. And invited every king, and prince, and duke, and earl that he knew, or didn't know, to come to his court to give her one trial more. They all came, and next day after breakfast, they stood in a row in the lawn, and the princess walked along in front of them to make her choice. One was fat, and says she, I won't have you, beer barrel.
One was tall. To a white-faced man, she said, And to a red-cheeked man, she said, She stopped a little before the last of all, for he was a fine man, in face and form. She wanted to find some defect in him, but... He had nothing remarkable but a ring of brown curling hair under his chin. She admired him a little, and then carried it off with, I won't have you, whiskers. So all went away, and the king was so vexed. He said to her, Now, to punish your impudence, I'll give you the first beggar man, or singing stronsuch that calls. And sure as all the hearth money, a fellow all over rags and hair that came to his shoulders and a bushy red beard all over his face came next morning and began to sing before the parlor window.
When the song was over, the hall doors opened, the singer axed in, the priest brought, and the princess married to Beardy. She roared and she bawled, but her father didn't mind her. "'There,' says he to the bridegroom, "'it's five guineas for you. Take your wife out of my sight, and never let me lay eyes on you or her again.' Off he led her, and dismal enough she was. The only thing that gave her relief was the tones of her husband's voice and the genteel manners. "'Whose wood is this?' said she, as they were going through one. "'It belongs to the king you called Whiskers yesterday.' He gave her the same answer about meadows and cornfields, and at last a fine city. What a fool I was, said she to herself.
He was a fine man, and might have had him for a husband. At last they were coming up to a poor cabin. Why are you bringing me here? says the poor lady. This was my house, said he, and now it is yours. She began to cry, but she was tired. And hungry, and she went in with him.
There was neither a table laid out nor fire burning, and she was obliged to help her husband to light it, and boil the dinner, and clean up the place after. And next day, he made her put on a stuffed gown and a cotton handkerchief. When she had her house readied up, and no business to keep her employed, he brought home sallies, peeled them, He showed her how to make baskets, but the hard twigs bruised her delicate fingers, and she began to cry. Well, then he asked her to mend their clothes, but the needle drew blood from her fingers, and she cried again. He couldn't bear to see her in tears, so he bought her a creel of earthenware and sent her to market to sell them. This was the hardest trial of all.
But she looked so handsome and sorrowful, and had such a nice air about her, that all her pans and jugs and plates and dishes were gone before noon. And the only mark of her old pride she showed was a slap she gave to a bucking across the face when he axed her to go in and take share of a quart. Well, her husband was so glad he sent her with another creel the next day. But Faith, her luck was after deserting her. A drunken huntsman came up riding, and his beasts got in among her ware, and made brisching of every mother's son of him. She went home crying, and her husband wasn't at all pleased. "'I see,' said he. "'You're not fit for business. Come along. I'll get you a kitchen-maid's place in the palace.
I know the cook.' So the poor thing was obliged to stifle her pride once more. She was kept very busy, and the footman And the butler would be very impudent about looking for a kiss. She let a screech out of her the first attempt was made, and the cook gave the fellow such a lambasting with the besom that he made no second offer. She went home to her husband every night, and she carried broken victuals wrapped in papers in her side pockets. A week after she got service there was a great bustle in the kitchen. The king was going to be married. But no one knew who the bride was to be. Well, in the evening, the cook filled the princess's pockets with cold meat and puddings, and says she, Before you go, let us have a look at the great doings in the big parlor.
So they came near to the door to get a peep. And who should come out but the king himself, as handsome as you please, and no other but King Whiskers himself? "'Your handsome helper must pay for her peeping,' said he to the cook, "'and dance a jig with me.' Whether she would or no, he held her hand and brought her into the parlor. The fiddlers struck up, and away went him with her. But they hadn't danced two steps when the meat and the puddings fell out of her pockets. Everyone roared out, and she flew to the door, crying piteously. But she was soon caught by the king. And take it into the back parlor. "'Don't you know me, my darling?' said he. "'I'm both King Whiskers, your husband, the ballad-singer, and the drunken huntsman.
Your father knew me well enough when he gave you to me. It all was to drive your pride out of you.' Well, she didn't know how she was with fright, and shame, and joy. Love was uppermost anyhow. For she laid her head on her husband's breast, and cried like a child. The maids of honor soon had her away, and dressed her as fine as hands and pins could do it. And there were her mother, and father, too. And while the company were wondering what end of the handsome girl and the king, he and his queen, who, they didn't know in their fine clothes, and the other king and queen came in. Such rejoicings and fine doings as there was, none of us will ever see anyway.
The Enchantment of Gird Ad Erla by Patrick Kennedy In old times in Ireland, there was a great man of the Fitzgeralds. The name on him was Gerald, but the Irish... That always had a great liking of the family, called him Gerard Erla. He had a great castle, Wrath, at Malagamast, and whenever the English government were striving to put some wrong on the country, he was always the man that stood up for it. Along with being a great leader in a fight, and very skillful at all weapons, he was deep in the black art, and could change himself to whatever shape he pleased. His lady knew that he had this power, and often asked him to let her in some of his secrets, but he never would gratify her. She wanted particularly to see him in some strange shape, but he put her off and off, on one pretense or the other.
But she wouldn't be a woman if she hadn't perseverance, and so at last he let her know that if she took the least fright while he'd be out of his natural form, He would never recover it, till many generations of men would be under the mold. Oh, she wouldn't be a fit wife for Gerard Erla, if she could be easily frightened. Let him but gratify her in his whim, and he'd see what a hero she was. So, one beautiful summer evening, as they were sitting in their grand drawing room, he turned his face away from her, and muttered some words, and while you'd wink, He was clever and clean out of sight, and a lovely goldfinch was flying about the room. The lady, as courageous as she thought herself, was a little startled, but she held her own pretty well, especially when he came and perched on her shoulder, and shook his wings, and put his little beak to her lips, and whistled the delightfullest tune you ever heard.
Well, He flew in circles around the room and played hide-and-go-seek with his lady, and flew out into the garden, and flew back in, and lay down in her lap as if he was asleep, and jumped up again. Well, when the thing had lasted long enough to satisfy both, he took one flight more into the open air, but, by my word, he was soon on his return. He flew right into his lady's bosom, and the next moment a fierce hawk was after him. The wife gave one loud scream, though there was no need, for the wild bird came in like an arrow and struck against the table with such force that the life was dashed out of him. She turned her eyes from his quivering body to where she saw the goldfinch an instant before, but neither goldfinch nor Earl Gerald did she ever lay eyes on again.
Once every seven years, the Earl Rides through the Kodog of Kildare on a steed, whose silver shoes were half an inch thick the time he disappeared. And when these shoes are worn as thin as a cat's ear, he will be restored to the Society of Living Men, fight a great battle with the English, and reign King of Ireland for two score years. Himself and his warriors are now sleeping in a long cavern under the Rath Mooligamast. There is a table running along through the middle of the cave. The Earl is sitting at the head, and his troopers down along in complete armor on both sides of the table, and their heads resting on it. Their horses, saddled and bridled, are standing behind their masters in their stalls at each side.
And when the day comes, the miller's son that's to be born with six fingers on each hand will blow his trumpet. And the horses will stamp and whinny, and the knights awake and mount their steeds, and go forth to battle. Some night, that happens once in every seven years, while the earl is riding through the kurdag, the entrance may be seen by anyone chancing to pass by. About a hundred years ago, a horse dealer that was laid abroad and a little drunk saw the lighted cavern and went in. The lights and the stillness and the sight of the men in armor cowed him a good deal, and he became sober. His hands began to tremble, and he let a bridle fall on the pavement. The sound of the bit echoed through the long cave, and one of the warriors that was next to him lifted his head a little and said in a deep, hoarse voice, Is it time yet?
He had the wit to say, Not yet, but soon will. And the heavy helmet sunk down on the table. The horse-dealer made the best of his way out, and I never heard of any other one having got the same opportunity. End of Section 40 Recording by Kyle B. Jones
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42 41 - Munachar and Manachar - Donald and his Neighbours 18:12
Edited and selected by W. B. Yates. Section 41. and Monachar, and Donald and his neighbors. Munachar and Monachar, translated literally from the Irish by Douglas Hyde. There once lived a Munachar and a Monachar, a long time ago, and it is a long time since it was, and if they were alive then, they would not be alive now. They went out together to pick raspberries, and as many as Munakar used to pick, Manakar used to eat. Munakar said he must go look for a rod to make a gad, a withy band, to hang Manakar, who ate his raspberries every one, and he came to the rod. God save you, said the rod. God and Mary save you. How far are you going? Going looking for a rod. A rod to make a gad. A gad to hang Manakar, who ate my raspberries every one.
You will not get me, said the rod, until you get an axe to cut me. He came to the axe. God save you, said the axe. God and Mary save you. How far are you going? Going looking for an axe. An axe to cut a rod. A rod to make a gad. A gad to hang Manakar. Who ate my raspberries? Every one. You will not get me, said the axe, until you get a flag to edge me. He came to the flag. God save you, says the flag. God and Mary save you. How far are you going? Going looking for an axe. Axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Monachar. Who ate my raspberries? Every one. "'You will not get me,' says the flag, "'till you get water to wet me.' He came to the water. "'God save you,' says the water.
"'God and Mary save you.' "'How far are you going?' "'Going looking for water.' "'Water to wet flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manikar, who ate my raspberries, every one.' "'You will not get me,' said the water. until you get a deer who will swim me. He came to the deer. God save you, says the deer. God and Mary save you. How far are you going? Going looking for a deer. Deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Monicar, who ate my raspberries, every one. "'You will not get me,' said the deer, "'until you get a hound who will hunt me.' He came to the hound. "'God save you,' says the hound.
"'God and Mary save you.' "'How far are you going?' "'Going looking for a hound. "'Hound to hunt deer. "'Deer to swim water. "'Water to wet flag. "'Flag to edge axe. "'Ax to cut a rod. "'A rod to make a gad. A gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one. "'You will not get me,' said the hound, "'until you get a bit of butter to put in my claw.' He came to the butter. "'God save you,' says the butter. "'God and Mary save you.' "'How far are you going?' "'Going looking for butter.' "'Butter to go in claw of hound.' "'Hound to hunt deer.' "'Deer to swim water.' Water to wet flag. Flag to edge axe. Axe to cut a rod. A rod to make a gad. A gad to hang Manakar, who ate my raspberries, everyone.
You will not get me, said the butter, until you get a cat who shall scrape me. He came to the cat. God save you, said the cat. God and Mary save you. How far are you going? Going looking for a cat. Cat to scrape butter. Butter to go in claw of hound. Hound to hunt deer. Deer to swim water. Water to wet flag. Flag to edge axe. Axe to cut a rod. A rod to make a gad. Gad to hang Manakar, who ate my raspberries, everyone. You will not get me, said the cat, until you will get milk which you will give me. He came to the cow. God save you, said the cow. God and Mary save you. How far are you going? Going looking for a cow. Cow to give me milk. Milk I will give to the cat. Cat to scrape butter. Butter to go and claw a hound.
Hound to hunt deer. Deer to swim water. Water to wet flag. Flag to edge axe. Axe to cut a rod. A rod to make a gad. A gad to hang Manakar. Who ate my raspberries, every one? You will not get any milk from me, said the cow, until you bring me a wisp of straw from those threshers yonder. He came to the threshers. God save you, said the threshers. God and Mary save ye. How far are you going? Going looking for a wisp of straw from ye to give to the cow, the cow to give me milk. Milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter, Butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manokar, who ate my raspberries, every one.
You will not get any whisp of straw from us, said the thrushers, until you bring us the makings of a cake from the miller over yonder. He came to the miller. God save you. God and Mary save you. How far are you going? Going looking for the makings of a cake, which I will give to the threshers. The threshers to give me a wisp of straw. The wisp of straw I will give to the cow. The cow to give me milk. Milk I will give to the cat. Cat to scrape butter. Butter to go and claw of hound. Hound to hunt deer. Deer to swim water. Water to wet flag. Flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries, everyone. "'You will not get any makings of a cake from me,' said the miller, "'till you bring me the full of that sieve of water from the river over there.' He took the sieve in his hand and went over to the river, but as often as ever he would stoop and fill it with water, the moment he raised it the water would run out of it again, and sure, if he had been there from that day till this, he never could have filled it.
A crow went flying by him over his head. "'Dob, dob,' said the crow. "'My soul to God, then,' said Munnikar. "'But it's the good advice you have.' And he took the red clay and the daub that was by the brink, and he rubbed it to the bottom of the sieve until all the holes were filled. And then the sieve held the water. And he brought the water to the miller, and the miller gave him the makings of a cake, and he gave the makings of the cake to the threshers, and the threshers gave him a wisp of straw, and he gave the wisp of straw to the cow, and the cow gave him milk. The milk he gave to the cat, The cat scraped the butter. The butter went into the claw of the hound. The hound hunted the deer.
The deer swam the water. The water wet the flag. The flag sharpened the axe. The axe cut the rod. And the rod made a gad. And when he had it ready, I'll go bail that monocard was far enough away from him. There is some tale like this in almost every language. It resembles that given in that splendid work of industry and patriotism. Campbell's Tale of the West Highlands, under the name of Munechug and Meenachug. The English house that Jack built, says Campbell, has eleven steps. The Scotch old woman with the silver penny has twelve. The Knopf's cock and hen a-nutting has twelve, ten of which are double. The German story in Grimm has five or six, all single ideas. This, however, is longer than any of them.
It sometimes varies a little in the telling, and the actors' names are sometimes Soraka and Moraka, and the crow is sometimes a gull, who, instead of Dab-Dab, says, Cura Crayrula Lasse. Donald and his Neighbors. From Hibernian Tales. Hudden and Dudden and Donald O'Neary were near neighbors in the Berenie of Balanconlick. and ploughed with three bullocks, but the two former, envying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his bullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured, that, going back in the world, he might be induced to sell his lands, which they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald, finding his bullock killed, immediately skinned it, and throwing the skin over his shoulder with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it, to dispose of it to the best of his advantage.
Going along the road, a magpie flew on top of the hide and began picking it, chattering all the time. The bird had been taught to speak, and imitate the human voice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying, He put round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it, he put it under his greatcoat, and so he went on to town. Having sold the hide, he went into an inn to take a dram, and following the landlady into the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze, which made it chatter some broken accents that surprised her very much. What is that I hear? said she to Donald. I think it is talk, and yet I do not understand. Indeed, said Donald, it is a bird I have that tells me everything, and I always carry it with me, to know when there is any danger.
Faith, says he, it says you have far better liquor than you are giving me. That is strange, said she, going to another cask of better quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. I will, said Donald, if I get enough for it. I will fill your hat with silver if you leave it with me. Donal was glad to hear the news, and taking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not been long at home until he met with Huddon and Duddon. Mister, said he, you thought you had done me a bad turn, but you could not have done me a better, for look here, what I have got for the hide, showing them a hatful of silver. You never saw such a demand for hides in your life as there is at present. Hudden and Dudden that very night killed their bullocks and set out the next morning to sell their hides.
On coming to the place they went through all the merchants, but could only get a trifle for them. At last they had to take what they could get, and came home in a great rage and vowing revenge on poor Donald. He had a pretty good guess how matters would turn out, and he being under the kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him. or perhaps kill him when asleep, and on that account, when he was going to bed, he left his old mother in his place, and lay down in her bed, which was in the other side of the house, and they, taking the old woman for Donald, choked her in bed. But he making some noise, they had to retreat, and leave the money behind them, which grieved them very much. However, by daybreak, Donald got his mother on his back and carried her to town.
Stopping at a well, he fixed his mother with her staff, as if she was stooping for a drink, and then went into a public-house convenient and called for a dram. "'I wish,' he said to a woman that stood near him, "'you would tell my mother to come in. She is at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard of hearing.' If she does not observe you, give her a little shake, and tell her that I want her. The woman called her several times, but she seemed to take no notice. At length she went to her and shook her by the arm, but when she let her go again she tumbled on her head into the well, and, as the woman thought, was drowned. She, in her great surprise and fear at the accident, told Donald what had happened.
"'Oh, mercy!' said he. What is this? He ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and lamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you would imagine that he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other hand, was far worse than Donald, for his grief was only feigned, but she imagined herself to be the cause of the old woman's death. The inhabitants of the town, hearing what had happened, agreed to make Donald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened in their place, and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than he got for the magpie. They buried Donald's mother, and as soon as he saw Hudden, he showed them the last purse of money he had got. "'You thought to kill me last night,' said he, "'but it was good for me.
It happened on my mother, for I got all that purse for her to make gunpowder.' That very night Huddon and Duddon killed their mothers, and the next morning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their burthen on their backs, they went up and down, crying, "'Who will buy old wives for gunpowder?' so that everyone laughed at them, and the boys at last clotted them out of the place. Then they saw the cheat, and vowed revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in pursuit of him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his breakfast, and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him in a river at some distance. As they were going along the highway, they raised a hare, which, they saw, had but three feet, and, throwing off the sack, ran after her, thinking by her appearance she would be easily taken.
In their absence there came a drover that way, and hearing Donald singing in the sack wondered greatly what could be the matter. "'What is the reason,' said he, "'that you are singing and you confined?' "'Oh, I am going to heaven,' said Donald, "'and in a short time I expect to be free from trouble.' "'Oh, dear,' said the drover, What will I give you if you let me take your place?" Indeed, I do not know," said he. It would take a good sum. I have not much money," said the drover, but I have twenty head of fine cattle, which I will give you to exchange places with me. Well," says Donald, I do not care if I should lose the sack, and I will come out. In a moment the drover liberated him, and went into the sack himself, and Donald drove home the fine heifers and left them in his pasture.
Hudden and Dudden, having caught the hare, returned, and getting the sack on one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the river and threw him in, where he immediately sank. They then marched home, intending to take immediate possession of Donal's property. But how great was their surprise when they found him safe at home before them, with such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none before. "'Donal,' said they, "'what is all this? We thought you were drowned, and yet you are here before us.' "'Ah,' said he, "'if I had but help along with me when you threw me in.' It would have been the best job ever I met with, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever was seen is there, and no one to own them, but I was not able to manage more than what you see, and I could show you the spot where you might get hundreds.
They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald accordingly led them to a very deep part of the river and lifted up a stone. Now, said he, watch this, throwing it into the stream. "'There is the very place, and go in, one of you first, and if you want help, you have nothing to do but call.' Hudden, jumping in and sinking to the bottom, rose up again, and, making a bubbling noise, as those do that are drowning, attempted to speak, but could not. "'What is that he is saying now?' says Dudden. "'Faith,' says Donald. "'He is calling for help. Don't you hear him?' "'Stand about,' said he, running back, "'Till I leap in. I know how to do it better than any of you.' Dudden, to have the advantage of him, plunged in off the bank, and was drowned along with Hudden.
And this was the end of Hudden and Dudden.
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43 42 - The Jackdaw 6:08
The Jackdaw.
Tom Moore was a linendraper in Sackville Street. His father, when he died, left him an affluent fortune, and a shop of excellent trade. As he was standing at his door one day, a countryman came up to him with a nest of jackdaws, and, accosting him, says, "'Master, will you buy a nest of dawes?' "'No, I don't want any.' "'Master,' replied the man, "'I will sell them all cheap. You shall have the whole nest for ninepence.' "'I don't want them,' answered Tom Moore. "'So go about your business.' As the man was walking away, one of the dogs popped out his head and cried, "'Mock, Mock!' "'Damn it,' says Tom Moore. "'The bird knows my name. "'Allo, countryman! "'What will you take for that bird? "'Why, you shall have him for three pence?' Tom Moore bought him, had a cage made, and hung him up in the shop.
The journeyman took much notice of the bird, and would frequently tap at the bottom of the cage and say, "'Who are you? Who are you?' Tom Moore of Sackville Street." In a short time, the jackdaw learned these words, and if he wanted victuals or water, would strike his bill against the cage, turn up the white of his eyes, cock his head, and cried, Who are you? Who are you? Tom Moore of Sackville Street. Tom Moore was fond of gaming, and often lost large sums of money. Finding his business neglected in his absence, he had a small hazard table set up in one corner of his dining-room, and invited a party of friends to play at it. The jackdaw had by this time become familiar. His cage was left open and hopped into every part of the house.
Sometimes he got into the dining room where the gentlemen were at play, and one of them being a constant winner, the others would say, "'Damn it how he nicks them!' The bird learned these words also, and adding them to the former would call, "'Who are you? Who are you? Tom Moore of Sackville Street. Damn it how he nicks them!' Tom Moore, from repeated losses and neglect of business, failed in trade, and became a prisoner in the fleet. He took his bird with him and lived on the master's side, supported by friends in a decent manner. They would sometimes ask, What brought you here? When he used to lift up his hands and answered, Bad company by God. The bird learned this likewise, and at the end of the former words would say, What brought you here?
Bad company by God. Some of Tom Moore's friends died, others went abroad, and by degrees he was totally deserted, and removed to the common side of the prison, where the jailed distemper soon attacked him, and in the last stage of life, lying on a straw bed, the poor bird had been for two days without food or water. Came to his feet, and striking his bill on the floor, calls out, "'Who are you, Tom Moore of Sackville Street? Damn it how he nicks them!' Damn it how he nicks them! What brought you here? Bad company by God! Bad company by God! Tom Moore, who had attended to the bird, was struck with his words, and reflecting on himself, cried out, Good God! To what a situation I am reduced! My father, when he died, left me a good fortune and an established trade.
I've spent my fortune, ruined my business, and am now dying in a loathsome jail. And to complete all, keeping that poor thing confined without support. I will endeavor to do one piece of justice before I die, by setting him at liberty. He made a struggle to crawl from his straw bed, opened the casement, and out flew the bird. A flight of jackdaws from the temple were going over the jail, and Tom Moore's bird mixed among them. The gardener was then laying the plaits of the temple garden. And as often as he placed them in the day, the jackdaws pulled them up by night. They got a gun and attempted to shoot some of them, but, being cunning birds, they always placed one as a watch in the stump of a hollow tree, who, as soon as the gun was leveled, cried, "'Mock!' and away they flew.
The gardeners were advised to get a net, and the first night it was spread they caught fifteen. Tom Moore's bird was amongst them. One of the men took the net into a garret of an uninhabited house, fastens the door and windows, and turns the birds loose. "'Now,' he said, "'you black rascals, I will be revenged of you.' Taking hold of the first at hand, he twists her neck, and throwing him down, cries, "'There goes one!' Tom Moresburn, who had hopped up to a beam at one corner of the room, unobserved, as the man lays hold of the second, calls out, "'Damn it, how he nicks them!' The man, alarmed, cries, "'Sure I heard a voice.' But the house is uninhabited, and the door is fast. It could only be imagination."
On laying hold of the third, and twisting his neck, Tom's bird again says, "'Damn it, how he nicks them!' The man dropped the bird in his hand, and turning to where the voice came from, seeing the other with his mouth open, cries out, "'Who are you?' to which the bird answered, "'Tom Moore of Sackville Street! Tom Moore of Sackville Street!' "'The devil you are, and what brought you here?' Tom Morris Bird, lifting up his pinions, answered, "'Bad company by God, bad company by God!' The fellow, frightened almost out of his wits, opened the door,
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44 43 - The Story of Conn-eda 29:41
The Old Testament is a very special way to the Old Testament. Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, edited and selected by W. B. Yeats. Section 43. The Story of Carlton Edda, Or, The Golden Apples of Loch Erne.
Printed first in the Cameroun journal, 1855, Reprinted and Redited in the Folklore Record, Volume Two, and Footnote. Translated from the original Irish of the storyteller, Abraham McCoy, by Nicholas O'Kearney. It was long before the time the western districts of Inesfola had any settled name, but were indiscriminately called after the person who took possession of them, and whose name they retained only as long as his sway lasted, that a powerful king reigned over this part of the sacred island.
Inesfola, Island of Destiny, an old name for Ireland. Inesfola, He was a puissant warrior, and no individual was found able to compete with him either on land or sea, or question his right to his conquest. The great king of the West held uncontrolled sway from the island of Rathlin to the mouth of the Shannon by sea, and as far as the glittering length by land. The ancient king of the West, whose name was Conn, was good as well as great, and passionately loved by his people. His queen was a breerton, and was equally beloved and esteemed, because she was the great counterpart of the king in every respect, for whatever good qualification was wanting in the one, the other was certain to indemnify the omission.
It was plainly manifest that heaven approved of the career in life of the virtuous couple, for during their reign the earth produced exuberant crops, The trees fruit ninefold consumerate with their usual bearing. The rivers, lakes, and surrounding sea teemed with abundance of choice fish, while herds and flocks were unusually prolific, and kine and sheep yielded such abundance of rich milk that they shed it in torrents upon the pastures, and furrows and cavities were always filled with the pure lacteal produce of the dairy.
All these were blessings heaped by heaven upon the western districts of Ines Fola, over which the benignant and just cons swayed his sceptre. In approbation of the course of government he had marked out for his own guidance. It is needless to state that the people who owned the authority of this great and good sovereign were the happiest on the face of the wide expanse of earth. It was during his reign, and that of his son and successor, At Ireland acquired the title of the Happy Isle of the West among foreign nations. Con Mawr and his good Queen Edda reigned in great glory during many years. They were blessed with an only son, whom they named Con Edda, after both his parents, because the Druids foretold at his birth that he would inherit the good qualities of both.
According as the young prince grew in years, his amiable and benignant qualities of mind as well as his great strength of body and manly bearing became more manifest. He was the idol of his parents, and the boast of his people. He was beloved and respected to that degree that neither prince, lord, nor plebeian swore an oath by the sun, moon, stars, or elements, except by the head of Con Edda. This career of glory, however, was doomed to meet a powerful but temporary impediment. For the good Queen Edda took a sudden and severe illness, of which she died in a few days, thus plunging her spouse, her son, and all her people into a depth of grief and sorrow from which it was found difficult to relieve them.
The good King and his subjects mourned the loss of Queen Edda for a year and a day, And at the expiration of that time, Conmore reluctantly yielded to the advice of his druids and counsellors, and took to wife the daughter of his archdruid. The new queen appeared to walk in the footsteps of the good Edda for several years, and gave great satisfaction to her subjects. But in course of time, having had several children, and perceiving that Conedda was the favorite son of the king, and the darling of the people, she clearly foresaw that he would become successor to the throne after the demise of his father, and that her son would certainly be excluded. This excited the hatred and inflamed the jealousy of the druid's daughter against her stepson to such an extent that she resolved in her own mind to leave nothing in her power undone to secure his death or even exile from the kingdom.
She began by circulating evil reports of the prince, but as he was above suspicion, the king only laughed at the weakness of the queen, and the great princes and chieftains, supported by the people in general, gave an unqualified contradiction. While the prince himself bore all his trials with the utmost patience, and always repaid her bad and malicious acts towards him with good and benevolent ones. The enmity of the queen towards Con Edda knew no bounds when she saw that the false reports she circulated could not injure him. As a last resort, to carry out her wicked project, she determined to consult her colloch-kiach henwife. who was a reputed enchantress.
Pursuant to her resolution, by the early dawn of morning she hied to the cabin of the Kolochkeach, and divulged to her the cause of her trouble. "'I cannot render you any help,' said the Koloch, "'until your name's a doish reward. "'What doish do you require?' asked the queen, impatiently. "'My due ish,' replied the enchantress, "'is to fill the cavity of my arm with wool, and the whole I shall bore with my distaff with red wheat. Your due ass is granted, and shall be immediately given you,' said the queen." The enchantress thereupon stood in the door of her hut, and bending her arm in a circle with her side, directed the royal attendants to thrust the wool into her house through her arm, and she never permitted them to cease until all the available space Within was filled with wool.
She then got on the roof of her brother's house, and, having made a hole through it with her distaff, caused red wheat to be spilled through it until that was filled up to the roof with red wheat, so that there was no room for another grain within. Now, said the queen, since you have received your duass, tell me how I can accomplish my purpose. Take this chessboard and chess, and invite the prince to play with you. You shall win the first game. The condition you shall make is that whoever wins a game shall be at liberty to impose whatever guesser conditions the winner pleases on the loser. When you win, you must bid the prince, under the penalty, either to go into honorable exile, or procure for you, within the space of a year and a day, the three golden apples that grew in the garden, the ochtduf, black steed.
And the Lanconmachnoe, hound of supernatural powers, called Samer, which are in the possession of the king of the Furbelog race, who resides in Loch Erne. The Furbelogs believed their Elysian to be under water. The peasantry still believed many lakes to be peopled.
These two things are so precious and so well guarded, that he can never attain them by his own power, and, if he would rashly attempt to seek them, he should lose his life. The queen was greatly pleased at the advice, and lost no time in inviting Con Edda to play a game at chess under the condition that she had been instructed to arrange by the Enchantress. The queen won the game, as the Enchantress foretold, but so great was her anxiety to have the prince completely in her power But she was tempted to challenge him to play a second game, which Con Edda, to her astonishment, and no less mortification, easily won. "'Now,' said the prince, "'since you won the first game, it is your duty to impose your gesh first.' "'My gesh,' said the queen, "'which I impose upon you, is to procure me the three golden apples that grow in the garden, the ochtdove black steed,' And the quillong con machneur pound of supernatural powers, which are in the keeping of the king of the Thurbelogues in Loch Erne, within the space of a year and a day, or, in case you fail, to go into onn'erba exile, and never return, except you surrender yourself to lose your head, and come ad beha preservation of life.
Well, then, said the prince, the guest which I bind you by, is to sit upon the pinnacle of yonder tower until my return, and to take neither food nor nourishment of any description, except what red-wheat you can pick up with the point of your bodkin. But if I do not return, you are at perfect liberty to come down at the expiration of the year and a day.
In consequence of the severe gesh imposed upon him, Con Edda was very much troubled in mind, Well knowing he had a long journey to make before he would reach his destination, immediately prepared to set out on his way, not, however, before he had the satisfaction of witnessing the ascent of the queen to the place where she was obliged to remain, exposed to the scorching sun of the summer and the blasting storms of winter, for the space of one year and a day, at least. Con Edda, being ignorant of what steps he should take to procure the Ich-duf and Quillon con Machneux, though he was well aware that human energy would prove unavailing, thought proper to consult the great Druid, Fionn, of Schliebainer, who was a friend of his before he ventured to proceed to Loch Erne.
When he arrived at the Brien, the Druid, he received with cordial friendship, and the Fulcher, welcome, as usual, was poured out before him, and when he was seated, Warm water was fetched, and his feet bathed, so that the fatigue he felt after his journey was greatly relieved. The Druid, after he had partaken of refreshments, consisting of the newest of food and oldest of liquors, asked him the reason for paying the visit, and more particularly the cause of his sorrow, for the prince appeared exceedingly depressed in spirit. Con Edda told his friend the whole history of the transaction with his stepmother, from beginning to end. "'Can you not assist me?' asked the prince, with downcast countenance.
"'I cannot indeed assist you at present,' replied the Jeward. "'But I will retire to my green place at sun-rising on the morrow, and learn by virtue of my Druidism what can be done to assist you.' The Druid, accordingly, as the sun rose on the following morning, retired to his Grianon, and consulted the god he adored, Through the power of his Drukh i.e. the Druidic worship, magic, sorcery, divination.
When he returned, he called Con Edda aside on the plain, and addressed him thus. My dear son, I find you have been under a severe, and almost impossible, gesh intended for your destruction. No person on earth could have advised the queen to impose it except the of Low Corrib, who was the greatest druidess now in Ireland, and sister to Thufir-Bolog. King of Low Earn, it is not in my power, nor in that of the deity I adore, to interfere in your behalf, but go directly to Shilamish, and consult Aynchindina, the bird of the human head. And if there be any possibility of relieving you, that bird can do it. There is not a bird in the Western world so celebrated as that bird, because it knows all things that are past, all things that are present and exist, and all things that shall hereafter exist.
It is difficult to find access to his place of concealment, and more difficult still to obtain an answer from him, but I will endeavor to regulate that matter for you, and this is all I can do for you at present.
The archdruid then instructed him thus. "'Take,' said he, "'yond a little shaggy steed, and mount him immediately, for in three days the bird will make himself visible, and the little shaggy steed will conduct you to his place of abode. But lest the bird should refuse to reply to your queries, take this precious stone, and present it to him, and then little danger and doubt exist but that he will give you a ready answer.' The prince returned heartfelt thanks to the druid. And, having saddled and mounted the little shaggy horse without much delay, received the precious stone from the Druid, and, after having taken his leave of him, set out on his journey, he suffered the reins to fall loose upon the neck of the horse, according as he had been instructed, so that the animal took whatever road he chose.
It would be tedious to relate to the numerous adventures he had with the little shaggy horse, which had the extraordinary gift of speech, and was a driocht horse during his journey. The prince, having reached the hiding place of the strange bird at the appointed time, and having presented him with the lag-log-var, according to Fionn's bainer instructions, and proposed his questions relative to the manner he could best arrange for the fulfillment of his gesh, the bird took up in his mouth the jewel from the stone on which it was placed, and flew to inaccessible rock at some distance, and, when there perched, he thus addressed the prince. "'Con Edda, son of the king of Kroachar,' said he, in a loud, croaking human voice, "'remove the stone just under your right foot, and take out the ball of iron and quaran cup.
You shall find under it. Then mount your horse, cast the ball before you.' And having done so, your horse will tell you all the other things necessary to be done. The bird, having said this, immediately flew out of sight. Con Edda took great care to do everything according to the instructions of the bird. He found the iron ball and corner in the place which had been pointed out. He took them up, mounted his horse, and cast the ball before him. The ball rolled on at a regular gait. While the little shaggy horse followed on the way it led until they reached the margin of Loch Earn. Here the ball rolled in the water and became invisible. All right now, said the Driocht pony, and put your hand into mine ear.
Take from thence the small bottle of Eekie Hallhill, and the little wicker basket which you find there, and remount with speed, for just now your great dangers and difficulties commence. Con Edda, ever faithful to the kind advice of his driocht pony, did what he had been advised. Having taken the basket and bottle of kiki from the animal's ear, he remounted and proceeded on his journey, while the water of the lake appeared only like an atmosphere above his head. When he entered the lake, the ball again appeared, and rolled along until it came to the margin, across which was a causeway, guarded by three frightful serpents. The hissings of the monsters were heard at a great distance, while, on a nearer approach, their yawning mouths and formidable fangs were quite sufficient to terrify the stoutest heart.
"'Now,' said the horse, "'open the basket and cast a piece of the meat you find in it into the mouth of each serpent. When you have done this, secure yourself in your seat in the best manner you can, so that we may make all due arrangements to pass those triach-pests.'" If you cast the pieces of meat into the mouth of each page unerringly, we shall pass them safely, otherwise we are lost. Con Edda flung the pieces of meat into the jaws of the serpents with unerring aim. Bear a benison and victory, said the Druchtsteed, for you are a youth that will win and prosper. And, on saying these words, he sprang aloft, and cleared in his leap the river and ford, guarded by the serpents. Seven measures beyond the margin.
"'Are you still mounted, Prince Conedda?' said the steed. "'It has taken only half my exertion to remain so,' replied Conedda. "'I find,' said the pony, "'that you are a young prince that deserves to succeed. One danger is now over, but two others remain.' They proceeded onwards after the ball until they came in view of a great mountain flaming with fire. Hold yourself in readiness for another dangerous leap," said the horse. The trembling prince had no answer to make, but seated himself as securely as the magnitude of the danger before him would permit. The horse in the next instant sprang from the earth and flew like an arrow over the burning mountain. "'Are you still alive, Con Edda, son of Con Maw?' inquired the faithful horse.
"'I'm just alive, and no more, for I'm greatly scorched,' answered the prince." Since you are yet alive, I feel assured that you are a young man destined to meet supernatural success and menace, said the Druidic steed. Our greatest dangers are over, added he, and there is hope that we shall overcome the next and last danger. After they had proceeded a short distance, his faithful steed, addressing Con Edda, said, All right now, and apply a portion of the little bottle of E.T. to your wounds. The prince immediately followed the advice of his mentor, and, as soon as he rubbed the e.t. all-heel to his wounds, he became as whole and fresh as ever he had been before. After having done this, Con Eda remounted, and following the track of the ball, soon came in sight of a great city surrounded by high walls.
The only gate that was visible was not defended by armed men, But by two great towers that emitted flames that could be seen at a great distance. "'Alight on this plain,' said Stede, "'and take a small knife from my other ear, and with this knife you shall kill and flay me. When you have done this, envelop yourself in my hide, and you can pass the gate unscathed and unmolested. When you get inside, you can come out at pleasure, because when once you enter there is no danger, and you can pass and repass whenever you wish.' And let me tell you that all I have to ask of you in return is that you, when once inside the gates, will immediately return and drive away the birds of prey that must be fluttering round to feed on my carcass, and more, that you will pour any drop of that powerful heaty, if such still remain in the bottle, upon my flesh to preserve it from corruption.
When you do this in memory of me, if it be not too troublesome, dig a pit and cast my remains into it.
Well, said Conada, my noblest steed, because you have been so faithful to me hitherto, and because you still would have rendered me further service, I consider such a proposal insulting to my feelings as a man, and totally invariance with a spirit which can feel the value of gratitude not to speak of my feelings as a prince. But as a prince I am able to say, come what may, come death itself, in its most hideous form and terrors, I'll never sacrifice private friendship to personal interest. Hence I am, I swear by my arms of valour, prepared to meet the worst, even death itself, sooner than violate the principles of humanity, honour and friendship. What a sacrifice do you propose? Sure, ma'am. Heed not that.
Do what I advise you, and prosper. Never, never, exclaimed the prince. Well then, son of the great Western monarch, said the horse with a tone of sorrow. If you do not follow my advice on this occasion, I tell you that both you and I shall perish, and shall never meet again. But if you act as I have instructed you, matters shall assume a happier and more pleasing aspect than you may imagine. I have not misled you hithertofore, and, if I have not, what need have you to doubt the most important portion of my counsel? Do exactly as I have directed you, else you will cause a worse fate than death to befall me. And, moreover, I can tell you that, if you persist in your resolution, I have done with you forever.
When the prince found that his noble steed could not be persuaded from his purpose, he took the knife out of his ear with reluctance, and with a faltering and trembling hand, essayed experimentally to point the weapon at his throat. Count Edda's eyes were bathed in tears, but no sooner had he pointed the druidic scant to the throat of his good steed than the dagger, as if impelled by some druidic power, struck in his neck, and in an instant the work of death was done, and the noble animal fell dead at his feet. When the prince saw his noble steed fall dead by his hand, he cast himself on the ground, and cried aloud until his consciousness was gone. When he recovered, he perceived that the steed was quite dead.
And as he thought there was no hope of resuscitating him, he considered it the most prudent course he could adopt to act according to the advice he had given him. After many misgivings of mind and abundant showers of tears, he essayed the task of flaying him, which was only that of a few minutes. When he found he had the hide separated from the body, he, in the derangement of the moment, Enveloped himself in it, and, proceeding towards the magnificent city in rather a demented state of mind, entered it without any molestation or opposition. It was a surprisingly populous city, and an extremely wealthy place, but its beauty, magnificence, and wealth had no charms for Con Edda, because the thoughts of the loss he sustained in his dear steed were paramount to those of all other earthly considerations.
He had scarcely proceeded more than fifty paces from the gate when the last request of his beloved Drioch's steed forced itself upon his mind, and compelled him to return to perform the last summer injunctions upon him. When he came to the spot upon which the remains of his beloved Drioch's steed lay, an appalling sight presented itself. Ravens and other carnivorous birds of prey were tearing and devouring the flesh of his dear steed. It was but short work to put them to flight, and having uncorked his little jar of tea, he deemed it a labor of love to embalm the now mangled remains with the precious ointment. The potent tea had scarcely touched the inanimate flesh when, to the surprise of Con Edda, it commenced to undergo some strange change, and in a few minutes, to his unspeakable astonishment and joy, it assumed the form of one of the handsomest and noblest young men imaginable.
And in the twinkling of an eye the prince was locked in his embrace, smothering him with kisses, and drowning him with tears of joy. When one recovered from his exasity of joy, the other from his surprise, the strange youth thus addressed the prince. Most noble and beusant prince, you are the best sight I ever saw with my eyes, and I am the most fortunate being in existence for having met you. Behold in my person, changed to the natural shape, your little shaggy I am brother to the king of the city, and it was the wicked druid, Fjorn Beiner, who kept me so long in bondage, but he was forced to give me up when you came to consult him, for my gesh was then broken, yet I could not recover my pristine shape and appearance unless you had acted as you have kindly done.
It was my own sister that urged the queen, your stepmother, to send you in quest for the steed and powerful puppy-hound, which my brother has now in keeping. My sister, rest assured, had no thought of doing you the least injury, but much good, as you will find hereafter, because, if she were maliciously inclined towards you, she could have accomplished her end without any trouble. In short, She only wanted to free you from all further danger and disaster, and recover me from my relentless enemies through your instrumentality. Come with me, my friend and deliverer, and the steed and the puppy-hound of extraordinary powers and the golden apples shall be yours, and a cordial welcome shall greet you at my brother's abode, for you will deserve all this and much more.
The exciting joy felt on the occasion was mutual. And they lost no time in idle congratulations, but proceeded on to the royal residence of the King of Loch Erne. Here they were received with demonstrations of joy by the King and his chieftains, and when the purpose of Con Edda's visit became known to the King, he gave a free consent to sow on Con Edda the Blackstede, the Quillon Con Mac Noor, called Samer, and three apples of health that were growing in his garden. Under the special condition, however, that he would consent to remain as his guest until he could set out on his journey in proper time to fulfil his guest. Con Edda, at the earnest solicitation of his friends, consented, and remained in the royal residence of the Furbelugh, King of Loch Erne, in the enjoyment of the most delicious and fascinating pleasures during that period.
When the time of his departure came, the three golden apples were plucked from the crystal tree in the midst of the pleasure garden, and deposited in his bottom. The puppy-hound, Samma, was leashed, and the leash put into his hand, and the black steed, richly harnessed, was got in readiness for him to mount. The king himself helped him on horseback, and both he and his brother assured him that he might not fear burning mountains or hissing serpents, because none would impede him, as his steed was always a passport to and from his subacuous kingdom. And both he and his brother extorted a promise from Con Edda that he would visit them once every year at least. Con Edda took leave of his dear friend, and the king his brother.
The parting was a tender one, soured by regret on both sides. He proceeded on his way without meeting anything to obstruct him, and in due time came in sight of the dune of his father, where the queen had been placed on the pinnacle of the tower, In full hope that, as it was the last day of her imprisonment there, the prince would not make his appearance, and thereby forfeit all pretensions and right to the crown of his father forever. But her hopes were doomed to meet a disappointment, for when it had been announced to her by her couriers, he would have been posted to watch the arrival of the prince that he approached. She was incredulous, but when she saw him mounted on a foaming black steed, richly harnessed, And leading a strange kind of animal by a silver chain, she at once knew his returning in triumph, and that her schemes laid for his restriction were frustrated.
In the excess of grief at her disappointment, she cast herself from the top of the tower, and was instantly dashed to pieces. Con Edda met a welcome reception from his father, who mourned him as lost to him forever during his absence, and when the base conduct of the queen became known, The king and his chieftains ordered her remains to be consumed for ashes for her perfidy and wickedness. Con Edda planted the three golden apples in his garden, and instantly a great tree, bearing similar fruit, sprang up. This tree caused all the district to reduce an exuberance of crops and fruits, so that it became as fertile and plentiful as the dominions of the firblocks, in consequence of the extraordinary powers possessed by the golden fruit.
The hound's salmon and the stew were of the utmost utility to him, and his reign was long and prosperous, and celebrated among the old people for the great abundance of corn, fruit, milk, fowl, and fish that prevailed during this happy reign. It was after the name Cornedda, the province of Cornedda, or Cornedda, or Cornac, or so called.
End of section 43 End of Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, edited and selected by W. B. Yeats.