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    <title>
      The Crock of Gold, by James Stephens
    </title>
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Crock of Gold, by James Stephens

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The Crock of Gold

Author: James Stephens

Release Date: November 20, 2009 [EBook #1605]
Last Updated: November 19, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8


*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE CROCK OF GOLD ***


Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer, and David Widger







</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      THE CROCK OF GOLD
    </h1>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      By James Stephens
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> <b>BOOK I. THE COMING OF PAN</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER IV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> <b>BOOK II. THE PHILOSOPHER&rsquo;S JOURNEY</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER XI </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> <b>BOOK III. THE TWO GODS</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER XII </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> <b>BOOK IV. THE PHILOSOPHER&rsquo;S RETURN</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER XIII </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> <b>BOOK V. THE POLICEMEN</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER XIV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER XV </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER XVI </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> <b>BOOK VI. THE THIN WOMAN&rsquo;S JOURNEY</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER XVII </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER XVIII </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <h2>
      BOOK I. THE COMING OF PAN
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER I
    </h2>
    <p>
      IN the centre of the pine wood called Coilla Doraca there lived not long
      ago two Philosophers. They were wiser than anything else in the world
      except the Salmon who lies in the pool of Glyn Cagny into which the nuts
      of knowledge fall from the hazel bush on its bank. He, of course, is the
      most profound of living creatures, but the two Philosophers are next to
      him in wisdom. Their faces looked as though they were made of parchment,
      there was ink under their nails, and every difficulty that was submitted
      to them, even by women, they were able to instantly resolve. The Grey
      Woman of Dun Gortin and the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath asked them the
      three questions which nobody had ever been able to answer, and they were
      able to answer them. That was how they obtained the enmity of these two
      women which is more valuable than the friendship of angels. The Grey Woman
      and the Thin Woman were so incensed at being answered that they married
      the two Philosophers in order to be able to pinch them in bed, but the
      skins of the Philosophers were so thick that they did not know they were
      being pinched. They repaid the fury of the women with such tender
      affection that these vicious creatures almost expired of chagrin, and
      once, in a very ecstacy of exasperation, after having been kissed by their
      husbands, they uttered the fourteen hundred maledictions which comprised
      their wisdom, and these were learned by the Philosophers who thus became
      even wiser than before.
    </p>
    <p>
      In due process of time two children were born of these marriages. They
      were born on the same day and in the same hour, and they were only
      different in this, that one of them was a boy and the other one was a
      girl. Nobody was able to tell how this had happened, and, for the first
      time in their lives, the Philosophers were forced to admire an event which
      they had been unable to prognosticate; but having proved by many different
      methods that the children were really children, that what must be must be,
      that a fact cannot be controverted, and that what has happened once may
      happen twice, they described the occurrence as extraordinary but not
      unnatural, and submitted peacefully to a Providence even wiser than they
      were.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher who had the boy was very pleased because, he said, there
      were too many women in the world, and the Philosopher who had the girl was
      very pleased also because, he said, you cannot have too much of a good
      thing: the Grey Woman and the Thin Woman, however, were not in the least
      softened by maternity-they said that they had not bargained for it, that
      the children were gotten under false presences, that they were respectable
      married women, and that, as a protest against their wrongs, they would not
      cook any more food for the Philosophers. This was pleasant news for their
      husbands, who disliked the women&rsquo;s cooking very much, but they did not say
      so, for the women would certainly have insisted on their rights to cook
      had they imagined their husbands disliked the results: therefore, the
      Philosophers besought their wives every day to cook one of their lovely
      dinners again, and this the women always refused to do.
    </p>
    <p>
      They all lived together in a small house in the very centre of a dark pine
      wood. Into this place the sun never shone because the shade was too deep,
      and no wind ever came there either, because the boughs were too thick, so
      that it was the most solitary and quiet place in the world, and the
      Philosophers were able to hear each other thinking all day long, or making
      speeches to each other, and these were the pleasantest sounds they knew
      of. To them there were only two kinds of sounds anywhere&mdash;these were
      conversation and noise: they liked the first very much indeed, but they
      spoke of the second with stern disapproval, and, even when it was made by
      a bird, a breeze, or a shower of rain, they grew angry and demanded that
      it should be abolished. Their wives seldom spoke at all and yet they were
      never silent: they communicated with each other by a kind of physical
      telegraphy which they had learned among the Shee-they cracked their
      finger-joints quickly or slowly and so were able to communicate with each
      other over immense distances, for by dint of long practice they could make
      great explosive sounds which were nearly like thunder, and gentler sounds
      like the tapping of grey ashes on a hearthstone. The Thin Woman hated her
      own child, but she loved the Grey Woman&rsquo;s baby, and the Grey Woman loved
      the Thin Woman&rsquo;s infant but could not abide her own. A compromise may put
      an end to the most perplexing of situations, and, consequently, the two
      women swapped children, and at once became the most tender and amiable
      mothers imaginable, and the families were able to live together in a more
      perfect amity than could be found anywhere else.
    </p>
    <p>
      The children grew in grace and comeliness. At first the little boy was
      short and fat and the little girl was long and thin, then the little girl
      became round and chubby while the little boy grew lanky and wiry. This was
      because the little girl used to sit very quiet and be good and the little
      boy used not.
    </p>
    <p>
      They lived for many years in the deep seclusion of the pine wood wherein a
      perpetual twilight reigned, and here they were wont to play their childish
      games, flitting among the shadowy trees like little quick shadows. At
      times their mothers, the Grey Woman and the Thin Woman, played with them,
      but this was seldom, and sometimes their fathers, the two Philosophers,
      came out and looked at them through spectacles which were very round and
      very glassy, and had immense circles of horn all round the edges. They
      had, however, other playmates with whom they could romp all day long.
      There were hundreds of rabbits running about in the brushwood; they were
      full of fun and were very fond of playing with the children. There were
      squirrels who joined cheerfully in their games, and some goats, having one
      day strayed in from the big world, were made so welcome that they always
      came again whenever they got the chance. There were birds also, crows and
      blackbirds and willy-wagtails, who were well acquainted with the
      youngsters, and visited them as frequently as their busy lives permitted.
    </p>
    <p>
      At a short distance from their home there was a clearing in the wood about
      ten feet square; through this clearing, as through a funnel, the sun for a
      few hours in the summer time blazed down. It was the boy who first
      discovered the strange radiant shaft in the wood. One day he had been sent
      out to collect pine cones for the fire. As these were gathered daily the
      supply immediately near the house was scanty, therefore he had, while
      searching for more, wandered further from his home than usual. The first
      sight of the extraordinary blaze astonished him. He had never seen
      anything like it before, and the steady, unwinking glare aroused his fear
      and curiosity equally. Curiosity will conquer fear even more than bravery
      will; indeed, it has led many people into dangers which mere physical
      courage would shudder away from, for hunger and love and curiosity are the
      great impelling forces of life. When the little boy found that the light
      did not move he drew closer to it, and at last, emboldened by curiosity,
      he stepped right into it and found that it was not a thing at all. The
      instant that he stepped into the light he found it was hot, and this so
      frightened him that he jumped out of it again and ran behind a tree. Then
      he jumped into it for a moment and out of it again, and for nearly half an
      hour he played a splendid game of tip and tig with the sunlight. At last
      he grew quite bold and stood in it and found that it did not burn him at
      all, but he did not like to remain in it, fearing that he might be cooked.
      When he went home with the pine cones he said nothing to the Grey Woman of
      Dun Gortin or to the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath or to the two
      Philosophers, but he told the little girl all about it when they went to
      bed, and every day afterwards they used to go and play with the sunlight,
      and the rabbits and the squirrels would follow them there and join in
      their games with twice the interest they had shown before.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER II
    </h2>
    <p>
      To the lonely house in the pine wood people sometimes came for advice on
      subjects too recondite for even those extremes of elucidation, the parish
      priest and the tavern. These people were always well received, and their
      perplexities were attended to instantly, for the Philosophers liked being
      wise and they were not ashamed to put their learning to the proof, nor
      were they, as so many wise people are, fearful lest they should become
      poor or less respected by giving away their knowledge. These were
      favourite maxims with them:
    </p>
    <p>
      You must be fit to give before you can be fit to receive.
    </p>
    <p>
      Knowledge becomes lumber in a week, therefore, get rid of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The box must be emptied before it can be refilled.
    </p>
    <p>
      Refilling is progress.
    </p>
    <p>
      A sword, a spade, and a thought should never be allowed to rust.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Grey Woman and the Thin Woman, however, held opinions quite contrary
      to these, and their maxims also were different:
    </p>
    <p>
      A secret is a weapon and a friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      Man is God&rsquo;s secret, Power is man&rsquo;s secret, Sex is woman&rsquo;s secret.
    </p>
    <p>
      By having much you are fitted to have more.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is always room in the box.
    </p>
    <p>
      The art of packing is the last lecture of wisdom.
    </p>
    <p>
      The scalp of your enemy is progress.
    </p>
    <p>
      Holding these opposed views it seemed likely that visitors seeking for
      advice from the Philosophers might be astonished and captured by their
      wives; but the women were true to their own doctrines and refused to part
      with information to any persons saving only those of high rank, such as
      policemen, gombeen men, and district and county councillors; but even to
      these they charged high prices for their information, and a bonus on any
      gains which accrued through the following of their advices. It is
      unnecessary to state that their following was small when compared with
      those who sought the assistance of their husbands, for scarcely a week
      passed but some person came through the pine wood with his brows in a
      tangle of perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      In these people the children were deeply interested. They used to go apart
      afterwards and talk about them, and would try to remember what they looked
      like, how they talked, and their manner of walking or taking snuff. After
      a time they became interested in the problems which these people submitted
      to their parents and the replies or instructions wherewith the latter
      relieved them. Long training had made the children able to sit perfectly
      quiet, so that when the talk came to the interesting part they were
      entirely forgotten, and ideas which might otherwise have been spared their
      youth became the commonplaces of their conversation.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the children were ten years of age one of the Philosophers died. He
      called the household together and announced that the time had come when he
      must bid them all good-bye, and that his intention was to die as quickly
      as might be. It was, he continued, an unfortunate thing that his health
      was at the moment more robust than it had been for a long time, but that,
      of course, was no obstacle to his resolution, for death did not depend
      upon ill-health but upon a multitude of other factors with the details
      whereof he would not trouble them.
    </p>
    <p>
      His wife, the Grey Woman of Dun Gortin, applauded this resolution and
      added as an amendment that it was high time he did something, that the
      life he had been leading was an arid and unprofitable one, that he had
      stolen her fourteen hundred maledictions for which he had no use and
      presented her with a child for which she had none, and that, all things
      concerned, the sooner he did die and stop talking the sooner everybody
      concerned would be made happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other Philosopher replied mildly as he lit his pipe: &ldquo;Brother, the
      greatest of all virtues is curiosity, and the end of all desire is wisdom;
      tell us, therefore, by what steps you have arrived at this commendable
      resolution.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To this the Philosopher replied: &ldquo;I have attained to all the wisdom which
      I am fitted to bear. In the space of one week no new truth has come to me.
      All that I have read lately I knew before; all that I have thought has
      been but a recapitulation of old and wearisome ideas. There is no longer
      an horizon before my eves. Space has narrowed to the petty dimensions of
      my thumb. Time is the tick of a clock. Good and evil are two peas in the
      one pod. My wife&rsquo;s face is the same for ever. I want to play with the
      children, and yet I do not want to. Your conversation with me, brother, is
      like the droning of a bee in a dark cell. The pine trees take root and
      grow and die.&mdash;It&rsquo;s all bosh. Good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      His friend replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother, these are weighty reflections, and I do clearly perceive that
      the time has come for you to stop. I might observe, not in order to combat
      your views, but merely to continue an interesting conversation, that there
      are still some knowledges which you have not assimilated&mdash;you do not
      yet know how to play the tambourine, nor how to be nice to your wife, nor
      how to get up first in the morning and cook the breakfast. Have you
      learned how to smoke strong tobacco as I do? or can you dance in the
      moonlight with a woman of the Shee? To understand the theory which
      underlies all things is not sufficient. It has occurred to me, brother,
      that wisdom may not be the end of everything. Goodness and kindliness are,
      perhaps, beyond wisdom. Is it not possible that the ultimate end is gaiety
      and music and a dance of joy? Wisdom is the oldest of all things. Wisdom
      is all head and no heart. Behold, brother, you are being crushed under the
      weight of your head. You are dying of old age while you are yet a child.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brother,&rdquo; replied the other Philosopher, &ldquo;your voice is like the droning
      of a bee in a dark cell. If in my latter days I am reduced to playing on
      the tambourine and running after a hag in the moonlight, and cooking your
      breakfast in the grey morning, then it is indeed time that I should die.
      Good-bye, brother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So saying, the Philosopher arose and removed all the furniture to the
      sides of the room so that there was a clear space left in the centre. He
      then took off his boots and his coat, and standing on his toes he
      commenced to gyrate with extraordinary rapidity. In a few moments his
      movements became steady and swift, and a sound came from him like the
      humming of a swift saw; this sound grew deeper and deeper, and at last
      continuous, so that the room was filled with a thrilling noise. In a
      quarter of an hour the movement began to noticeably slacken. In another
      three minutes it was quite slow. In two more minutes he grew visible again
      as a body, and then he wobbled to and fro, and at last dropped in a heap
      on the floor. He was quite dead, and on his face was an expression of
      serene beatitude.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be with you, brother,&rdquo; said the remaining Philosopher, and he lit his
      pipe, focused his vision on the extreme tip of his nose, and began to
      meditate profoundly on the aphorism whether the good is the all or the all
      is the good. In another moment he would have become oblivious of the room,
      the company, and the corpse, but the Grey Woman of Dun Gortin shattered
      his meditation by a demand for advice as to what should next be done. The
      Philosopher, with an effort, detached his eyes from his nose and his mind
      from his maxim.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Chaos,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is the first condition. Order is the first law.
      Continuity is the first reflection. Quietude is the first happiness. Our
      brother is dead&mdash;bury him.&rdquo; So saying, he returned his eyes to his
      nose, and his mind to his maxim, and lapsed to a profound reflection
      wherein nothing sat perched on insubstantiality, and the Spirit of
      Artifice goggled at the puzzle.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Grey Woman of Dun Gortin took a pinch of snuff from her box and raised
      the keen over her husband:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You were my husband and you are dead.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is wisdom that has killed you.
    </p>
    <p>
      If you had listened to my wisdom instead of to your own you would still be
      a trouble to me and I would still be happy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Women are stronger than men&mdash;they do not die of wisdom.
    </p>
    <p>
      They are better than men because they do not seek wisdom.
    </p>
    <p>
      They are wiser than men because they know less and understand more.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had fourteen hundred maledictions, my little store, and by a trick you
      stole them and left me empty.
    </p>
    <p>
      You stole my wisdom and it has broken your neck.
    </p>
    <p>
      I lost my knowledge and I am yet alive raising the keen over your body,
      but it was too heavy for you, my little knowledge.
    </p>
    <p>
      You will never go out into the pine wood in the morning, or wander abroad
      on a night of stars.
    </p>
    <p>
      You will not sit in the chimney-corner on the hard nights, or go to bed,
      or rise again, or do anything at all from this day out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Who will gather pine cones now when the fire is going down, or call my
      name in the empty house, or be angry when the kettle is not boiling?
    </p>
    <p>
      Now I am desolate indeed. I have no knowledge, I have no husband, I have
      no more to say.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had anything better you should have it,&rdquo; said she politely to the
      Thin Woman of Inis Magrath.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;it was very nice. Shall I begin now? My
      husband is meditating and we may be able to annoy him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t trouble yourself,&rdquo; replied the other, &ldquo;I am past enjoyment and am,
      moreover, a respectable woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is no more than the truth, indeed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have always done the right thing at the right time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d be the last body in the world to deny that,&rdquo; was the warm response.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very well, then,&rdquo; said the Grey Woman, and she commenced to take off her
      boots. She stood in the centre of the room and balanced herself on her
      toe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are a decent, respectable lady,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath,
      and then the Grey Woman began to gyrate rapidly and more rapidly until she
      was a very fervour of motion, and in three-quarters of an hour (for she
      was very tough) she began to slacken, grew visible, wobbled, and fell
      beside her dead husband, and on her face was a beatitude almost surpassing
      his.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath smacked the children and put them to bed,
      next she buried the two bodies under the hearthstone, and then, with some
      trouble, detached her husband from his meditations. When he became capable
      of ordinary occurrences she detailed all that had happened, and said that
      he alone was to blame for the sad bereavement. He replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The toxin generates the anti-toxin. The end lies concealed in the
      beginning. All bodies grow around a skeleton. Life is a petticoat about
      death. I will not go to bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER III
    </h2>
    <p>
      ON the day following this melancholy occurrence Meehawl MacMurrachu, a
      small farmer in the neighbourhood, came through the pine trees with
      tangled brows. At the door of the little house he said, &ldquo;God be with all
      here,&rdquo; and marched in.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher removed his pipe from his lips-&ldquo;God be with yourself,&rdquo;
       said he, and he replaced his pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meehawl MacMurrachu crooked his thumb at space, &ldquo;Where is the other one?&rdquo;
       said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah!&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He might be outside, maybe?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He might, indeed,&rdquo; said the Philosopher gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, it doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; said the visitor, &ldquo;for you have enough
      knowledge by yourself to stock a shop. The reason I came here to-day was
      to ask your honoured advice about my wife&rsquo;s washing-board. She only has it
      a couple of years, and the last time she used it was when she washed out
      my Sunday shirt and her black skirt with the red things on it&mdash;you
      know the one?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, anyhow, the washboard is gone, and my wife says it was either taken
      by the fairies or by Bessie Hannigan&mdash;you know Bessie Hannigan? She
      has whiskers like a goat and a lame leg!&rdquo; &ldquo;I do not,&rdquo; said the
      Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter,&rdquo; said Meehawl MacMurrachu. &ldquo;She didn&rsquo;t take it, because my
      wife got her out yesterday and kept her talking for two hours while I went
      through everything in her bit of a house&mdash;the washboard wasn&rsquo;t
      there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It wouldn&rsquo;t be,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe your honour could tell a body where it is then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe I could,&rdquo; said the Philosopher; &ldquo;are you listening?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am,&rdquo; said Meehawl MacMurrachu.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher drew his chair closer to the visitor until their knees
      were jammed together. He laid both his hands on Meehawl MacMurrachu&rsquo;s
      knees &ldquo;Washing is an extraordinary custom,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;We are washed both
      on coming into the world and on going out of it, and we take no pleasure
      from the first washing nor any profit from the last.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;True for you, sir,&rdquo; said Meehawl MacMurrachu.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Many people consider that scourings supplementary to these are only due
      to habit. Now, habit is continuity of action, it is a most detestable
      thing and is very difficult to get away from. A proverb will run where a
      writ will not, and the follies of our forefathers are of greater
      importance to us than is the well-being of our posterity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t say a word against that, sir,&rdquo; said Meehawl MacMurrachu.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cats are a philosophic and thoughtful race, but they do not admit the
      efficacy of either water or soap, and yet it is usually conceded that they
      are cleanly folk. There are exceptions to every rule, and I once knew a
      cat who lusted after water and bathed daily: he was an unnatural brute and
      died ultimately of the head staggers. Children are nearly as wise as cats.
      It is true that they will utilize water in a variety of ways, for
      instance, the destruction of a tablecloth or a pinafore, and I have
      observed them greasing a ladder with soap, showing in the process a great
      knowledge of the properties of this material.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why shouldn&rsquo;t they, to be sure?&rdquo; said Meehawl MacMurrachu. &ldquo;Have you got
      a match, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Sparrows, again, are a highly acute
      and reasonable folk. They use water to quench thirst, but when they are
      dirty they take a dust bath and are at once cleansed. Of course, birds are
      often seen in the water, but they go there to catch fish and not to wash.
      I have often fancied that fish are a dirty, sly, and unintelligent people&mdash;this
      is due to their staying so much in the water, and it has been observed
      that on being removed from this element they at once expire through sheer
      ecstasy at escaping from their prolonged washing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have seen them doing it myself,&rdquo; said Meehawl. &ldquo;Did you ever hear, sir,
      about the fish that Paudeen MacLoughlin caught in the policeman&rsquo;s hat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;The first person who washed was
      possibly a person seeking a cheap notoriety. Any fool can wash himself,
      but every wise man knows that it is an unnecessary labour, for nature will
      quickly reduce him to a natural and healthy dirtiness again. We should
      seek, therefore, not how to make ourselves clean, but how to attain a more
      unique and splendid dirtiness, and perhaps the accumulated layers of
      matter might, by ordinary geologic compulsion, become incorporated with
      the human cuticle and so render clothing unnecessary&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;About that washboard,&rdquo; said Meehawl, &ldquo;I was just going to say&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;In its proper place I admit
      the necessity for water. As a thing to sail a ship on it can scarcely be
      surpassed (not, you will understand, that I entirely approve of ships,
      they tend to create and perpetuate international curiosity and the smaller
      vermin of different latitudes). As an element wherewith to put out a fire,
      or brew tea, or make a slide in winter it is useful, but in a tin basin it
      has a repulsive and meagre aspect.&mdash;Now as to your wife&rsquo;s washboard&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good luck to your honour,&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your wife says that either the fairies or a woman with a goat&rsquo;s leg has
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s her whiskers,&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are lame,&rdquo; said the Philosopher sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have it your own way, sir, I&rsquo;m not certain now how the creature is
      afflicted.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You say that this unhealthy woman has not got your wife&rsquo;s washboard. It
      remains, therefore, that the fairies have it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It looks that way,&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are six clans of fairies living in this neighbourhood; but the
      process of elimination, which has shaped the world to a globe, the ant to
      its environment, and man to the captaincy of the vertebrates, will not
      fail in this instance either.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever see anything like the way wasps have increased this season?&rdquo;
       said Meehawl; &ldquo;faith, you can&rsquo;t sit down anywhere but your breeches&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Did you leave out a pan of milk on
      last Tuesday?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you take off your hat when you meet a dust twirl?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t neglect that,&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you cut down a thorn bush recently?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d sooner cut my eye out,&rdquo; said Meehawl, &ldquo;and go about as wall-eyed as
      Lorcan O&rsquo;Nualain&rsquo;s ass: I would that. Did you ever see his ass, sir? It&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Did you kill a robin redbreast?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Never,&rdquo; said Meehawl. &ldquo;By the pipers,&rdquo; he added, &ldquo;that old skinny cat of
      mine caught a bird on the roof yesterday.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hah!&rdquo; cried the Philosopher, moving, if it were possible, even closer to
      his client, &ldquo;now we have it. It is the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora
      took your washboard. Go to the Gort at once. There is a hole under a tree
      in the south-east of the field. Try what you will find in that hole.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do that,&rdquo; said Meehawl. &ldquo;Did you ever-&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      So Meehawl MacMurrachu went away and did as he had been bidden, and
      underneath the tree of Gort na Cloca Mora he found a little crock of gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a power of washboards in that,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      By reason of this incident the fame of the Philosopher became even greater
      than it had been before, and also by reason of it many singular events
      were to happen with which you shall duly become acquainted.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IV
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT SO happened that the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora were not thankful
      to the Philosopher for having sent Meehawl MacMurrachu to their field. In
      stealing Meehawl&rsquo;s property they were quite within their rights because
      their bird had undoubtedly been slain by his cat. Not alone, therefore,
      was their righteous vengeance nullified, but the crock of gold which had
      taken their community many thousands of years to amass was stolen. A
      Leprecaun without a pot of gold is like a rose without perfume, a bird
      without a wing, or an inside without an outside. They considered that the
      Philosopher had treated them badly, that his action was mischievous and
      unneighbourly, and that until they were adequately compensated for their
      loss both of treasure and dignity, no conditions other than those of
      enmity could exist between their people and the little house in the pine
      wood. Furthermore, for them the situation was cruelly complicated. They
      were unable to organise a direct, personal hostility against their new
      enemy, because the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath would certainly protect her
      husband. She belonged to the Shee of Croghan Conghaile, who had relatives
      in every fairy fort in Ireland, and were also strongly represented in the
      forts and duns of their immediate neighbours. They could, of course, have
      called an extraordinary meeting of the Sheogs, Leprecauns, and Cluricauns,
      and presented their case with a claim for damages against the Shee of
      Croghan Conghaile, but that Clann would assuredly repudiate any liability
      on the ground that no member of their fraternity was responsible for the
      outrage, as it was the Philosopher, and not the Thin Woman of Inis
      Magrath, who had done the deed. Notwithstanding this they were unwilling
      to let the matter rest, and the fact that justice was out of reach only
      added fury to their anger.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of their number was sent to interview the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath,
      and the others concentrated nightly about the dwelling of Meehawl
      MacMurrachu in an endeavour to recapture the treasure which they were
      quite satisfied was hopeless. They found that Meehawl, who understood the
      customs of the Earth Folk very well, had buried the crock of gold beneath
      a thorn bush, thereby placing it under the protection of every fairy in
      the world&mdash;the Leprecauns themselves included, and until it was
      removed from this place by human hands they were bound to respect its
      hiding-place, and even guarantee its safety with their blood.
    </p>
    <p>
      They afflicted Meehawl with an extraordinary attack of rheumatism and his
      wife with an equally virulent sciatica, but they got no lasting pleasure
      from their groans.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Leprecaun, who had been detailed to visit the Thin Woman of Inis
      Magrath, duly arrived at the cottage in the pine wood and made his
      complaint. The little man wept as he told the story, and the two children
      wept out of sympathy for him. The Thin Woman said she was desperately
      grieved by the whole unpleasant transaction, and that all her sympathies
      were with Gort na Cloca Mora, but that she must disassociate herself from
      any responsibility in the matter as it was her husband who was the
      culpable person, and that she had no control over his mental processes,
      which, she concluded, was one of the seven curious things in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      As her husband was away in a distant part of the wood nothing further
      could be done at that time, so the Leprecaun returned again to his fellows
      without any good news, but he promised to come back early on the following
      day. When the Philosopher come home late that night the Thin Woman was
      waiting up for him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;you ought to be in bed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ought I indeed?&rdquo; said the Thin Woman. &ldquo;I&rsquo;d have you know that I&rsquo;ll go to
      bed when I like and get up when I like without asking your or any one
      else&rsquo;s permission.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not true,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;You get sleepy whether you like
      it or not, and you awaken again without your permission being asked. Like
      many other customs such as singing, dancing, music, and acting, sleep has
      crept into popular favour as part of a religious ceremonial. Nowhere can
      one go to sleep more easily than in a church.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;that a Leprecaun came here to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;and notwithstanding the innumerable
      centuries which have elapsed since that first sleeper (probably with
      extreme difficulty) sank into his religious trance, we can to-day sleep
      through a religious ceremony with an ease which would have been a source
      of wealth and fame to that prehistoric worshipper and his acolytes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going to listen to what I am telling you about the Leprecaun?&rdquo;
       said the Thin Woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;It has been suggested that we go to
      sleep at night because it is then too dark to do anything else; but owls,
      who are a venerably sagacious folk, do not sleep in the night time. Bats,
      also, are a very clear-minded race; they sleep in the broadest day, and
      they do it in a charming manner. They clutch the branch of a tree with
      their toes and hang head downwards&mdash;a position which I consider
      singularly happy, for the rush of blood to the head consequent on this
      inverted position should engender a drowsiness and a certain imbecility of
      mind which must either sleep or explode.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you never be done talking?&rdquo; shouted the Thin Woman passionately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;In certain ways sleep is useful. It
      is an excellent way of listening to an opera or seeing pictures on a
      bioscope. As a medium for day-dreams I know of nothing that can equal it.
      As an accomplishment it is graceful, but as a means of spending a night it
      is intolerably ridiculous. If you were going to say anything, my love,
      please say it now, but you should always remember to think before you
      speak. A woman should be seen seldom but never heard. Quietness is the
      beginning of virtue. To be silent is to be beautiful. Stars do not make a
      noise. Children should always be in bed. These are serious truths, which
      cannot be controverted; therefore, silence is fitting as regards them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your stirabout is on the hob,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman. &ldquo;You can get it for
      yourself. I would not move the breadth of my nail if you were dying of
      hunger. I hope there&rsquo;s lumps in it. A Leprecaun from Gort na Cloca Mora
      was here to-day. They&rsquo;ll give it to you for robbing their pot of gold. You
      old thief, you! you lobeared, crock-kneed fat-eye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Thin Woman whizzed suddenly from where she stood and leaped into bed.
      From beneath the blanket she turned a vivid, furious eye on her husband.
      She was trying to give him rheumatism and toothache and lockjaw all at
      once. If she had been satisfied to concentrate her attention on one only
      of these torments she might have succeeded in afflicting her husband
      according to her wish, but she was not able to do that.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Finality is death. Perfection is finality. Nothing is perfect. There are
      lumps in it,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER V
    </h2>
    <p>
      WHEN the Leprecaun came through the pine wood on the following day he met
      two children at a little distance from the house. He raised his open right
      hand above his head (this is both the fairy and the Gaelic form of
      salutation), and would have passed on but that a thought brought him to a
      halt. Sitting down before the two children he stared at them for a long
      time, and they stared back at him. At last he said to the boy:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is your name, a vic vig O?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seumas Beg, sir,&rdquo; the boy replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a little name,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s what my mother calls me, sir,&rdquo; returned the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does your father call you,&rdquo; was the next question.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seumas Roghan Maelduin O&rsquo;Carbhail Mac an Droid.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a big name,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun, and he turned to the little girl.
      &ldquo;What is your name, a cailin vig O?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Brigid Beg, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what does your father call you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He never calls me at all, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Seumaseen and Breedeen, you are good little children, and I like
      you very much. Health be with you until I come to see you again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then the Leprecaun went back the way he had come. As he went he made
      little jumps and cracked his fingers, and sometimes he rubbed one leg
      against the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a nice Leprecaun,&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like him too,&rdquo; said Brigid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Listen,&rdquo; said Seumas, &ldquo;let me be the Leprecaun, and you be the two
      children, and I will ask you our names.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So they did that.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day the Leprecaun came again. He sat down beside the children
      and, as before, he was silent for a little time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you not going to ask us our names, sir?&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      His sister smoothed out her dress shyly. &ldquo;My name, sir, is Brigid Beg,&rdquo;
       said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever play Jackstones?&rdquo; said the Leprecaun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; replied Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll teach you how to play Jackstones,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun, and he picked
      up some pine cones and taught the children that game.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever play Ball in the Decker?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever play &lsquo;I can make a nail with my ree-roraddy-O, I can make a
      nail with my ree-ro-ray&rsquo;?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; replied Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a nice game,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun, &ldquo;and so is Capon-the-back, and
      Twenty-four yards on the Billy-goat&rsquo;s Tail, and Towns, and Relievo, and
      Leap-frog. I&rsquo;ll teach you all these games,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll
      teach you how to play Knifey, and Hole-and-taw, and Horneys and Robbers.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leap-frog is the best one to start with, so I&rsquo;ll teach it to you at once.
      Let you bend down like this, Breedeen, and you bend down like that a good
      distance away, Seumas. Now I jump over Breedeen&rsquo;s back, and then I run and
      jump over Seumaseen&rsquo;s back like this, and then I run ahead again and I
      bend down. Now, Breedeen, you jump over your brother, and then you jump
      over me, and run a good bit on and bend down again. Now, Seumas, it&rsquo;s your
      turn; you jump over me and then over your sister, and then you run on and
      bend down again and I jump.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is a fine game, sir,&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is, a vic vig,&mdash;keep in your head,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s a
      good jump, you couldn&rsquo;t beat that jump, Seumas.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can jump better than Brigid already,&rdquo; replied Seumas, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll jump as
      well as you do when I get more practice&mdash;keep in your head, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Almost without noticing it they had passed through the edge of the wood,
      and were playing into a rough field which was cumbered with big, grey
      rocks. It was the very last field in sight, and behind it the rough,
      heather-packed mountain sloped distantly away to the skyline. There was a
      raggedy blackberry hedge all round the field, and there were long, tough,
      haggard-looking plants growing in clumps here and there. Near a corner of
      this field there was a broad, low tree, and as they played they came near
      and nearer to it. The Leprecaun gave a back very close to the tree. Seumas
      ran and jumped and slid down a hole at the side of the tree. Then Brigid
      ran and jumped and slid down the same hole.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me!&rdquo; said Brigid, and she flashed out of sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Leprecaun cracked his fingers and rubbed one leg against the other,
      and then he also dived into the hole and disappeared from view.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the time at which the children usually went home had passed, the Thin
      Woman of Inis Magrath became a little anxious. She had never known them to
      be late for dinner before. There was one of the children whom she hated;
      it was her own child, but as she had forgotten which of them was hers, and
      as she loved one of them, she was compelled to love both for fear of
      making a mistake and chastising the child for whom her heart secretly
      yearned. Therefore, she was equally concerned about both of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dinner time passed and supper time arrived, but the children did not.
      Again and again the Thin Woman went out through the dark pine trees and
      called until she was so hoarse that she could not even hear herself when
      she roared. The evening wore on to the night, and while she waited for the
      Philosopher to come in she reviewed the situation. Her husband had not
      come in, the children had not come in, the Leprecaun had not returned as
      arranged.... A light flashed upon her. The Leprecaun had kidnapped her
      children! She announced a vengeance against the Leprecauns which would
      stagger humanity. While in the extreme centre of her ecstasy the
      Philosopher came through the trees and entered the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Thin Woman flew to him-&ldquo;Husband,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;the Leprecauns of Gort na
      Cloca Mora have kidnapped our children.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher gazed at her for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kidnapping,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;has been for many centuries a favourite occupation
      of fairies, gypsies, and the brigands of the East. The usual procedure is
      to attach a person and hold it to ransom. If the ransom is not paid an ear
      or a finger may be cut from the captive and despatched to those
      interested, with the statement that an arm or a leg will follow in a week
      unless suitable arrangements are entered into.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you understand,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman passionately, &ldquo;that it is your
      own children who have been kidnapped?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;This course, however, is rarely
      followed by the fairy people: they do not ordinarily steal for ransom, but
      for love of thieving, or from some other obscure and possibly functional
      causes, and the victim is retained in their forts or duns until by the
      effluxion of time they forget their origin and become peaceable citizens
      of the fairy state. Kidnapping is not by any means confined to either
      humanity or the fairy people.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monster,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman in a deep voice, &ldquo;will you listen to me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Many of the insectivora also practice
      this custom. Ants, for example, are a respectable race living in
      well-ordered communities. They have attained to a most complex and
      artificial civilization, and will frequently adventure far afield on
      colonising or other expeditions from whence they return with a rich booty
      of aphides and other stock, who thenceforward become the servants and
      domestic creatures of the republic. As they neither kill nor eat their
      captives, this practice will be termed kidnapping. The same may be said of
      bees, a hardy and industrious race living in hexagonal cells which are
      very difficult to make. Sometimes, on lacking a queen of their own, they
      have been observed to abduct one from a less powerful neighbour, and use
      her for their own purposes without shame, mercy, or remorse.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you not understand?&rdquo; screamed the Thin Woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Semi-tropical apes have been rumoured
      to kidnap children, and are reported to use them very tenderly indeed,
      sharing their coconuts, yams, plantains, and other equatorial provender
      with the largest generosity, and conveying their delicate captives from
      tree to tree (often at great distances from each other and from the
      ground) with the most guarded solicitude and benevolence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to bed,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;your stirabout is on the hob.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are there lumps in it, my dear?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope there are,&rdquo; replied the Thin Woman, and she leaped into bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      That night the Philosopher was afflicted with the most extraordinary
      attack of rheumatism he had ever known, nor did he get any ease until the
      grey morning wearied his lady into a reluctant slumber.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VI
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE Thin Woman of Inis Magrath slept very late that morning, but when she
      did awaken her impatience was so urgent that she could scarcely delay to
      eat her breakfast. Immediately after she had eaten she put on her bonnet
      and shawl and went through the pine wood in the direction of Gort na Cloca
      Mora. In a short time she reached the rocky field, and, walking over to
      the tree in the southeast corner, she picked up a small stone and hammered
      loudly against the trunk of the tree. She hammered in a peculiar fashion,
      giving two knocks and then three knocks, and then one knock. A voice came
      up from the hole.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is that, please?&rdquo; said the voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ban na Droid of Inis Magrath, and well you know it,&rdquo; was her reply.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am coming up, Noble Woman,&rdquo; said the voice, and in another moment the
      Leprecaun leaped out of the hole.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are Seumas and Brigid Beg?&rdquo; said the Thin Woman sternly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How would I know where they are?&rdquo; replied the Leprecaun. &ldquo;Wouldn&rsquo;t they
      be at home now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If they were at home I wouldn&rsquo;t have come here looking for them,&rdquo; was her
      reply. &ldquo;It is my belief that you have them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Search me,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun, opening his waistcoat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are down there in your little house,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman angrily,
      &ldquo;and the sooner you let them up the better it will be for yourself and
      your five brothers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble Woman,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun, &ldquo;you can go down yourself into our
      little house and look. I can&rsquo;t say fairer than that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t fit down there,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m too big.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know the way for making yourself little,&rdquo; replied the Leprecaun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I mightn&rsquo;t be able to make myself big again,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman,
      &ldquo;and then you and your dirty brothers would have it all your own way. If
      you don&rsquo;t let the children up,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll raise the Shee of
      Croghan Conghaile against you. You know what happened to the Cluricauns of
      Oilean na Glas when they stole the Queen&rsquo;s baby&mdash;It will be a worse
      thing than that for you. If the children are not back in my house before
      moonrise this night, I&rsquo;ll go round to my people. Just tell that to your
      five ugly brothers. Health with you,&rdquo; she added, and strode away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Health with yourself, Noble Woman,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun, and he stood on
      one leg until she was out of sight and then he slid down into the hole
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Thin Woman was going back through the pine wood she saw Meehawl
      MacMurrachu travelling in the same direction and his brows were in a
      tangle of perplexity.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be with you, Meehawl MacMurrachu,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God and Mary be with you, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;I am in great trouble this
      day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why wouldn&rsquo;t you be?&rdquo; said the Thin Woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I came up to have a talk with your husband about a particular thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If it&rsquo;s talk you want you have come to a good house, Meehawl.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a powerful man right enough,&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a few minutes the Thin Woman spoke again. &ldquo;I can get the reek of his
      pipe from here. Let you go right in to him now and I&rsquo;ll stay outside for a
      while, for the sound of your two voices would give me a pain in my head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whatever will please you will please me, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said her companion, and
      he went into the little house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meehawl MacMurrachu had good reason to be perplexed. He was the father of
      one child only, and she was the most beautiful girl in the whole world.
      The pity of it was that no one at all knew she was beautiful, and she did
      not even know it herself. At times when she bathed in the eddy of a
      mountain stream and saw her reflection looking up from the placid water
      she thought that she looked very nice, and then a great sadness would come
      upon her, for what is the use of looking nice if there is nobody to see
      one&rsquo;s beauty? Beauty, also, is usefulness. The arts as well as the crafts,
      the graces equally with the utilities must stand up in the marketplace and
      be judged by the gombeen men.
    </p>
    <p>
      The only house near to her father&rsquo;s was that occupied by Bessie Hannigan.
      The other few houses were scattered widely with long, quiet miles of hill
      and bog between them, so that she had hardly seen more than a couple of
      men beside her father since she was born. She helped her father and mother
      in all the small businesses of their house, and every day also she drove
      their three cows and two goats to pasture on the mountain slopes. Here
      through the sunny days the years had passed in a slow, warm
      thoughtlessness wherein, without thinking, many thoughts had entered into
      her mind and many pictures hung for a moment like birds in the thin air.
      At first, and for a long time, she had been happy enough; there were many
      things in which a child might be interested: the spacious heavens which
      never wore the same beauty on any day; the innumerable little creatures
      living among the grasses or in the heather; the steep swing of a bird down
      from the mountain to the infinite plains below; the little flowers which
      were so contented each in its peaceful place; the bees gathering food for
      their houses, and the stout beetles who are always losing their way in the
      dusk. These things, and many others, interested her. The three cows after
      they had grazed for a long time would come and lie by her side and look at
      her as they chewed their cud, and the goats would prance from the bracken
      to push their heads against her breast because they loved her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, everything in her quiet world loved this girl: but very slowly
      there was growing in her consciousness an unrest, a disquietude to which
      she had hitherto been a stranger. Sometimes an infinite weariness
      oppressed her to the earth. A thought was born in her mind and it had no
      name. It was growing and could not be expressed. She had no words
      wherewith to meet it, to exorcise or greet this stranger who, more and
      more insistently and pleadingly, tapped upon her doors and begged to be
      spoken to, admitted and caressed and nourished. A thought is a real thing
      and words are only its raiment, but a thought is as shy as a virgin;
      unless it is fittingly apparelled we may not look on its shadowy
      nakedness: it will fly from us and only return again in the darkness
      crying in a thin, childish voice which we may not comprehend until, with
      aching minds, listening and divining, we at last fashion for it those
      symbols which are its protection and its banner. So she could not
      understand the touch that came to her from afar and yet how intimately,
      the whisper so aloof and yet so thrillingly personal. The standard of
      either language or experience was not hers; she could listen but not
      think, she could feel but not know, her eyes looked forward and did not
      see, her hands groped in the sunlight and felt nothing. It was like the
      edge of a little wind which stirred her tresses but could not lift them,
      or the first white peep of the dawn which is neither light nor darkness.
      But she listened, not with her ears but with her blood. The fingers of her
      soul stretched out to clasp a stranger&rsquo;s hand, and her disquietude was
      quickened through with an eagerness which was neither physical nor mental,
      for neither her body nor her mind was definitely interested. Some dim
      region between these grew alarmed and watched and waited and did not sleep
      or grow weary at all.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning she lay among the long, warm grasses. She watched a bird who
      soared and sang for a little time, and then it sped swiftly away down the
      steep air and out of sight in the blue distance. Even when it was gone the
      song seemed to ring in her ears. It seemed to linger with her as a faint,
      sweet echo, coming fitfully, with little pauses as though a wind disturbed
      it, and careless, distant eddies. After a few moments she knew it was not
      a bird. No bird&rsquo;s song had that consecutive melody, for their themes are
      as careless as their wings. She sat up and looked about her, but there was
      nothing in sight: the mountains sloped gently above her and away to the
      clear sky; around her the scattered clumps of heather were drowsing in the
      sunlight; far below she could see her father&rsquo;s house, a little grey patch
      near some trees-and then the music stopped and left her wondering.
    </p>
    <p>
      She could not find her goats anywhere although for a long time she
      searched. They came to her at last of their own accord from behind a fold
      in the hills, and they were more wildly excited than she had ever seen
      them before. Even the cows forsook their solemnity and broke into awkward
      gambols around her. As she walked home that evening a strange elation
      taught her feet to dance. Hither and thither she flitted in front of the
      beasts and behind them. Her feet tripped to a wayward measure. There was a
      tune in her ears and she danced to it, throwing her arms out and above her
      head and swaying and bending as she went. The full freedom of her body was
      hers now: the lightness and poise and certainty of her limbs delighted
      her, and the strength that did not tire delighted her also. The evening
      was full of peace and quietude, the mellow, dusky sunlight made a path for
      her feet, and everywhere through the wide fields birds were flashing and
      singing, and she sang with them a song that had no words and wanted none.
    </p>
    <p>
      The following day she heard the music again, faint and thin, wonderfully
      sweet and as wild as the song of a bird, but it was a melody which no bird
      would adhere to. A theme was repeated again and again. In the middle of
      trills, grace-notes, runs and catches it recurred with a strange, almost
      holy, solemnity,&mdash;a hushing, slender melody full of austerity and
      aloofness. There was something in it to set her heart beating. She yearned
      to it with her ears and her lips. Was it joy, menace, carelessness? She
      did not know, but this she did know, that however terrible it was personal
      to her. It was her unborn thought strangely audible and felt rather than
      understood.
    </p>
    <p>
      On that day she did not see anybody either. She drove her charges home in
      the evening listlessly and the beasts also were very quiet.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the music came again she made no effort to discover where it came
      from. She only listened, and when the tune was ended she saw a figure rise
      from the fold of a little hill. The sunlight was gleaming from his arms
      and shoulders but the rest of his body was hidden by the bracken, and he
      did not look at her as he went away playing softly on a double pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day he did look at her. He stood waist-deep in greenery fronting
      her squarely. She had never seen so strange a face before. Her eyes almost
      died on him as she gazed and he returned her look for a long minute with
      an intent, expressionless regard. His hair was a cluster of brown curls,
      his nose was little and straight, and his wide mouth drooped sadly at the
      corners. His eyes were wide and most mournful, and his forehead was very
      broad and white. His sad eyes and mouth almost made her weep.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he turned away he smiled at her, and it was as though the sun had
      shone suddenly in a dark place, banishing all sadness and gloom. Then he
      went mincingly away. As he went he lifted the slender double reed to his
      lips and blew a few careless notes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next day he fronted her as before, looking down to her eyes from a
      short distance. He played for only a few moments, and fitfully, and then
      he came to her. When he left the bracken the girl suddenly clapped her
      hands against her eyes affrighted. There was something different, terrible
      about him. The upper part of his body was beautiful, but the lower
      part.... She dared not look at him again. She would have risen and fled
      away but she feared he might pursue her, and the thought of such a chase
      and the inevitable capture froze her blood. The thought of anything behind
      us is always terrible. The sound of pursuing feet is worse than the murder
      from which we fly&mdash;So she sat still and waited but nothing happened.
      At last, desperately, she dropped her hands. He was sitting on the ground
      a few paces from her. He was not looking at her but far away sidewards
      across the spreading hill. His legs were crossed; they were shaggy and
      hoofed like the legs of a goat: but she would not look at these because of
      his wonderful, sad, grotesque face. Gaiety is good to look upon and an
      innocent face is delightful to our souls, but no woman can resist sadness
      or weakness, and ugliness she dare not resist. Her nature leaps to be the
      comforter. It is her reason. It exalts her to an ecstasy wherein nothing
      but the sacrifice of herself has any proportion. Men are not fathers by
      instinct but by chance, but women are mothers beyond thought, beyond
      instinct which is the father of thought. Motherliness, pity,
      self-sacrifice&mdash;these are the charges of her primal cell, and not
      even the discovery that men are comedians, liars, and egotists will wean
      her from this. As she looked at the pathos of his face she repudiated the
      hideousness of his body. The beast which is in all men is glossed by
      women; it is his childishness, the destructive energy inseparable from
      youth and high spirits, and it is always forgiven by women, often
      forgotten, sometimes, and not rarely, cherished and fostered.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a few moments of this silence he placed the reed to his lips and
      played a plaintive little air, and then he spoke to her in a strange
      voice, coming like a wind from distant places.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is your name, Shepherd Girl?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Caitilin, Ingin Ni Murrachu,&rdquo; she whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Daughter of Murrachu,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I have come from a far place where there
      are high hills. The men and maidens who follow their flocks in that place
      know me and love me for I am the Master of the Shepherds. They sing and
      dance and are glad when I come to them in the sunlight; but in this
      country no people have done any reverence to me. The shepherds fly away
      when they hear my pipes in the pastures; the maidens scream in fear when I
      dance to them in the meadows. I am very lonely in this strange country.
      You also, although you danced to the music of my pipes, have covered your
      face against me and made no reverence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will do whatever you say if it is right,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must not do anything because it is right, but because it is your
      wish. Right is a word and Wrong is a word, but the sun shines in the
      morning and the dew falls in the dusk without thinking of these words
      which have no meaning. The bee flies to the flower and the seed goes
      abroad and is happy. Is that right, Shepherd Girl?&mdash;it is wrong also.
      I come to you because the bee goes to the flower&mdash;it is wrong! If I
      did not come to you to whom would I go? There is no right and no wrong but
      only the will of the gods.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am afraid of you,&rdquo; said the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You fear me because my legs are shaggy like the legs of a goat. Look at
      them well, O Maiden, and know that they are indeed the legs of a beast and
      then you will not be afraid any more. Do you not love beasts? Surely you
      should love them for they yearn to you humbly or fiercely, craving your
      hand upon their heads as I do. If I were not fashioned thus I would not
      come to you because I would not need you. Man is a god and a brute. He
      aspires to the stars with his head but his feet are contented in the
      grasses of the field, and when he forsakes the brute upon which he stands
      then there will be no more men and no more women and the immortal gods
      will blow this world away like smoke.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what you want me to do,&rdquo; said the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you to want me. I want you to forget right and wrong; to be as
      happy as the beasts, as careless as the flowers and the birds. To live to
      the depths of your nature as well as to the heights. Truly there are stars
      in the heights and they will be a garland for your forehead. But the
      depths are equal to the heights. Wondrous deep are the depths, very
      fertile is the lowest deep. There are stars there also, brighter than the
      stars on high. The name of the heights is Wisdom and the name of the
      depths is Love. How shall they come together and be fruitful if you do not
      plunge deeply and fearlessly? Wisdom is the spirit and the wings of the
      spirit, Love is the shaggy beast that goes down. Gallantly he dives, below
      thought, beyond Wisdom, to rise again as high above these as he had first
      descended. Wisdom is righteous and clean, but Love is unclean and holy. I
      sing of the beast and the descent: the great unclean purging itself in
      fire: the thought that is not born in the measure or the ice or the head,
      but in the feet and the hot blood and the pulse of fury. The Crown of Life
      is not lodged in the sun: the wise gods have buried it deeply where the
      thoughtful will not find it, nor the good: but the Gay Ones, the
      Adventurous Ones, the Careless Plungers, they will bring it to the wise
      and astonish them. All things are seen in the light&mdash;How shall we
      value that which is easy to see? But the precious things which are hidden,
      they will be more precious for our search: they will be beautiful with our
      sorrow: they will be noble because of our desire for them. Come away with
      me, Shepherd Girl, through the fields, and we will be careless and happy,
      and we will leave thought to find us when it can, for that is the duty of
      thought, and it is more anxious to discover us than we are to be found.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So Caitilin Ni Murrachu arose and went with him through the fields, and
      she did not go with him because of love, nor because his words had been
      understood by her, but only because he was naked and unashamed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VII
    </h2>
    <p>
      IT was on account of his daughter that Meehawl MacMurrachu had come to
      visit the Philosopher. He did not know what had become of her, and the
      facts he had to lay before his adviser were very few.
    </p>
    <p>
      He left the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath taking snuff under a pine tree and
      went into the house.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be with all here,&rdquo; said he as he entered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be with yourself, Meehawl MacMurrachu,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am in great trouble this day, sir,&rdquo; said Meehawl, &ldquo;and if you would
      give me an advice I&rsquo;d be greatly beholden to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can give you that,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None better than your honour and no trouble to you either. It was a
      powerful advice you gave me about the washboard, and if I didn&rsquo;t come here
      to thank you before this it was not because I didn&rsquo;t want to come, but
      that I couldn&rsquo;t move hand or foot by dint of the cruel rheumatism put upon
      me by the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora, bad cess to them for ever:
      twisted I was the way you&rsquo;d get a squint in your eye if you only looked at
      me, and the pain I suffered would astonish you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No matter,&rdquo; said Meehawl. &ldquo;What I came about was my young daughter
      Caitilin. Sight or light of her I haven&rsquo;t had for three days. My wife said
      first, that it was the fairies had taken her, and then she said it was a
      travelling man that had a musical instrument she went away with, and after
      that she said, that maybe the girl was lying dead in the butt of a ditch
      with her eyes wide open, and she staring broadly at the moon in the night
      time and the sun in the day until the crows would be finding her out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher drew his chair closer to Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Daughters,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;have been a cause of anxiety to their parents ever
      since they were instituted. The flightiness of the female temperament is
      very evident in those who have not arrived at the years which teach how to
      hide faults and frailties, and, therefore, indiscretions bristle from a
      young girl the way branches do from a bush.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The person who would deny that&mdash;&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Female children, however, have the particular sanction of nature. They
      are produced in astonishing excess over males, and may, accordingly, be
      admitted as dominant to the male; but the well-proven law that the
      minority shall always control the majority will relieve our minds from a
      fear which might otherwise become intolerable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s true enough,&rdquo; said Meehawl. &ldquo;Have you noticed, sir, that in a litter
      of pups&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Certain trades and professions, it is
      curious to note, tend to be perpetuated in the female line. The sovereign
      profession among bees and ants is always female, and publicans also
      descend on the distaff side. You will have noticed that every publican has
      three daughters of extraordinary charms. Lacking these signs we would do
      well to look askance at such a man&rsquo;s liquor, divining that in his brew
      there will be an undue percentage of water, for if his primogeniture is
      infected how shall his honesty escape?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would take a wise head to answer that,&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Throughout nature the female tends
      to polygamy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If,&rdquo; said Meehawl, &ldquo;that unfortunate daughter of mine is lying dead in a
      ditch&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Many races have endeavoured to
      place some limits to this increase in females. Certain Oriental peoples
      have conferred the titles of divinity on crocodiles, serpents, and tigers
      of the jungle, and have fed these with their surplusage of daughters. In
      China, likewise, such sacrifices are defended as honourable and economic
      practices. But, broadly speaking, if daughters have to be curtailed I
      prefer your method of losing them rather than the religio-hysterical
      compromises of the Orient.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I give you my word, sir,&rdquo; said Meehawl, &ldquo;that I don&rsquo;t know what you are
      talking about at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;may be accounted for in three ways&mdash;firstly,
      there is a lack of cerebral continuity: that is, faulty attention;
      secondly, it might be due to a local peculiarity in the conformation of
      the skull, or, perhaps, a superficial instead of a deep indenting of the
      cerebral coil; and thirdly&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you ever hear,&rdquo; said Meehawl, &ldquo;of the man that had the scalp of his
      head blown off by a gun, and they soldered the bottom of a tin dish to the
      top of his skull the way you could hear his brains ticking inside of it
      for all the world like a Waterbury watch?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Thirdly, it may&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s my daughter, Caitilin, sir,&rdquo; said Meehawl humbly. &ldquo;Maybe she is
      lying in the butt of a ditch and the crows picking her eyes out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did she die of?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My wife only put it that maybe she was dead, and that maybe she was taken
      by the fairies, and that maybe she went away with the travelling man that
      had the musical instrument. She said it was a concertina, but I think
      myself it was a flute he had.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who was this traveller?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never saw him,&rdquo; said Meehawl, &ldquo;but one day I went a few perches up the
      hill and I heard him playing&mdash;thin, squeaky music it was like you&rsquo;d
      be blowing out of a tin whistle. I looked about for him everywhere, but
      not a bit of him could I see.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Eh?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I looked about&mdash;&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Did you happen to look at your goats?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t well help doing that,&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What were they doing?&rdquo; said the Philosopher eagerly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They were bucking each other across the field, and standing on their hind
      legs and cutting such capers that I laughed till I had a pain in my
      stomach at the gait of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is very interesting,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you tell me so?&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;and for this reason-most of the races of
      the world have at one time or another&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s my little daughter, Caitilin, sir,&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m attending to her,&rdquo; the Philosopher replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you kindly,&rdquo; returned Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher continued &ldquo;Most of the races of the world have at one time
      or another been visited by this deity, whose title is the &lsquo;Great God Pan,&rsquo; 
      but there is no record of his ever having journeyed to Ireland, and,
      certainly within historic times, he has not set foot on these shores. He
      lived for a great number of years in Egypt, Persia, and Greece, and
      although his empire is supposed to be world-wide, this universal sway has
      always been, and always will be, contested; but nevertheless, however
      sharply his empire may be curtailed, he will never be without a kingdom
      wherein his exercise of sovereign rights will be gladly and passionately
      acclaimed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is he one of the old gods, sir?&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher, &ldquo;and his coming intends no good to this
      country. Have you any idea why he should have captured your daughter?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not an idea in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is your daughter beautiful?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t tell you, because I never thought of looking at her that way.
      But she is a good milker, and as strong as a man. She can lift a bag of
      meal under her arm easier than I can; but she&rsquo;s a timid creature for all
      that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Whatever the reason is I am certain that he has the girl, and I am
      inclined to think that he was directed to her by the Leprecauns of the
      Gort. You know they are at feud with you ever since their bird was
      killed?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not likely to forget it, and they racking me day and night with
      torments.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may be sure,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;that if he&rsquo;s anywhere at all
      it&rsquo;s at Gort na Cloca Mora he is, for, being a stranger, he wouldn&rsquo;t know
      where to go unless he was directed, and they know every hole and corner of
      this countryside since ancient times. I&rsquo;d go up myself and have a talk
      with him, but it wouldn&rsquo;t be a bit of good, and it wouldn&rsquo;t be any use
      your going either. He has power over all grown people so that they either
      go and get drunk or else they fall in love with every person they meet,
      and commit assaults and things I wouldn&rsquo;t like to be telling you about.
      The only folk who can go near him at all are little children, because he
      has no power over them until they grow to the sensual age, and then he
      exercises lordship over them as over every one else. I&rsquo;ll send my two
      children with a message to him to say that he isn&rsquo;t doing the decent
      thing, and that if he doesn&rsquo;t let the girl alone and go back to his own
      country we&rsquo;ll send for Angus Og.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;d make short work of him, I&rsquo;m thinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He might surely; but he may take the girl for himself all the same.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;d sooner he had her than the other one, for he&rsquo;s one of ourselves
      anyhow, and the devil you know is better than the devil you don&rsquo;t know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Angus Og is a god,&rdquo; said the Philosopher severely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know that, sir,&rdquo; replied Meehawl; &ldquo;it&rsquo;s only a way of talking I have.
      But how will your honour get at Angus? for I heard say that he hadn&rsquo;t been
      seen for a hundred years, except one night only when he talked to a man
      for half an hour on Kilmasheogue.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll find him, sure enough,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll warrant you will,&rdquo; replied Meehawl heartily as he stood up. &ldquo;Long
      life and good health to your honour,&rdquo; said he as he turned away.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher lit his pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We live as long as we are let,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and we get the health we
      deserve. Your salutation embodies a reflection on death which is not
      philosophic. We must acquiesce in all logical progressions. The merging of
      opposites is completion. Life runs to death as to its goal, and we should
      go towards that next stage of experience either carelessly as to what must
      be, or with a good, honest curiosity as to what may be.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s not much fun in being dead, sir,&rdquo; said Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know well enough,&rdquo; replied Meehawl.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER VIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      WHEN the children leaped into the hole at the foot of the tree they found
      themselves sliding down a dark, narrow slant which dropped them softly
      enough into a little room. This room was hollowed out immediately under
      the tree, and great care had been taken not to disturb any of the roots
      which ran here and there through the chamber in the strangest criss-cross,
      twisted fashion. To get across such a place one had to walk round, and
      jump over, and duck under perpetually. Some of the roots had formed
      themselves very conveniently into low seats and narrow, uneven tables, and
      at the bottom all the roots ran into the floor and away again in the
      direction required by their business. After the clear air outside this
      place was very dark to the children&rsquo;s eyes, so that they could not see
      anything for a few minutes, but after a little time their eyes became
      accustomed to the semiobscurity and they were able to see quite well. The
      first things they became aware of were six small men who were seated on
      low roots. They were all dressed in tight green clothes and little
      leathern aprons, and they wore tall green hats which wobbled when they
      moved. They were all busily engaged making shoes. One was drawing out wax
      ends on his knee, another was softening pieces of leather in a bucket of
      water, another was polishing the instep of a shoe with a piece of curved
      bone, another was paring down a heel with a short broad-bladed knife, and
      another was hammering wooden pegs into a sole. He had all the pegs in his
      mouth, which gave him a widefaced, jolly expression, and according as a
      peg was wanted he blew it into his hand and hit it twice with his hammer,
      and then he blew another peg, and he always blew the peg with the right
      end uppermost, and never had to hit it more than twice. He was a person
      well worth watching.
    </p>
    <p>
      The children had slid down so unexpectedly that they almost forgot their
      good manners, but as soon as Seumas Beg discovered that he was really in a
      room he removed his cap and stood up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be with all here,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Leprecaun who had brought them lifted Brigid from the floor to which
      amazement still constrained her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sit down on that little root, child of my heart,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and you can
      knit stockings for us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, sir,&rdquo; said Brigid meekly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Leprecaun took four knitting needles and a ball of green wool from the
      top of a high, horizontal root. He had to climb over one, go round three
      and climb up two roots to get at it, and he did this so easily that it did
      not seem a bit of trouble. He gave the needles and wool to Brigid Beg.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know how to turn the heel, Brigid Beg?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; said Brigid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, I&rsquo;ll show you how when you come to it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other six Leprecauns had ceased work and were looking at the children.
      Seumas turned to them.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God bless the work,&rdquo; said he politely.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the Leprecauns, who had a grey, puckered face and a thin fringe of
      grey whisker very far under his chin, then spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come over here, Seumas Beg,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll measure you for a pair of
      shoes. Put your foot up on that root.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy did so, and the Leprecaun took the measure of his foot with a
      wooden rule.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, Brigid Beg, show me your foot,&rdquo; and he measured her also. &ldquo;They&rsquo;ll
      be ready for you in the morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you never do anything else but make shoes, sir?&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We do not,&rdquo; replied the Leprecaun, &ldquo;except when we want new clothes, and
      then we have to make them, but we grudge every minute spent making
      anything else except shoes, because that is the proper work for a
      Leprecaun. In the night time we go about the country into people&rsquo;s houses
      and we clip little pieces off their money, and so, bit by bit, we get a
      crock of gold together, because, do you see, a Leprecaun has to have a
      crock of gold so that if he&rsquo;s captured by men folk he may be able to
      ransom himself. But that seldom happens, because it&rsquo;s a great disgrace
      altogether to be captured by a man, and we&rsquo;ve practiced so long dodging
      among the roots here that we can easily get away from them. Of course, now
      and again we are caught; but men are fools, and we always escape without
      having to pay the ransom at all. We wear green clothes because it&rsquo;s the
      colour of the grass and the leaves, and when we sit down under a bush or
      lie in the grass they just walk by without noticing us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you let me see your crock of gold?&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Leprecaun looked at him fixedly for a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you like griddle bread and milk?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like it well,&rdquo; Seumas answered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then you had better have some,&rdquo; and the Leprecaun took a piece of griddle
      bread from the shelf and filled two saucers with milk.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the children were eating the Leprecauns asked them many questions
      &ldquo;What time do you get up in the morning?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Seven o&rsquo;clock,&rdquo; replied Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what do you have for breakfast?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stirabout and milk,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s good food,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun. &ldquo;What do you have for dinner?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Potatoes and milk,&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s not bad at all,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun. &ldquo;And what do you have for
      supper?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Brigid answered this time because her brother&rsquo;s mouth was full.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bread and milk, sir,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s nothing better,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then we go to bed,&rdquo; continued Brigid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why wouldn&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; said the Leprecaun.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was at this point the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath knocked on the tree
      trunk and demanded that the children should be returned to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she had gone away the Leprecauns held a consultation, whereat it was
      decided that they could not afford to anger the Thin Woman and the Shee of
      Croghan Conghaile, so they shook hands with the children and bade them
      good-bye. The Leprecaun who had enticed them away from home brought them
      back again, and on parting he begged the children to visit Gort na Cloca
      Mora whenever they felt inclined.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s always a bit of griddle bread or potato cake, and a noggin of
      milk for a friend,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are very kind, sir,&rdquo; replied Seumas, and his sister said the same
      words.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the Leprecaun walked away they stood watching him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you remember,&rdquo; said Seumas, &ldquo;the way he hopped and waggled his leg the
      last time he was here?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do so,&rdquo; replied Brigid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, he isn&rsquo;t hopping or doing anything at all this time,&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s not in good humour to-night,&rdquo; said Brigid, &ldquo;but I like him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So do I,&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they went into the house the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath was very glad
      to see them, and she baked a cake with currants in it, and also gave them
      both stir-about and potatoes; but the Philosopher did not notice that they
      had been away at all. He said at last that &ldquo;talking was bad wit, that
      women were always making a fuss, that children should be fed, but not
      fattened, and that beds were meant to be slept in.&rdquo; The Thin Woman replied
      &ldquo;that he was a grisly old man without bowels, that she did not know what
      she had married him for, that he was three times her age, and that no one
      would believe what she had to put up with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER IX
    </h2>
    <p>
      PURSUANT to his arrangement with Meehawl MacMurrachu, the Philosopher sent
      the children in search of Pan. He gave them the fullest instructions as to
      how they should address the Sylvan Deity, and then, having received the
      admonishments of the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath, the children departed in
      the early morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they reached the clearing in the pine wood, through which the sun was
      blazing, they sat down for a little while to rest in the heat. Birds were
      continually darting down this leafy shaft, and diving away into the dark
      wood. These birds always had something in their beaks. One would have a
      worm, or a snail, or a grasshopper, or a little piece of wool torn off a
      sheep, or a scrap of cloth, or a piece of hay; and when they had put these
      things in a certain place they flew up the sun-shaft again and looked for
      something else to bring home. On seeing the children each of the birds
      waggled his wings, and made a particular sound. They said &ldquo;caw&rdquo; and &ldquo;chip&rdquo;
       and &ldquo;twit&rdquo; and &ldquo;tut&rdquo; and &ldquo;what&rdquo; and &ldquo;pit&rdquo;; and one, whom the youngsters
      liked very much, always said &ldquo;tit-tittit-tit-tit.&rdquo; The children were fond
      of him because he was so all-of-asudden. They never knew where he was
      going to fly next, and they did not believe he knew himself. He would fly
      backwards and forwards, and up and down, and sideways and bawways&mdash;all,
      so to speak, in the one breath. He did this because he was curious to see
      what was happening everywhere, and, as something is always happening
      everywhere, he was never able to fly in a straight line for more than the
      littlest distance. He was a cowardly bird too, and continually fancied
      that some person was going to throw a stone at him from behind a bush, or
      a wall, or a tree, and these imaginary dangers tended to make his
      journeyings still more wayward and erratic. He never flew where he wanted
      to go himself, but only where God directed him, and so he did not fare at
      all badly.
    </p>
    <p>
      The children knew each of the birds by their sounds, and always said these
      words to them when they came near. For a little time they had difficulty
      in saying the right word to the right bird, and sometimes said &ldquo;chip&rdquo; when
      the salutation should have been &ldquo;tut.&rdquo; The birds always resented this, and
      would scold them angrily, but after a little practice they never made any
      mistakes at all. There was one bird, a big, black fellow, who loved to be
      talked to. He used to sit on the ground beside the children, and say &ldquo;caw&rdquo;
       as long as they would repeat it after him. He often wasted a whole morning
      in talk, but none of the other birds remained for more than a few minutes
      at a time. They were always busy in the morning, but in the evening they
      had more leisure, and would stay and chat as long as the children wanted
      them. The awkward thing was that in the evening all the birds wanted to
      talk at the same moment, so that the youngsters never knew which of them
      to answer. Seumas Beg got out of that difficulty for a while by learning
      to whistle their notes, but, even so, they spoke with such rapidity that
      he could not by any means keep pace with them. Brigid could only whistle
      one note; it was a little flat &ldquo;whoo&rdquo; sound, which the birds all laughed
      at, and after a few trials she refused to whistle any more.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they were sitting two rabbits came to play about in the brush. They
      ran round and round in a circle, and all their movements were very quick
      and twisty. Sometimes they jumped over each other six or seven times in
      succession, and every now and then they sat upright on their hind legs,
      and washed their faces with their paws. At other times they picked up a
      blade of grass, which they ate with great deliberation, pretending all the
      time that it was a complicated banquet of cabbage leaves and lettuce.
    </p>
    <p>
      While the children were playing with the rabbits an ancient, stalwart
      he-goat came prancing through the bracken. He was an old acquaintance of
      theirs, and he enjoyed lying beside them to have his forehead scratched
      with a piece of sharp stick. His forehead was hard as rock, and the hair
      grew there as sparse as grass does on a wall, or rather the way moss grows
      on a wall&mdash;it was a mat instead of a crop. His horns were long and
      very sharp, and brilliantly polished. On this day the he-goat had two
      chains around his neck&mdash;one was made of butter-cups and the other was
      made of daisies, and the children wondered to each other who it was could
      have woven these so carefully. They asked the he-goat this question, but
      he only looked at them and did not say a word. The children liked
      examining this goat&rsquo;s eyes; they were very big, and of the queerest
      light-gray colour. They had a strange steadfast look, and had also at
      times a look of queer, deep intelligence, and at other times they had a
      fatherly and benevolent expression, and at other times again, especially
      when he looked sidewards, they had a mischievous, light-and-airy, daring,
      mocking, inviting and terrifying look; but he always looked brave and
      unconcerned. When the he-goat&rsquo;s forehead had been scratched as much as he
      desired he arose from between the children and went pacing away lightly
      through the wood. The children ran after him and each caught hold of one
      of his horns, and he ambled and reared between them while they danced
      along on his either side singing snatches of bird songs, and scraps of old
      tunes which the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath had learned among the people of
      the Shee.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a little time they came to Gort na Cloca Mora, but here the he-goat did
      not stop. They went past the big tree of the Leprecauns, through a broken
      part of the hedge and into another rough field. The sun was shining
      gloriously. There was scarcely a wind at all to stir the harsh grasses.
      Far and near was silence and warmth, an immense, cheerful peace. Across
      the sky a few light clouds sailed gently on a blue so vast that the eye
      failed before that horizon. A few bees sounded their deep chant, and now
      and again a wasp rasped hastily on his journey. Than these there was no
      sound of any kind. So peaceful, innocent and safe did everything appear
      that it might have been the childhood of the world as it was of the
      morning.
    </p>
    <p>
      The children, still clinging to the friendly goat, came near the edge of
      the field, which here sloped more steeply to the mountain top. Great
      boulders, slightly covered with lichen and moss, were strewn about, and
      around them the bracken and gorse were growing, and in every crevice of
      these rocks there were plants whose little, tight-fisted roots gripped a
      desperate, adventurous habitation in a soil scarcely more than half an
      inch deep. At some time these rocks had been smitten so fiercely that the
      solid granite surfaces had shattered into fragments. At one place a sheer
      wall of stone, ragged and battered, looked harshly out from the thin
      vegetation. To this rocky wall the he-goat danced. At one place there was
      a hole in the wall covered by a thick brush. The goat pushed his way
      behind this growth and disappeared. Then the children, curious to see
      where he had gone, pushed through also. Behind the bush they found a high,
      narrow opening, and when they had rubbed their legs, which smarted from
      the stings of nettles, thistles and gorse prickles, they went into the
      hole which they thought was a place the goat had for sleeping in on cold,
      wet nights. After a few paces they found the passage was quite comfortably
      big, and then they saw a light, and in another moment they were blinking
      at the god Pan and Caitilin Ni Murrachu.
    </p>
    <p>
      Caitilin knew them at once and came forward with welcome.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, Seumas Beg,&rdquo; she cried reproachfully, &ldquo;how dirty you have let your
      feet get. Why don&rsquo;t you walk in the grassy places? And you, Brigid, have a
      right to be ashamed of yourself to have your hands the way they are. Come
      over here at once.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Every child knows that every grown female person in the world has
      authority to wash children and to give them food; that is what grown
      people were made for, consequently Seumas and Brigid Beg submitted to the
      scouring for which Caitilin made instant preparation. When they were
      cleaned she pointed to a couple of flat stones against the wall of the
      cave and bade them sit down and be good, and this the children did, fixing
      their eyes on Pan with the cheerful gravity and curiosity which
      good-natured youngsters always give to a stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pan, who had been lying on a couch of dried grass, sat up and bent an
      equally cheerful regard on the children.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shepherd Girl,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;who are those children?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are the children of the Philosophers of Coilla Doraca; the Grey
      Woman of Dun Gortin and the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath are their mothers,
      and they are decent, poor children, God bless them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have they come here for?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You will have to ask themselves that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pan looked at them smilingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What have you come here for, little children?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      The children questioned one another with their eyes to see which of them
      would reply, and then Seumas Beg answered:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father sent me to see you, sir, and to say that you were not doing a
      good thing in keeping Caitilin Ni Murrachu away from her own place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Brigid Beg turned to Caitilin-&ldquo;Your father came to see our father, and he
      said that he didn&rsquo;t know what had become of you at all, and that maybe you
      were lying flat in a ditch with the black crows picking at your flesh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what,&rdquo; said Pan, &ldquo;did your father say to that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told us to come and ask her to go home.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you love your father, little child?&rdquo; said Pan.
    </p>
    <p>
      Brigid Beg thought for a moment. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know, sir,&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He doesn&rsquo;t mind us at all,&rdquo; broke in Seumas Beg, &ldquo;and so we don&rsquo;t know
      whether we love him or not.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like Caitilin,&rdquo; said Brigid, &ldquo;and I like you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So do I,&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like you also, little children,&rdquo; said Pan. &ldquo;Come over here and sit
      beside me, and we will talk.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So the two children went over to Pan and sat down one each side of him,
      and he put his arms about them. &ldquo;Daughter of Murrachu,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is there
      no food in the house for guests?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a cake of bread, a little goat&rsquo;s milk and some cheese,&rdquo; she
      replied, and she set about getting these things.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never ate cheese,&rdquo; said Seumas. &ldquo;Is it good?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Surely it is,&rdquo; replied Pan. &ldquo;The cheese that is made from goat&rsquo;s milk is
      rather strong, and it is good to be eaten by people who live in the open
      air, but not by those who live in houses, for such people do not have any
      appetite. They are poor creatures whom I do not like.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I like eating,&rdquo; said Seumas.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So do I,&rdquo; said Pan. &ldquo;All good people like eating. Every person who is
      hungry is a good person, and every person who is not hungry is a bad
      person. It is better to be hungry than rich.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Caitilin having supplied the children with food, seated herself in front
      of them. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think that is right,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I have always been
      hungry, and it was never good.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you had always been full you would like it even less,&rdquo; he replied,
      &ldquo;because when you are hungry you are alive, and when you are not hungry
      you are only half alive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One has to be poor to be hungry,&rdquo; replied Caitilin. &ldquo;My father is poor
      and gets no good of it but to work from morning to night and never to stop
      doing that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is bad for a wise person to be poor,&rdquo; said Pan, &ldquo;and it is bad for a
      fool to be rich. A rich fool will think of nothing else at first but to
      find a dark house wherein to hide away, and there he will satisfy his
      hunger, and he will continue to do that until his hunger is dead and he is
      no better than dead but a wise person who is rich will carefully preserve
      his appetite. All people who have been rich for a long time, or who are
      rich from birth, live a great deal outside of their houses, and so they
      are always hungry and healthy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Poor people have no time to be wise,&rdquo; said Caitilin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They have time to be hungry,&rdquo; said Pan. &ldquo;I ask no more of them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My father is very wise,&rdquo; said Seumas Beg.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know that, little boy?&rdquo; said Pan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because he is always talking,&rdquo; replied Seumas. &ldquo;Do you always listen, my
      dear?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, sir,&rdquo; said Seumas; &ldquo;I go to sleep when he talks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is very clever of you,&rdquo; said Pan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I go to sleep too,&rdquo; said Brigid.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is clever of you also, my darling. Do you go to sleep when your mother
      talks?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, no,&rdquo; she answered. &ldquo;If we went to sleep then our mother would pinch
      us and say that we were a bad breed.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think your mother is wise,&rdquo; said Pan. &ldquo;What do you like best in the
      world, Seumas Beg?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy thought for a moment and replied: &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know, sir.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pan also thought for a little time.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what I like best either,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;What do you like best in
      the world, Shepherd Girl?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Caitilin&rsquo;s eyes were fixed on his.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know yet,&rdquo; she answered slowly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May the gods keep you safe from that knowledge,&rdquo; said Pan gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why would you say that?&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;One must find out all things, and
      when we find out a thing we know if it is good or bad.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is the beginning of knowledge,&rdquo; said Pan, &ldquo;but it is not the
      beginning of wisdom.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is the beginning of wisdom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is carelessness,&rdquo; replied Pan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what is the end of wisdom?&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know,&rdquo; he answered, after a little pause.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it greater carelessness?&rdquo; she enquired.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know, I do not know,&rdquo; said he sharply. &ldquo;I am tired of talking,&rdquo;
       and, so saying, he turned his face away from them and lay down on the
      couch.
    </p>
    <p>
      Caitilin in great concern hurried the children to the door of the cave and
      kissed them good-bye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Pan is sick,&rdquo; said the boy gravely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I hope he will be well soon again,&rdquo; the girl murmured.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, yes,&rdquo; said Caitilin, and she ran back quickly to her lord.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK II. THE PHILOSOPHER&rsquo;S JOURNEY
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER X
    </h2>
    <p>
      WHEN the children reached home they told the Philosopher-the result of
      their visit. He questioned them minutely as to the appearance of Pan, how
      he had received them, and what he had said in defence of his iniquities;
      but when he found that Pan had not returned any answer to his message he
      became very angry. He tried to persuade his wife to undertake another
      embassy setting forth his abhorrence and defiance of the god, but the Thin
      Woman replied sourly that she was a respectable married woman, that having
      been already bereaved of her wisdom she had no desire to be further
      curtailed of her virtue, that a husband would go any length to asperse his
      wife&rsquo;s reputation, and that although she was married to a fool her
      self-respect had survived even that calamity. The Philosopher pointed out
      that her age, her appearance, and her tongue were sufficient guarantees of
      immunity against the machinations of either Pan or slander, and that he
      had no personal feelings in the matter beyond a scientific and benevolent
      interest in the troubles of Meehawl MacMurrachu; but this was discounted
      by his wife as the malignant and subtle tactics customary to all husbands.
    </p>
    <p>
      Matters appeared to be thus at a deadlock so far as they were immediately
      concerned, and the Philosopher decided that he would lay the case before
      Angus Og and implore his protection and assistance on behalf of the Clann
      MacMurrachu. He therefore directed the Thin Woman to bake him two cakes of
      bread, and set about preparations for a journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Thin Woman baked the cakes, and put them in a bag, and early on the
      following morning the Philosopher swung this bag over his shoulder, and
      went forth on his quest.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he came to the edge of the pine wood he halted for a few moments, not
      being quite certain of his bearings, and then went forward again in the
      direction of Gort na Cloca Mora. It came into his mind as he crossed the
      Gort that he ought to call on the Leprecauns and have a talk with them,
      but a remembrance of Meehawl MacMurrachu and the troubles under which he
      laboured (all directly to be traced to the Leprecauns) hardened his heart
      against his neighbours, so that he passed by the yew tree without any
      stay. In a short time he came to the rough, heather-clumped field wherein
      the children had found Pan, and as he was proceeding up the hill, he saw
      Caitilin Ni Murrachu walking a little way in front with a small vessel in
      her hand. The she-goat which she had just milked was bending again to the
      herbage, and as Caitilin trod lightly in front of him the Philosopher
      closed his eyes in virtuous anger and opened them again in a not unnatural
      curiosity, for the girl had no clothes on. He watched her going behind the
      brush and disappearing in the cleft of the rock, and his anger, both with
      her and Pan, mastering him he forsook the path of prudence which soared to
      the mountain top, and followed that leading to the cave. The sound of his
      feet brought Caitilin out hastily, but he pushed her by with a harsh word.
      &ldquo;Hussy,&rdquo; said he, and he went into the cave where Pan was.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he went in he already repented of his harshness and said &ldquo;The human
      body is an aggregation of flesh and sinew, around a central bony
      structure. The use of clothing is primarily to protect this organism from
      rain and cold, and it may not be regarded as the banner of morality
      without danger to this fundamental premise. If a person does not desire to
      be so protected who will quarrel with an honourable liberty? Decency is
      not clothing but Mind. Morality is behaviour. Virtue is thought; I have
      often fancied,&rdquo; he continued to Pan, whom he was now confronting, &ldquo;that
      the effect of clothing on mind must be very considerable, and that it must
      have a modifying rather than an expanding effect, or, even, an
      intensifying as against an exuberant effect. With clothing the whole
      environment is immediately affected. The air, which is our proper medium,
      is only filtered to our bodies in an abated and niggardly fashion which
      can scarcely be as beneficial as the generous and unintermitted elemental
      play. The question naturally arises whether clothing is as unknown to
      nature as we have fancied? Viewed as a protective measure against
      atmospheric rigour we find that many creatures grow, by their own central
      impulse, some kind of exterior panoply which may be regarded as their
      proper clothing. Bears, cats, dogs, mice, sheep and beavers are wrapped in
      fur, hair, fell, fleece or pelt, so these creatures cannot by any means be
      regarded as being naked. Crabs, cockroaches, snails and cockles have
      ordered around them a crusty habiliment, wherein their original nakedness
      is only to be discovered by force, and other creatures have similarly
      provided themselves with some species of covering. Clothing, therefore, is
      not an art, but an instinct, and the fact that man is born naked and does
      not grow his clothing upon himself from within but collects it from
      various distant and haphazard sources is not any reason to call this
      necessity an instinct for decency. These, you will admit, are weighty
      reflections and worthy of consideration before we proceed to the wide and
      thorny subject of moral and immoral action. Now, what is virtue?&rdquo; Pan, who
      had listened with great courtesy to these remarks, here broke in on the
      Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Virtue,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;is the performance of pleasant actions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher held the statement for a moment on his forefinger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what, then, is vice?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is vicious,&rdquo; said Pan, &ldquo;to neglect the performance of pleasant
      actions.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If this be so,&rdquo; the other commented, &ldquo;philosophy has up to the present
      been on the wrong track.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is so,&rdquo; said Pan. &ldquo;Philosophy is an immoral practice because it
      suggests a standard of practice impossible of being followed, and which,
      if it could be followed, would lead to the great sin of sterility.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The idea of virtue,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, with some indignation, &ldquo;has
      animated the noblest intellects of the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It has not animated them,&rdquo; replied Pan; &ldquo;it has hypnotised them so that
      they have conceived virtue as repression and self-sacrifice as an
      honourable thing instead of the suicide which it is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed,&rdquo; said the Philosopher; &ldquo;this is very interesting, and if it is
      true the whole conduct of life will have to be very much simplified.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Life is already very simple,&rdquo; said Pan; &ldquo;it is to be born and to die, and
      in the interval to eat and drink, to dance and sing, to marry and beget
      children.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But it is simply materialism,&rdquo; cried the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you say &lsquo;but&rsquo;?&rdquo; replied Pan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is sheer, unredeemed animalism,&rdquo; continued his visitor.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is any name you please to call it,&rdquo; replied Pan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have proved nothing,&rdquo; the Philosopher shouted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can be sensed requires no proof.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You leave out the new thing,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;You leave out
      brains. I believe in mind above matter. Thought above emotion. Spirit
      above flesh.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course you do,&rdquo; said Pan, and he reached for his oaten pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher ran to the opening of the passage and thrust Caitilin
      aside. &ldquo;Hussy,&rdquo; said he fiercely to her, and he darted out.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he went up the rugged path he could hear the pipes of Pan, calling and
      sobbing and making high merriment on the air.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XI
    </h2>
    <p>
      &ldquo;SHE does not deserve to be rescued,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;but I will
      rescue her. Indeed,&rdquo; he thought a moment later, &ldquo;she does not want to be
      rescued, and, therefore, I will rescue her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      As he went down the road her shapely figure floated before his eyes as
      beautiful and simple as an old statue. He wagged his head angrily at the
      apparition, but it would not go away. He tried to concentrate his mind on
      a deep, philosophical maxim, but her disturbing image came between him and
      his thought, blotting out the latter so completely that a moment after he
      had stated his aphorism he could not remember what it had been. Such a
      condition of mind was so unusual that it bewildered him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is a mind, then, so unstable,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that a mere figure, an animated
      geometrical arrangement can shake it from its foundations?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The idea horrified him: he saw civilisation building its temples over a
      volcano...
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A puff,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and it is gone. Beneath all is chaos and red anarchy,
      over all a devouring and insistent appetite. Our eyes tell us what to
      think about, and our wisdom is no more than a catalogue of sensual
      stimuli.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He would have been in a state of deep dejection were it not that through
      his perturbation there bubbled a stream of such amazing well-being as he
      had not felt since childhood. Years had toppled from his shoulders. He
      left one pound of solid matter behind at every stride. His very skin grew
      flexuous, and he found a pleasure in taking long steps such as he could
      not have accounted for by thought. Indeed, thought was the one thing he
      felt unequal to, and it was not precisely that he could not think but that
      he did not want to. All the importance and authority of his mind seemed to
      have faded away, and the activity which had once belonged to that organ
      was now transferred to his eyes. He saw, amazedly, the sunshine bathing
      the hills and the valleys. A bird in the hedge held him&mdash;beak, head,
      eyes, legs, and the wings that tapered widely at angles to the wind. For
      the first time in his life he really saw a bird, and one minute after it
      had flown away he could have reproduced its strident note. With every step
      along the curving road the landscape was changing. He saw and noted it
      almost in an ecstasy. A sharp hill jutted out into the road, it dissolved
      into a sloping meadow, rolled down into a valley and then climbed easily
      and peacefully into a hill again. On this side a clump of trees nodded
      together in the friendliest fashion. Yonder a solitary tree, well-grown
      and clean, was contented with its own bright company. A bush crouched
      tightly on the ground as though, at a word, it would scamper from its
      place and chase rabbits across the sward with shouts and laughter. Great
      spaces of sunshine were everywhere, and everywhere there were deep wells
      of shadow; and the one did not seem more beautiful than the other. That
      sunshine! Oh, the glory of it, the goodness and bravery of it, how broadly
      and grandly it shone, without stint, without care; he saw its measureless
      generosity and gloried in it as though himself had been the flinger of
      that largesse. And was he not? Did the sunlight not stream from his head
      and life from his finger-tips? Surely the well-being that was in him did
      bubble out to an activity beyond the universe. Thought! Oh! the petty
      thing! but motion! emotion! these were the realities. To feel, to do, to
      stride forward in elation chanting a paean of triumphant life!
    </p>
    <p>
      After a time he felt hungry, and thrusting his hand into his wallet he
      broke off a piece of one of his cakes and looked about for a place where
      he might happily eat it. By the side of the road there was a well; just a
      little corner filled with water. Over it was a rough stone coping, and
      around, hugging it on three sides almost from sight, were thick, quiet
      bushes. He would not have noticed the well at all but for a thin stream,
      the breadth of two hands, which tiptoed away from it through a field. By
      this well he sat down and scooped the water in his hand and it tasted
      good.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was eating his cake when a sound touched his ear from some distance,
      and shortly a woman came down the path carrying a vessel in her hand to
      draw water.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was a big, comely woman, and she walked as one who had no misfortunes
      and no misgivings. When she saw the Philosopher sitting by the well she
      halted a moment in surprise and then came forward with a good-humoured
      smile.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good morrow to you, sir,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good morrow to you too, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher. &ldquo;Sit down beside
      me here and eat some of my cake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why wouldn&rsquo;t I, indeed,&rdquo; said the woman, and she did sit beside him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher cracked a large piece off his cake and gave it to her and
      she ate some.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a taste on that cake,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Who made it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My wife did,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, now!&rdquo; said she, looking at him. &ldquo;Do you know, you don&rsquo;t look a bit
      like a married man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not a bit. A married man looks comfortable and settled: he looks
      finished, if you understand me, and a bachelor looks unsettled and funny,
      and he always wants to be running round seeing things. I&rsquo;d know a married
      man from a bachelor any day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How would you know that?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Easily,&rdquo; said she, with a nod. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the way they look at a woman. A
      married man looks at you quietly as if he knew all about you. There isn&rsquo;t
      any strangeness about him with a woman at all; but a bachelor man looks at
      you very sharp and looks away and then looks back again, the way you&rsquo;d
      know he was thinking about you and didn&rsquo;t know what you were thinking
      about him; and so they are always strange, and that&rsquo;s why women like
      them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why!&rdquo; said the Philosopher, astonished, &ldquo;do women like bachelors better
      than married men?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Of course they do,&rdquo; she replied heartily. &ldquo;They wouldn&rsquo;t look at the side
      of the road a married man was on if there was a bachelor man on the other
      side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This,&rdquo; said the Philosopher earnestly, &ldquo;is very interesting.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And the queer thing is,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;that when I came up the road and
      saw you I said to myself &lsquo;it&rsquo;s a bachelor man.&rsquo; How long have you been
      married, now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Maybe it&rsquo;s ten years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And how many children would you have, mister?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Two,&rdquo; he replied, and then corrected himself, &ldquo;No, I have only one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is the other one dead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never had more than one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ten years married and only one child,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Why, man dear, you&rsquo;re
      not a married man. What were you doing at all, at all! I wouldn&rsquo;t like to
      be telling you the children I have living and dead. But what I say is that
      married or not you&rsquo;re a bachelor man. I knew it the minute I looked at
      you. What sort of a woman is herself?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;s a thin sort of woman,&rdquo; cried the Philosopher, biting into his cake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is she now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And,&rdquo; the Philosopher continued, &ldquo;the reason I talked to you is because
      you are a fat woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not fat,&rdquo; was her angry response.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are fat,&rdquo; insisted the Philosopher, &ldquo;and that&rsquo;s the reason I like
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, if you mean it that way...&rdquo; she chuckled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think,&rdquo; he continued, looking at her admiringly, &ldquo;that women ought to
      be fat.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell you the truth,&rdquo; said she eagerly, &ldquo;I think that myself. I never met
      a thin woman but she was a sour one, and I never met a fat man but he was
      a fool. Fat women and thin men; it&rsquo;s nature,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is,&rdquo; said he, and he leaned forward and kissed her eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, you villain!&rdquo; said the woman, putting out her hands against him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher drew back abashed. &ldquo;Forgive me,&rdquo; he began, &ldquo;if I have
      alarmed your virtue&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the married man&rsquo;s word,&rdquo; said she, rising hastily: &ldquo;now I know you;
      but there&rsquo;s a lot of the bachelor in you all the same, God help you! I&rsquo;m
      going home.&rdquo; And, so saying, she dipped her vessel in the well and turned
      away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;I ought to wait until your husband comes
      home and ask his forgiveness for the wrong I&rsquo;ve done him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman turned round on him and each of her eyes was as big as a plate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you say?&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Follow me if you dare and I&rsquo;ll set the dog
      on you; I will so,&rdquo; and she strode viciously homewards.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a moment&rsquo;s hesitation the Philosopher took his own path across the
      hill.
    </p>
    <p>
      The day was now well advanced, and as he trudged forward the happy
      quietude of his surroundings stole into his heart again and so toned down
      his recollection of the fat woman that in a little time she was no more
      than a pleasant and curious memory. His mind was exercised superficially,
      not in thinking, but in wondering how it was he had come to kiss a strange
      woman. He said to himself that such conduct was not right; but this
      statement was no more than the automatic working of a mind long exercised
      in the distinctions of right and wrong, for, almost in the same breath, he
      assured himself that what he had done did not matter in the least. His
      opinions were undergoing a curious change. Right and wrong were meeting
      and blending together so closely that it became difficult to dissever
      them, and the obloquy attaching to the one seemed out of proportion
      altogether to its importance, while the other by no means justified the
      eulogy wherewith it was connected. Was there any immediate or even
      distant, effect on life caused by evil which was not instantly swung into
      equipoise by goodness? But these slender reflections troubled him only for
      a little time. He had little desire for any introspective quarryings. To
      feel so well was sufficient in itself. Why should thought be so apparent
      to us, so insistent? We do not know we have digestive or circulatory
      organs until these go out of order, and then the knowledge torments us.
      Should not the labours of a healthy brain be equally subterranean and
      equally competent? Why have we to think aloud and travel laboriously from
      syllogism to ergo, chary of our conclusions and distrustful of our
      premises? Thought, as we know it, is a disease and no more. The healthy
      mentality should register its convictions and not its labours. Our ears
      should not hear the clamour of its doubts nor be forced to listen to the
      pro and con wherewith we are eternally badgered and perplexed.
    </p>
    <p>
      The road was winding like a ribbon in and out of the mountains. On either
      side there were hedges and bushes,&mdash;little, stiff trees which held
      their foliage in their hands and dared the winds snatch a leaf from that
      grip. The hills were swelling and sinking, folding and soaring on every
      view. Now the silence was startled by the falling tinkle of a stream. Far
      away a cow lowed, a long, deep monotone, or a goat&rsquo;s call trembled from
      nowhere to nowhere. But mostly there was a silence which buzzed with a
      multitude of small winged life. Going up the hills the Philosopher bent
      forward to the gradient, stamping vigorously as he trod, almost snorting
      like a bull in the pride of successful energy. Coming down the slope he
      braced back and let his legs loose to do as they pleased. Didn&rsquo;t they know
      their business&mdash;Good luck to them, and away!
    </p>
    <p>
      As he walked along he saw an old woman hobbling in front of him. She was
      leaning on a stick and her hand was red and swollen with rheumatism. She
      hobbled by reason of the fact that there were stones in her shapeless
      boots. She was draped in the sorriest miscellaneous rags that could be
      imagined, and these were knotted together so intricately that her
      clothing, having once been attached to her body, could never again be
      detached from it. As she walked she was mumbling and grumbling to herself,
      so that her mouth moved round and round in an india-rubber fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher soon caught up on her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good morrow, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      But she did not hear him: she seemed to be listening to the pain which the
      stones in her boots gave her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Good morrow, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said the Philosopher again.
    </p>
    <p>
      This time she heard him and replied, turning her old, bleared eyes slowly
      in his direction-&ldquo;Good morrow to yourself, sir,&rdquo; said she, and the
      Philosopher thought her old face was a very kindly one.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it that is wrong with you, ma&rsquo;am?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s my boots, sir,&rdquo; she replied. &ldquo;Full of stones they are, the way I can
      hardly walk at all, God help me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why don&rsquo;t you shake them out?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, sure, I couldn&rsquo;t be bothered, sir, for there are so many holes in the
      boots that more would get in before I could take two steps, and an old
      woman can&rsquo;t be always fidgeting, God help her!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was a little house on one side of the road, and when the old woman
      saw this place she brightened up a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know who lives in that house?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;but it&rsquo;s a real nice house with clean windows
      and a shiny knocker on the door, and smoke in the chimney&mdash;I wonder
      would herself give me a cup of tea now if I asked her&mdash;A poor old
      woman walking the roads on a stick! and maybe a bit of meat, or an egg
      perhaps....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You could ask,&rdquo; suggested the Philosopher gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe I will, too,&rdquo; said she, and she sat down by the road just outside
      the house and the Philosopher also sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      A little puppy dog came from behind the house and approached them
      cautiously. Its intentions were friendly but it had already found that
      amicable advances are sometimes indifferently received, for, as it drew
      near, it wagged its dubious tail and rolled humbly on the ground. But very
      soon the dog discovered that here there was no evil, for it trotted over
      to the old woman, and without any more preparation jumped into her lap.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old woman grinned at the dog &ldquo;Ah, you thing you!&rdquo; said she, and she
      gave it her finger to bite. The delighted puppy chewed her bony finger,
      and then instituted a mimic warfare against a piece of rag that fluttered
      from her breast, barking and growling in joyous excitement, while the old
      woman fondled and hugged it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The door of the house opposite opened quickly, and a woman with a
      frost-bitten face came out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Leave that dog down,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      The old woman grinned humbly at her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure, ma&rsquo;am, I wouldn&rsquo;t hurt the little dog, the thing!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put down that dog,&rdquo; said the woman, &ldquo;and go about your business&mdash;the
      likes of you ought to be arrested.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      A man in shirt sleeves appeared behind her, and at him the old woman
      grinned even more humbly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let me sit here for a while and play with the little dog, sir,&rdquo; said she;
      &ldquo;sure the roads do be lonesome&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The man stalked close and grabbed the dog by the scruff of the neck. It
      hung between his finger and thumb with its tail tucked between its legs
      and its eyes screwed round on one side in amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be off with you out of that, you old strap!&rdquo; said the man in a terrible
      voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      So the old woman rose painfully to her feet again, and as she went
      hobbling along the dusty road she began to cry.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher also arose; he was very indignant but did not know what to
      do. A singular lassitude also prevented him from interfering. As they
      paced along his companion began mumbling, more to herself than to him &ldquo;Ah,
      God be with me,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;an old woman on a stick, that hasn&rsquo;t a place
      in the wide world to go to or a neighbour itself.... I wish I could get a
      cup of tea, so I do. I wish to God I could get a cup of tea.... Me sitting
      down in my own little house, with the white tablecloth on the table, and
      the butter in the dish, and the strong, red tea in the tea-cup; and me
      pouring cream into it, and, maybe, telling the children not to be wasting
      the sugar, the things! and himself saying he&rsquo;d got to mow the big field
      to-day, or that the red cow was going to calve, the poor thing, and that
      if the boys went to school, who was going to weed the turnips&mdash;and me
      sitting drinking my strong cup of tea, and telling him where that old
      trapesing hen was laying.... Ah, God be with me! an old creature hobbling
      along the roads on a stick. I wish I was a young girl again, so I do, and
      himself coming courting me, and him saying that I was a real nice little
      girl surely, and that nothing would make him happy or easy at all but me
      to be loving him.&mdash;Ah, the kind man that he was, to be sure, the
      kind, decent man.... And Sorca Reilly to be trying to get him from me, and
      Kate Finnegan with her bold eyes looking after him in the Chapel; and him
      to be saying that along with me they were only a pair of old nanny
      goats.... And then me to be getting married and going home to my own
      little house with my man&mdash;ah, God be with me! and him kissing me, and
      laughing, and frightening me with his goings-on. Ah, the kind man, with
      his soft eyes, and his nice voice, and his jokes and laughing, and him
      thinking the world and all of me&mdash;ay, indeed.... And the neighbours
      to be coming in and sitting round the fire in the night time, putting the
      world through each other, and talking about France and Russia and them
      other queer places, and him holding up the discourse like a learned man,
      and them all listening to him and nodding their heads at each other, and
      wondering at his education and all: or, maybe, the neighbours to be
      singing, or him making me sing the Coulin, and him to be proud of me...
      and then him to be killed on me with a cold on his chest. ... Ah, then,
      God be with me, a lone, old creature on a stick, and the sun shining into
      her eyes and she thirsty&mdash;I wish I had a cup of tea, so I do. I wish
      to God I had a cup of tea and a bit of meat... or, maybe, an egg. A nice
      fresh egg laid by the speckeldy hen that used to be giving me all the
      trouble, the thing!... Sixteen hens I had, and they were the ones for
      laying, surely.... It&rsquo;s the queer world, so it is, the queer world&mdash;and
      the things that do happen for no reason at all.... Ah, God be with me! I
      wish there weren&rsquo;t stones in my boots, so I do, and I wish to God I had a
      cup of tea and a fresh egg. Ah, glory be, my old legs are getting tireder
      every day, so they are. Wisha, one time&mdash;when himself was in it&mdash;I
      could go about the house all day long, cleaning the place, and feeding the
      pigs, and the hens and all, and then dance half the night, so I could: and
      himself proud of me....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The old woman turned up a little rambling road and went on still talking
      to herself, and the Philosopher watched her go up that road for a long
      time. He was very glad she had gone away, and as he tramped forward he
      banished her sad image so that in a little time he was happy again. The
      sun was still shining, the birds were flying on every side, and the wide
      hill-side above him smiled gaily.
    </p>
    <p>
      A small, narrow road cut at right angles into his path, and as he
      approached this he heard the bustle and movement of a host, the trample of
      feet, the rolling and creaking of wheels, and the long unwearied drone of
      voices. In a few minutes he came abreast of this small road, and saw an
      ass and cart piled with pots and pans, and walking beside this there were
      two men and a woman. The men and the woman were talking together loudly,
      even fiercely, and the ass was drawing his cart along the road without
      requiring assistance or direction. While there was a road he walked on it:
      when he might come to a cross road he would turn to the right: when a man
      said &ldquo;whoh&rdquo; he would stop: when he said &ldquo;hike&rdquo; he would go backwards, and
      when he said &ldquo;yep&rdquo; he would go on again. That was life, and if one
      questioned it, one was hit with a stick, or a boot, or a lump of rock: if
      one continued walking nothing happened, and that was happiness.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher saluted this cavalcade.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be with you,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God and Mary be with you,&rdquo; said the first man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God, and Mary, and Patrick be with you,&rdquo; said the second man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God, and Mary, and Patrick, and Brigid be with you,&rdquo; said the woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ass, however, did not say a thing. As the word &ldquo;whoh&rdquo; had not entered
      into the conversation he knew it was none of his business, and so he
      turned to the right on the new path and continued his journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Where are you going to, stranger,&rdquo; said the first man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am going to visit Angus Og,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man gave him a quick look.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;that&rsquo;s the queerest story I ever heard. Listen here,&rdquo; he
      called to the others, &ldquo;this man is looking for Angus Og.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other man and woman came closer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would you be wanting with Angus Og, Mister Honey?&rdquo; said the woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher, &ldquo;it&rsquo;s a particular thing, a family matter.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was silence for a few minutes, and they all stepped onwards behind
      the ass and cart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know where to look for himself?&rdquo; said the first man again:
      &ldquo;maybe you got the place where he lives written down in an old book or on
      a carved stone?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Or did you find the staff of Amergin or of Ossian in a bog and it written
      from the top to the bottom with signs?&rdquo; said the second man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;it isn&rsquo;t that way you&rsquo;d go visiting a god.
      What you do is, you go out from your house and walk straight away in any
      direction with your shadow behind you so long as it is towards a mountain,
      for the gods will not stay in a valley or a level plain, but only in high
      places; and then, if the god wants you to see him, you will go to his rath
      as direct as if you knew where it was, for he will be leading you with an
      airy thread reaching from his own place to wherever you are, and if he
      doesn&rsquo;t want to see you, you will never find out where he is, not if you
      were to walk for a year or twenty years.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How do you know he wants to see you?&rdquo; said the second man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why wouldn&rsquo;t he want?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe, Mister Honey,&rdquo; said the woman, &ldquo;you are a holy sort of a man that
      a god would like well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why would I be that?&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;The gods like a man whether
      he&rsquo;s holy or not if he&rsquo;s only decent.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well, there&rsquo;s plenty of that sort,&rdquo; said the first man. &ldquo;What do you
      happen to have in your bag, stranger?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher, &ldquo;but a cake and a half that was baked
      for my journey.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me a bit of your cake, Mister Honey,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;I like to
      have a taste of everybody&rsquo;s cake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will, and welcome,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may as well give us all a bit while you are about it,&rdquo; said the
      second man. &ldquo;That woman hasn&rsquo;t got all the hunger of the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, and he divided the cake.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a sup of water up yonder,&rdquo; said the first man, &ldquo;and it will do to
      moisten the cake&mdash;Whoh, you devil,&rdquo; he roared at the ass, and the ass
      stood stock still on the minute.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a thin fringe of grass along the road near a wall, and towards
      this the ass began to edge very gently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hike, you beast, you,&rdquo; shouted the man, and the ass at once hiked, but he
      did it in a way that brought him close to the grass. The first man took a
      tin can out of the cart and climbed over the little wall for water. Before
      he went he gave the ass three kicks on the nose, but the ass did not say a
      word, he only hiked still more which brought him directly on to the grass,
      and when the man climbed over the wall the ass commenced to crop the
      grass. There was a spider sitting on a hot stone in the grass. He had a
      small body and wide legs, and he wasn&rsquo;t doing anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does anybody ever kick you in the nose?&rdquo; said the ass to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay does there,&rdquo; said the spider; &ldquo;you and your like that are always
      walking on me, or lying down on me, or running over me with the wheels of
      a cart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, why don&rsquo;t you stay on the wall?&rdquo; said the ass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure, my wife is there,&rdquo; replied the spider.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s the harm in that?&rdquo; said the ass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;d eat me,&rdquo; said the spider, &ldquo;and, anyhow, the competition on the wall
      is dreadful, and the flies are getting wiser and timider every season.
      Have you got a wife yourself, now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not,&rdquo; said the ass; &ldquo;I wish I had.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You like your wife for the first while,&rdquo; said the spider, &ldquo;and after that
      you hate her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had the first while I&rsquo;d chance the second while,&rdquo; replied the ass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s bachelor&rsquo;s talk,&rdquo; said the spider; &ldquo;all the same, we can&rsquo;t keep away
      from them,&rdquo; and so saying he began to move all his legs at once in the
      direction of the wall. &ldquo;You can only die once,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If your wife was an ass she wouldn&rsquo;t eat you,&rdquo; said the ass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She&rsquo;d be doing something else then,&rdquo; replied the spider, and he climbed
      up the wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first man came back with the can of water and they sat down on the
      grass and ate the cake and drank the water. All the time the woman kept
      her eyes fixed on the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mister Honey,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;I think you met us just at the right moment.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other two men sat upright and looked at each other and then with equal
      intentness they looked at the woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why do you say that?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were having a great argument along the road, and if we were to be
      talking from now to the dav of doom that argument would never be
      finished.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must have been a great argument. Was it about predestination or where
      consciousness comes from?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was not; it was which of these two men was to marry me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s not a great argument,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it,&rdquo; said the woman. &ldquo;For seven days and six nights we didn&rsquo;t talk
      about anything else, and that&rsquo;s a great argument or I&rsquo;d like to know what
      is.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But where is the trouble, ma&rsquo;am?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s this,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;that I can&rsquo;t make up my mind which of the men
      I&rsquo;ll take, for I like one as well as the other and better, and I&rsquo;d as soon
      have one as the other and rather.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a hard case,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is,&rdquo; said the woman, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;m sick and sorry with the trouble of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And why did you say that I had come up in a good minute?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because, Mister Honey, when a woman has two men to choose from she
      doesn&rsquo;t know what to do, for two men always become like brothers so that
      you wouldn&rsquo;t know which of them was which: there isn&rsquo;t any more difference
      between two men than there is between a couple of hares. But when there&rsquo;s
      three men to choose from, there&rsquo;s no trouble at all; and so I say that
      it&rsquo;s yourself I&rsquo;ll marry this night and no one else&mdash;and let you two
      men be sitting quiet in your places, for I&rsquo;m telling you what I&rsquo;ll do and
      that&rsquo;s the end of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll give you my word,&rdquo; said the first man, &ldquo;that I&rsquo;m just as glad as you
      are to have it over and done with.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Moidered I was,&rdquo; said the second man, &ldquo;with the whole argument, and the
      this and that of it, and you not able to say a word but&mdash;maybe I will
      and maybe I won&rsquo;t, and this is true and that is true, and why not to me
      and why not to him&mdash;I&rsquo;ll get a sleep this night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher was perplexed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You cannot marry me, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;because I&rsquo;m married already.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman turned round on him angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be making any argument with me now,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;for I won&rsquo;t stand
      it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The first man looked fiercely at the Philosopher, and then motioned to his
      companion.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give that man a clout in the jaw,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      The second man was preparing to do this when the woman intervened angrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep your hands to yourself,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;or it&rsquo;ll be the worse for you.
      I&rsquo;m well able to take care of my own husband,&rdquo; and she drew nearer and sat
      between the Philosopher and the men.
    </p>
    <p>
      At that moment the Philosopher&rsquo;s cake lost all its savour, and he packed
      the remnant into his wallet. They all sat silently looking at their feet
      and thinking each one according to his nature. The Philosopher&rsquo;s mind,
      which for the past day had been in eclipse, stirred faintly to meet these
      new circumstances, but without much result. There was a flutter at his
      heart which was terrifying, but not unpleasant. Quickening through his
      apprehension was an expectancy which stirred his pulses into speed. So
      rapidly did his blood flow, so quickly were an hundred impressions
      visualized and recorded, so violent was the surface movement of his brain
      that he did not realize he was unable to think and that he was only seeing
      and feeling.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first man stood up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The night will be coming on soon,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and we had better be walking
      on if we want to get a good place to sleep. Yep, you devil,&rdquo; he roared at
      the ass, and the ass began to move almost before he lifted his head from
      the grass. The two men walked one on either side of the cart, and the
      woman and the Philosopher walked behind at the tail-board.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you were feeling tired, or anything like that, Mister Honey,&rdquo; said the
      woman, &ldquo;you could climb up into the little cart, and nobody would say a
      word to you, for I can see that you are not used to travelling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not indeed, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;this is the first time I ever came
      on a journey, and if it wasn&rsquo;t for Angus Og I wouldn&rsquo;t put a foot out of
      my own place for ever.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Put Angus Og out of your head, my dear,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;for what would the
      likes of you and me be saying to a god. He might put a curse on us would
      sink us into the ground or burn us up like a grip of straw. Be contented
      now, I&rsquo;m saying, for if there is a woman in the world who knows all things
      I am that woman myself, and if you tell your trouble to me I&rsquo;ll tell you
      the thing to do just as good as Angus himself, and better perhaps.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is very interesting,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;What kind of things do
      you know best?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you were to ask one of them two men walking beside the ass they&rsquo;d tell
      you plenty of things they saw me do when they could do nothing themselves.
      When there wasn&rsquo;t a road to take anywhere I showed them a road, and when
      there wasn&rsquo;t a bit of food in the world I gave them food, and when they
      were bet to the last I put shillings in their hands, and that&rsquo;s the reason
      they wanted to marry me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you call that kind of thing wisdom?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why wouldn&rsquo;t I?&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t it wisdom to go through the world
      without fear and not to be hungry in a hungry hour?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I suppose it is,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;but I never thought of it that way
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And what would you call wisdom?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I couldn&rsquo;t rightly say now,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;but I think it was not to mind
      about the world, and not to care whether you were hungry or not, and not
      to live in the world at all but only in your own head, for the world is a
      tyrannous place. You have to raise yourself above things instead of
      letting things raise themselves above you. We must not be slaves to each
      other, and we must not be slaves to our necessities either. That is the
      problem of existence. There is no dignity in life at all if hunger can
      shout &lsquo;stop&rsquo; at every turn of the road and the day&rsquo;s journey is measured
      by the distance between one sleep and the next sleep. Life is all slavery,
      and Nature is driving us with the whips of appetite and weariness; but
      when a slave rebels he ceases to be a slave, and when we are too hungry to
      live we can die and have our laugh. I believe that Nature is just as alive
      as we are, and that she is as much frightened of us as we are of her, and,
      mind you this, mankind has declared war against Nature and we will win.
      She does not understand yet that her geologic periods won&rsquo;t do any longer,
      and that while she is pattering along the line of least resistance we are
      going to travel fast and far until we find her, and then, being a female,
      she is bound to give in when she is challenged.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s good talk,&rdquo; said the woman, &ldquo;but it&rsquo;s foolishness. Women never give
      in unless they get what they want, and where&rsquo;s the harm to them then? You
      have to live in the world, my dear, whether you like it or not, and,
      believe me now, that there isn&rsquo;t any wisdom but to keep clear of the
      hunger, for if that gets near enough it will make a hare of you. Sure,
      listen to reason now like a good man. What is Nature at all but a word
      that learned men have made to talk about. There&rsquo;s clay and gods and men,
      and they are good friends enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sun had long since gone down, and the grey evening was bowing over the
      land, hiding the mountain peaks, and putting a shadow round the scattered
      bushes and the wide clumps of heather.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know a place up here where we can stop for the night,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and
      there&rsquo;s a little shebeen round the bend of the road where we can get
      anything we want.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At the word &ldquo;whoh&rdquo; the ass stopped and one of the men took the harness off
      him. When he was unyoked the man gave him two kicks: &ldquo;Be off with you, you
      devil, and see if you can get anything to eat,&rdquo; he roared. The ass trotted
      a few paces off and searched about until he found some grass. He ate this,
      and when he had eaten as much as he wanted he returned and lay down under
      a wall. He lay for a long time looking in the one direction, and at last
      he put his head down and went to sleep. While he was sleeping he kept one
      ear up and the other ear down for about twenty minutes, and then he put
      the first ear down and the other one up, and he kept on doing this all the
      night. If he had anything to lose you wouldn&rsquo;t mind him setting up
      sentries, but he hadn&rsquo;t a thing in the world except his skin and his
      bones, and no one would be bothered stealing them.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the men took a long bottle out of the cart and walked up the road
      with it. The other man lifted out a tin bucket which was punched all over
      with jagged holes. Then he took out some sods of turf and lumps of wood
      and he put these in the bucket, and in a few minutes he had a very nice
      fire lit. A pot of water was put on to boil, and the woman cut up a great
      lump of bacon which she put into the pot. She had eight eggs in a place in
      the cart, and a flat loaf of bread, and some cold boiled potatoes, and she
      spread her apron on the ground and arranged these things on it.
    </p>
    <p>
      The other man came down the road again with his big bottle filled with
      porter, and he put this in a safe place. Then they emptied everything out
      of the cart and hoisted it over the little wall. They turned the cart on
      one side and pulled it near to the fire, and they all sat inside the cart
      and ate their supper. When supper was done they lit their pipes, and the
      woman lit a pipe also. The bottle of porter was brought forward, and they
      took drinks in turn out of the bottle, and smoked their pipes, and talked.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was no moon that night, and no stars, so that just beyond the fire
      there was a thick darkness which one would not like to look at, it was so
      cold and empty. While talking they all kept their eyes fixed on the red
      fire, or watched the smoke from their pipes drifting and curling away
      against the blackness, and disappearing as suddenly as lightning.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; said the first man, &ldquo;what it was gave you the idea of marrying
      this man instead of myself or my comrade, for we are young, hardy men, and
      he is getting old, God help him!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Aye, indeed,&rdquo; said the second man; &ldquo;he&rsquo;s as grey as a badger, and there&rsquo;s
      no flesh on his bones.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have a right to ask that,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ll tell you why I didn&rsquo;t
      marry either of you. You are only a pair of tinkers going from one place
      to another, and not knowing anything at all of fine things; but himself
      was walking along the road looking for strange, high adventures, and it&rsquo;s
      a man like that a woman would be wishing to marry if he was twice as old
      as he is. When did either of you go out in the daylight looking for a god
      and you not caring what might happen to you or where you went?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What I&rsquo;m thinking,&rdquo; said the second man, &ldquo;is that if you leave the gods
      alone they&rsquo;ll leave you alone. It&rsquo;s no trouble to them to do whatever is
      right themselves, and what call would men like us have to go mixing or
      meddling with their high affairs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought all along that you were a timid man,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and now I know
      it.&rdquo; She turned again to the Philosopher&mdash;&ldquo;Take off your boots,
      Mister Honey, the way you&rsquo;ll rest easy, and I&rsquo;ll be making down a soft bed
      for you in the cart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In order to take off his boots the Philosopher had to stand up, for in the
      cart they were too cramped for freedom. He moved backwards a space from
      the fire and took off his boots. He could see the woman stretching sacks
      and clothes inside the cart, and the two men smoking quietly and handing
      the big bottle from one to the other. Then in his stockinged feet he
      stepped a little farther from the fire, and, after another look, he turned
      and walked quietly away into the blackness. In a few minutes he heard a
      shout from behind him, and then a number of shouts and then these died
      away into a plaintive murmur of voices, and next he was alone in the
      greatest darkness he had ever known.
    </p>
    <p>
      He put on his boots and walked onwards. He had no idea where the road lay,
      and every moment he stumbled into a patch of heather or prickly furze. The
      ground was very uneven with unexpected mounds and deep hollows: here and
      there were water-soaked, soggy places, and into these cold ruins he sank
      ankle deep. There was no longer an earth or a sky, but only a black void
      and a thin wind and a fierce silence which seemed to listen to him as he
      went. Out of that silence a thundering laugh might boom at an instant and
      stop again while he stood appalled in the blind vacancy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The hill began to grow more steep and rocks were lying everywhere in his
      path. He could not see an inch in front, and so he went with his hands
      out-stretched like a blind man who stumbles painfully along. After a time
      he was nearly worn out with cold and weariness, but he dared not sit down
      anywhere; the darkness was so intense that it frightened him, and the
      overwhelming, crafty silence frightened him also.
    </p>
    <p>
      At last, and at a great distance, he saw a flickering, waving light, and
      he went towards this through drifts of heather, and over piled rocks and
      sodden bogland. When he came to the light he saw it was a torch of thick
      branches, the flame whereof blew hither and thither on the wind. The torch
      was fastened against a great cliff of granite by an iron band. At one side
      there was a dark opening in the rock, so he said: &ldquo;I will go in there and
      sleep until the morning comes,&rdquo; and he went in. At a very short distance
      the cleft turned again to the right, and here there was another torch
      fixed. When he turned this corner he stood for an instant in speechless
      astonishment, and then he covered his face and bowed down upon the ground.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      BOOK III. THE TWO GODS
    </h2>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XII
    </h2>
    <p>
      CAITILIN NI MURRACHU was sitting alone in the little cave behind Gort na
      Cloca Mora. Her companion had gone out as was his custom to walk in the
      sunny morning and to sound his pipe in desolate, green spaces whence,
      perhaps, the wanderer of his desire might hear the guiding sweetness. As
      she sat she was thinking. The last few days had awakened her body, and had
      also awakened her mind, for with the one awakening comes the other. The
      despondency which had touched her previously when tending her father&rsquo;s
      cattle came to her again, but recognizably now. She knew the thing which
      the wind had whispered in the sloping field and for which she had no name&mdash;it
      was Happiness. Faintly she shadowed it forth, but yet she could not see
      it. It was only a pearl-pale wraith, almost formless, too tenuous to be
      touched by her hands, and too aloof to be spoken to. Pan had told her that
      he was the giver of happiness, but he had given her only unrest and fever
      and a longing which could not be satisfied. Again there was a want, and
      she could not formulate, or even realize it with any closeness. Her
      new-born Thought had promised everything, even as Pan, and it had given&mdash;she
      could not say that it had given her nothing or anything. Its limits were
      too quickly divinable. She had found the Tree of Knowledge, but about on
      every side a great wall soared blackly enclosing her in from the Tree of
      Life&mdash;a wall which her thought was unable to surmount even while
      instinct urged that it must topple before her advance; but instinct may
      not advance when thought has schooled it in the science of unbelief; and
      this wall will not be conquered until Thought and Instinct are wed, and
      the first son of that bridal will be called The Scaler of the Wall.
    </p>
    <p>
      So, after the quiet weariness of ignorance, the unquiet weariness of
      thought had fallen upon her. That travail of mind which, through countless
      generations, has throed to the birth of an ecstasy, the prophecy which
      humanity has sworn must be fulfilled, seeing through whatever mists and
      doubtings the vision of a gaiety wherein the innocence of the morning will
      not any longer be strange to our maturity.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was so thinking Pan returned, a little disheartened that he had
      found no person to listen to his pipings. He had been seated but a little
      time when suddenly, from without, a chorus of birds burst into joyous
      singing. Limpid and liquid cadenzas, mellow flutings, and the sweet treble
      of infancy met and danced and piped in the airy soundings. A round, soft
      tenderness of song rose and fell, broadened and soared, and then the high
      flight was snatched, eddied a moment, and was borne away to a more slender
      and wonderful loftiness, until, from afar, that thrilling song turned on
      the very apex of sweetness, dipped steeply and flashed its joyous return
      to the exultations of its mates below, rolling an ecstasy of song which
      for one moment gladdened the whole world and the sad people who moved
      thereon; then the singing ceased as suddenly as it began, a swift shadow
      darkened the passage, and Angus Og came into the cave.
    </p>
    <p>
      Caitilin sprang from her seat Frighted, and Pan also made a half movement
      towards rising, but instantly sank back again to his negligent, easy
      posture.
    </p>
    <p>
      The god was slender and as swift as a wind. His hair swung about his face
      like golden blossoms. His eyes were mild and dancing and his lips smiled
      with quiet sweetness. About his head there flew perpetually a ring of
      singing birds, and when he spoke his voice came sweetly from a centre of
      sweetness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Health to you, daughter of Murrachu,&rdquo; said he, and he sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know you, sir,&rdquo; the terrified girl whispered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I cannot be known until I make myself known,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I am called
      Infinite Joy, O daughter of Murrachu, and I am called Love.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl gazed doubtfully from one to the other.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pan looked up from his pipes.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I also am called Love,&rdquo; said he gently, &ldquo;and I am called Joy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Angus Og looked for the first time at Pan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Singer of the Vine,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I know your names-they are Desire and
      Fever and Lust and Death. Why have you come from your own place to spy
      upon my pastures and my quiet fields?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Pan replied mildly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The mortal gods move by the Immortal Will, and, therefore, I am here.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And I am here,&rdquo; said Angus.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me a sign,&rdquo; said Pan, &ldquo;that I must go.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Angus Og lifted his hand and from without there came again the triumphant
      music of the birds.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a sign,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;the voice of Dana speaking in the air,&rdquo; and,
      saying so, he made obeisance to the great mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pan lifted his hand, and from afar there came the lowing of the cattle and
      the thin voices of the goats.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a sign,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;the voice of Demeter speaking from the earth,&rdquo;
       and he also bowed deeply to the mother of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Again Angus Og lifted his hand, and in it there appeared a spear, bright
      and very terrible.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Pan only said, &ldquo;Can a spear divine the Eternal Will?&rdquo; and Angus Og put
      his weapon aside, and he said: &ldquo;The girl will choose between us, for the
      Divine Mood shines in the heart of man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Caitilin Ni Murrachu came forward and sat between the gods, but Pan
      stretched out his hand and drew her to him, so that she sat resting
      against his shoulder and his arm was about her body.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will speak the truth to this girl,&rdquo; said Angus Og.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can the gods speak otherwise?&rdquo; said Pan, and he laughed with delight.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is the difference between us,&rdquo; replied Angus Og. &ldquo;She will judge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shepherd Girl,&rdquo; said Pan, pressing her with his arm, &ldquo;you will judge
      between us. Do you know what is the greatest thing in the world?&mdash;because
      it is of that you will have to judge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have heard,&rdquo; the girl replied, &ldquo;two things called the greatest things.
      You,&rdquo; she continued to Pan, &ldquo;said it was Hunger, and long ago my father
      said that Commonsense was the greatest thing in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have not told you,&rdquo; said Angus Og, &ldquo;what I consider is the greatest
      thing in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is your right to speak,&rdquo; said Pan.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The greatest thing in the world,&rdquo; said Angus Og, &ldquo;is the Divine
      Imagination.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now,&rdquo; said Pan, &ldquo;we know all the greatest things and we can talk of
      them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The daughter of Murrachu,&rdquo; continued Angus Og, &ldquo;has told us what you
      think and what her father thinks, but she has not told us what she thinks
      herself. Tell us, Caitilin Ni Murrachu, what you think is the greatest
      thing in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So Caitilin Ni Murrachu thought for a few moments and then replied
      timidly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think that Happiness is the greatest thing in the world,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hearing this they sat in silence for a little time, and then Angus Og
      spoke again &ldquo;The Divine Imagination may only be known through the thoughts
      of His creatures. A man has said Commonsense and a woman has said
      Happiness are the greatest things in the world. These things are male and
      female, for Commonsense is Thought and Happiness is Emotion, and until
      they embrace in Love the will of Immensity cannot be fruitful. For,
      behold, there has been no marriage of humanity since time began. Men have
      but coupled with their own shadows. The desire that sprang from their
      heads they pursued, and no man has yet known the love of a woman. And
      women have mated with the shadows of their own hearts, thinking fondly
      that the arms of men were about them. I saw my son dancing with an Idea,
      and I said to him, &lsquo;With what do you dance, my son?&rsquo; and he replied, &lsquo;I
      make merry with the wife of my affection,&rsquo; and truly she was shaped as a
      woman is shaped, but it was an Idea he danced with and not a woman. And
      presently he went away to his labours, and then his Idea arose and her
      humanity came upon her so that she was clothed with beauty and terror, and
      she went apart and danced with the servant of my son, and there was great
      joy of that dancing&mdash;for a person in the wrong place is an Idea and
      not a person. Man is Thought and woman is Intuition, and they have never
      mated. There is a gulf between them and it is called Fear, and what they
      fear is, that their strengths shall be taken from them and they may no
      longer be tyrants. The Eternal has made love blind, for it is not by
      science, but by intuition alone, that he may come to his beloved; but
      desire, which is science, has many eyes and sees so vastly that he passes
      his love in the press, saying there is no love, and he propagates
      miserably on his own delusions. The finger-tips are guided by God, but the
      devil looks through the eyes of all creatures so that they may wander in
      the errors of reason and justify themselves of their wanderings. The
      desire of a man shall be Beauty, but he has fashioned a slave in his mind
      and called it Virtue. The desire of a woman shall be Wisdom, but she has
      formed a beast in her blood and called it Courage: but the real virtue is
      courage, and the real courage is liberty, and the real liberty is wisdom,
      and Wisdom is the son of Thought and Intuition; and his names also are
      Innocence and Adoration and Happiness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Angus Og had said these words he ceased, and for a time there was
      silence in the little cave. Caitilin had covered her face with her hands
      and would not look at him, but Pan drew the girl closer to his side and
      peered sideways, laughing at Angus.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Has the time yet come for the girl to judge between us?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Daughter of Murrachu,&rdquo; said Angus Og, &ldquo;will you come away with me from
      this place?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Caitilin then looked at the god in great distress. &ldquo;I do not know what to
      do,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;Why do you both want me? I have given myself to Pan, and
      his arms are about me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want you,&rdquo; said Angus Og, &ldquo;because the world has forgotten me. In all
      my nation there is no remembrance of me. I, wandering on the hills of my
      country, am lonely indeed. I am the desolate god forbidden to utter my
      happy laughter. I hide the silver of my speech and the gold of my
      merriment. I live in the holes of the rocks and the dark caves of the sea.
      I weep in the morning because I may not laugh, and in the evening I go
      abroad and am not happy. Where I have kissed a bird has flown; where I
      have trod a flower has sprung. But Thought has snared my birds in his nets
      and sold them in the market-places. Who will deliver me from Thought, from
      the base holiness of Intellect, the maker of chains and traps? Who will
      save me from the holy impurity of Emotion, whose daughters are Envy and
      Jealousy and Hatred, who plucks my flowers to ornament her lusts and my
      little leaves to shrivel on the breasts of infamy? Lo, I am sealed in the
      caves of nonentity until the head and the heart shall come together in
      fruitfulness, until Thought has wept for Love, and Emotion has purified
      herself to meet her lover. Tirna-nog is the heart of a man and the head of
      a woman. Widely they are separated. Self-centred they stand, and between
      them the seas of space are flooding desolately. No voice can shout across
      those shores. No eye can bridge them, nor any desire bring them together
      until the blind god shall find them on the wavering stream&mdash;not as an
      arrow searches straightly from a bow, but gently, imperceptibly as a
      feather on the wind reaches the ground on a hundred starts; not with the
      compass and the chart, but by the breath of the Almighty which blows from
      all quarters without care and without ceasing. Night and day it urges from
      the outside to the inside. It gathers ever to the centre. From the far
      without to the deep within, trembling from the body to the soul until the
      head of a woman and the heart of a man are filled with the Divine
      Imagination. Hymen, Hymenaea! I sing to the ears that are stopped, the
      eyes that are sealed, and the minds that do not labour. Sweetly I sing on
      the hillside. The blind shall look within and not without; the deaf shall
      hearken to the murmur of their own veins, and be enchanted with the wisdom
      of sweetness; the thoughtless shall think without effort as the lightning
      flashes, that the hand of Innocence may reach to the stars, that the feet
      of Adoration may dance to the Father of Joy, and the laugh of Happiness be
      answered by the Voice of Benediction.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus Angus Og sang in the cave, and ere he had ceased Caitilin Ni Murrachu
      withdrew herself from the arms of her desires. But so strong was the hold
      of Pan upon her that when she was free her body bore the marks of his
      grip, and many days passed away before these marks faded.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Pan arose in silence, taking his double reed in his hand, and the
      girl wept, beseeching him to stay to be her brother and the brother of her
      beloved, but Pan smiled and said: &ldquo;Your beloved is my father and my son.
      He is yesterday and to-morrow. He is the nether and the upper millstone,
      and I am crushed between until I kneel again before the throne from whence
      I came,&rdquo; and, saying so, he embraced Angus Og most tenderly and went his
      way to the quiet fields, and across the slopes of the mountains, and
      beyond the blue distances of space.
    </p>
    <p>
      And in a little time Caitilin Ni Murrachu went with her companion across
      the brow of the hill, and she did not go with him because she had
      understood his words, nor because he was naked and unashamed, but only
      because his need of her was very great, and, therefore, she loved him, and
      stayed his feet in the way, and was concerned lest he should stumble.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      BOOK IV. THE PHILOSOPHER&rsquo;S RETURN
    </h2>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      WHICH is, the Earth or the creatures that move upon it, the more
      important? This is a question prompted solely by intellectual arrogance,
      for in life there is no greater and no less. The thing that is has
      justified its own importance by mere existence, for that is the great and
      equal achievement. If life were arranged for us from without such a
      question of supremacy would assume importance, but life is always from
      within, and is modified or extended by our own appetites, aspirations, and
      central activities. From without we get pollen and the refreshment of
      space and quietude&mdash;it is sufficient. We might ask, is the Earth
      anything more than an extension of our human consciousness, or are we,
      moving creatures, only projections of the Earth&rsquo;s antennae? But these
      matters have no value save as a field wherein Thought, like a wise lamb,
      may frolic merrily. And all would be very well if Thought would but
      continue to frolic, instead of setting up first as locum tenens for
      Intuition and sticking to the job, and afterwards as the counsel and
      critic of Omnipotence. Everything has two names, and everything is
      twofold. The name of male Thought as it faces the world is Philosophy, but
      the name it bears in Tirna-nog is Delusion. Female Thought is called
      Socialism on earth, but in Eternity it is known as Illusion; and this is
      so because there has been no matrimony of minds, but only an
      hermaphroditic propagation of automatic ideas, which in their due rotation
      assume dominance and reign severely. To the world this system of thought,
      because it is consecutive, is known as Logic, but Eternity has written it
      down in the Book of Errors as Mechanism: for life may not be consecutive,
      but explosive and variable, else it is a shackled and timorous slave.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the great troubles of life is that Reason has taken charge of the
      administration of Justice, and by mere identification it has achieved the
      crown and sceptre of its master. But the imperceptible usurpation was
      recorded, and discriminating minds understand the chasm which still
      divides the pretender Law from the exiled King. In a like manner, and with
      feigned humility, the Cold Demon advanced to serve Religion, and by guile
      and violence usurped her throne; but the pure in heart still fly from the
      spectre Theology to dance in ecstasy before the starry and eternal
      goddess. Statecraft, also, that tender Shepherd of the Flocks, has been
      despoiled of his crook and bell, and wanders in unknown desolation while,
      beneath the banner of Politics, Reason sits howling over an intellectual
      chaos.
    </p>
    <p>
      Justice is the maintaining of equilibrium. The blood of Cain must cry, not
      from the lips of the Avenger, but from the aggrieved Earth herself who
      demands that atonement shall be made for a disturbance of her
      consciousness. All justice is, therefore, readjustment. A thwarted
      consciousness has every right to clamour for assistance, but not for
      punishment. This latter can only be sought by timorous and egotistic
      Intellect, which sees the Earth from which it has emerged and into which
      it must return again in its own despite, and so, being self-centred and
      envious and a renegade from life, Reason is more cruelly unjust, and more
      timorous than any other manifestation of the divinely erratic energy&mdash;erratic,
      because, as has been said, &ldquo;the crooked roads are the roads of genius.&rdquo;
       Nature grants to all her creatures an unrestricted liberty, quickened by
      competitive appetite, to succeed or to fail; save only to Reason, her
      Demon of Order, which can do neither, and whose wings she has clipped for
      some reason with which I am not yet acquainted. It may be that an
      unrestricted mentality would endanger her own intuitive perceptions by
      shackling all her other organs of perception, or annoy her by vexatious
      efforts at creative rivalry.
    </p>
    <p>
      It will, therefore, be understood that when the Leprecauns of Gort na
      Cloca Mora acted in the manner about to be recorded, they were not
      prompted by any lewd passion for revenge, but were merely striving to
      reconstruct a rhythm which was their very existence, and which must have
      been of direct importance to the Earth. Revenge is the vilest passion
      known to life. It has made Law possible, and by doing so it gave to
      Intellect the first grip at that universal dominion which is its ambition.
      A Leprecaun is of more value to the Earth than is a Prime Minister or a
      stockbroker, because a Leprecaun dances and makes merry, while a Prime
      Minister knows nothing of these natural virtues&mdash;consequently, an
      injury done to a Leprecaun afflicts the Earth with misery, and justice is,
      for these reasons, an imperative and momentous necessity.
    </p>
    <p>
      A community of Leprecauns without a crock of gold is a blighted and
      merriless community, and they are certainly justified in seeking sympathy
      and assistance for the recovery of so essential a treasure. But the steps
      whereby the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora sought to regain their
      property must for ever brand their memory with a certain odium. It should
      be remembered in their favour that they were cunningly and cruelly
      encompassed. Not only was their gold stolen, but it was buried in such a
      position as placed it under the protection of their own communal honour,
      and the household of their enemy was secured against their active and
      righteous malice, because the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath belonged to the
      most powerful Shee of Ireland. It is in circumstances such as these that
      dangerous alliances are made, and, for the first time in history, the
      elemental beings invoked bourgeois assistance.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were loath to do it, and justice must record the fact. They were
      angry when they did it, and anger is both mental and intuitive blindness.
      It is not the beneficent blindness which prevents one from seeing without,
      but it is that desperate darkness which cloaks the within, and hides the
      heart and the brain from each other&rsquo;s husbandry and wifely recognition.
      But even those mitigating circumstances cannot justify the course they
      adopted, and the wider idea must be sought for, that out of evil good must
      ultimately come, or else evil is vitiated beyond even the redemption of
      usage. When they were able to realize of what they had been guilty, they
      were very sorry indeed, and endeavoured to publish their repentance in
      many ways; but, lacking atonement, repentance is only a post-mortem virtue
      which is good for nothing but burial.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora found they were unable to regain
      their crock of gold by any means they laid an anonymous information at the
      nearest Police Station showing that two dead bodies would be found under
      the hearthstone in the hut of Coille Doraca, and the inference to be drawn
      from their crafty missive was that these bodies had been murdered by the
      Philosopher for reasons very discreditable to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher had been scarcely more than three hours on his journey to
      Angus Og when four policemen approached the little house from as many
      different directions, and without any trouble they effected an entrance.
      The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath and the two children heard from afar their
      badly muffled advance, and on discovering the character of their visitors
      they concealed themselves among the thickly clustering trees. Shortly
      after the men had entered the hut loud and sustained noises began to issue
      therefrom, and in about twenty minutes the invaders emerged again bearing
      the bodies of the Grey Woman of Dun Gortin and her husband. They wrenched
      the door off its hinges, and, placing the bodies on the door, proceeded at
      a rapid pace through the trees and disappeared in a short time. When they
      had departed the Thin Woman and the children returned to their home and
      over the yawning hearth the Thin Woman pronounced a long and fervid
      malediction wherein policemen were exhibited naked before the blushes of
      Eternity...
    </p>
    <p>
      With your good-will let us now return to the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      Following his interview with Angus Og the Philosopher received the
      blessing of the god and returned on his homeward journey. When he left the
      cave he had no knowledge where he was nor whether he should turn to the
      right hand or to the left. This alone was his guiding idea, that as he had
      come up the mountain on his first journey his home-going must, by mere
      opposition, be down the mountain, and, accordingly, he set his face
      downhill and trod lustily forward. He had stamped up the hill with vigour,
      he strode down it in ecstasy. He tossed his voice on every wind that went
      by. From the wells of forgetfulness he regained the shining words and gay
      melodies which his childhood had delighted in, and these he sang loudly
      and unceasingly as he marched. The sun had not yet risen but, far away, a
      quiet brightness was creeping over the sky. The daylight, however, was
      near the full, one slender veil only remaining of the shadows, and a calm,
      unmoving quietude brooded from the grey sky to the whispering earth. The
      birds had begun to bestir themselves but not to sing. Now and again a
      solitary wing feathered the chill air; but for the most part the birds
      huddled closer in the swinging nests, or under the bracken, or in the
      tufty grass. Here a faint twitter was heard and ceased. A little farther a
      drowsy voice called &ldquo;cheep-cheep&rdquo; and turned again to the warmth of its
      wing. The very grasshoppers were silent. The creatures who range in the
      night time had returned to their cells and were setting their households
      in order, and those who belonged to the day hugged their comfort for but
      one minute longer. Then the first level beam stepped like a mild angel to
      the mountain top. The slender radiance brightened and grew strong. The
      grey veil faded away. The birds leaped from their nests. The grasshoppers
      awakened and were busy at a stroke. Voice called to voice without ceasing,
      and, momently, a song thrilled for a few wide seconds. But for the most
      part it was chatter-chatter they went as they soared and plunged and
      swept, each bird eager for its breakfast.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher thrust his hand into his wallet and found there the last
      broken remnants of his cake, and the instant his hand touched the food he
      was seized by a hunger so furious that he sat down where he stopped and
      prepared to eat.
    </p>
    <p>
      The place where he sat was a raised bank under a hedge, and this place
      directly fronted a clumsy wooden gate leading into a great field. When the
      Philosopher had seated himself he raised his eyes and saw through the gate
      a small company approaching. There were four men and three women, and each
      of them carried a metal pail. The Philosopher with a sigh returned the
      cake to his wallet, saying:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All men are brothers, and it may be that these people are as hungry as I
      am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a short time the strangers came near. The foremost of them was a huge
      man who was bearded to the eyelids and who moved like a strong wind. He
      opened the gate by removing a piece of wood wherewith it was jammed, and
      he and his companions passed through, whereupon he closed the gate and
      secured it. To this man, as being the eldest, the Philosopher approached.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am about to breakfast,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and if you are hungry perhaps you
      would like to eat with me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not,&rdquo; said the man, &ldquo;for the person who would refuse a kind
      invitation is a dog. These are my three sons and three of my daughters,
      and we are all thankful to you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Saying this he sat down on the bank and his companions, placing their
      pails behind them, did likewise. The Philosopher divided his cake into
      eight pieces and gave one to each person.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am sorry it is so little,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A gift,&rdquo; said the bearded man, &ldquo;is never little,&rdquo; and he courteously ate
      his piece in three bites although he could have easily eaten it in one,
      and his children also.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was a good, satisfying cake,&rdquo; said he when he had finished; &ldquo;it was
      well baked and well shared, but,&rdquo; he continued, &ldquo;I am in a difficulty and
      maybe you could advise me what to do, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What might be your trouble?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is this,&rdquo; said the man. &ldquo;Every morning when we go out to milk the cows
      the mother of my clann gives to each of us a parcel of food so that we
      need not be any hungrier than we like; but now we have had a good
      breakfast with you, what shall we do with the food that we brought with
      us? The woman of the house would not be pleased if we carried it back to
      her, and if we threw food away it would be a sin. If it was not
      disrespectful to your breakfast the boys and girls here might be able to
      get rid of it by eating it, for, as you know, young people can always eat
      a bit more, no matter how much they have already eaten.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would surely be better to eat it than to waste it,&rdquo; said the
      Philosopher wistfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young people produced large parcels of food from their pockets and
      opened them, and the bearded man said, &ldquo;I have a little one myself also,
      and it would not be wasted if you were kind enough to help me to eat it,&rdquo;
       and he pulled out his parcel, which was twice as big as any of the others.
    </p>
    <p>
      He opened the parcel and handed the larger part of its contents to the
      Philosopher; he then plunged a tin vessel into one of the milk pails and
      set this also by the Philosopher, and, instantly, they all began to eat
      with furious appetite.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the meal was finished the Philosopher filled his tobacco pipe and the
      bearded man and his three sons did likewise.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said the bearded man, &ldquo;I would be glad to know why you are
      travelling abroad so early in the morning, for, at this hour, no one stirs
      but the sun and the birds and the folk who, like ourselves, follow the
      cattle?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you that gladly,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;if you will tell me
      your name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name,&rdquo; said the bearded man, &ldquo;is Mac Cul.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Last night,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;when I came from the house of Angus
      Og in the Caves of the Sleepers of Erinn I was bidden say to a man named
      Mac Cul-that the horses had trampled in their sleep and the sleepers had
      turned on their sides.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said the bearded man, &ldquo;your words thrill in my heart like music,
      but my head does not understand them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have learned,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;that the head does not hear
      anything until the heart has listened, and that what the heart knows
      to-day the head will understand to-morrow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All the birds of the world are singing in my soul,&rdquo; said the bearded man,
      &ldquo;and I bless you because you have filled me with hope and pride.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So the Philosopher shook him by the hand, and he shook the hands of his
      sons and daughters who bowed before him at the mild command of their
      father, and when he had gone a little way he looked around again and he
      saw that group of people standing where he had left them, and the bearded
      man was embracing his children on the highroad.
    </p>
    <p>
      A bend in the path soon shut them from view, and then the Philosopher,
      fortified by food and the freshness of the morning, strode onwards singing
      for very joy. It was still early, but now the birds had eaten their
      breakfasts and were devoting themselves to each other. They rested side by
      side on the branches of the trees and on the hedges, they danced in the
      air in happy brotherhoods and they sang to one another amiable and
      pleasant ditties.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the Philosopher had walked for a long time he felt a little weary and
      sat down to refresh himself in the shadow of a great tree. Hard by there
      was a house of rugged stone. Long years ago it had been a castle, and,
      even now, though patched by time and misfortune its front was warlike and
      frowning. While he sat a young woman came along the road and stood gazing
      earnestly at this house. Her hair was as black as night and as smooth as
      still water, but her face came so stormily forward that her quiet attitude
      had yet no quietness in it. To her, after a few moments, the Philosopher
      spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Girl,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;why do you look so earnestly at the house?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl turned her pale face and stared at him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not notice you sitting under the tree,&rdquo; said she, and she came
      slowly forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sit down by me,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;and we will talk. If you are in
      any trouble tell it to me, and perhaps you will talk the heaviest part
      away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will sit beside you willingly,&rdquo; said the girl, and she did so.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is good to talk trouble over,&rdquo; he continued. &ldquo;Do you know that talk is
      a real thing? There is more power in speech than many people conceive.
      Thoughts come from God, they are born through the marriage of the head and
      the lungs. The head moulds the thought into the form of words, then it is
      borne and sounded on the air which has been already in the secret kingdoms
      of the body, which goes in bearing life and come out freighted with
      wisdom. For this reason a lie is very terrible, because it is turning
      mighty and incomprehensible things to base uses, and is burdening the
      life-giving element with a foul return for its goodness; but those who
      speak the truth and whose words are the symbols of wisdom and beauty,
      these purify the whole world and daunt contagion. The only trouble the
      body can know is disease. All other miseries come from the brain, and, as
      these belong to thought, they can be driven out by their master as unruly
      and unpleasant vagabonds; for a mental trouble should be spoken to,
      confronted, reprimanded and so dismissed. The brain cannot afford to
      harbour any but pleasant and eager citizens who will do their part in
      making laughter and holiness for the world, for that is the duty of
      thought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      While the Philosopher spoke the girl had been regarding him steadfastly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;we tell our hearts to a young man and our heads to an
      old man, and when the heart is a fool the head is bound to be a liar. I
      can tell you the things I know, but how will I tell you the things I feel
      when I myself do not understand them? If I say these words to you &lsquo;I love
      a man&rsquo; I do not say anything at all, and you do not hear one of the words
      which my heart is repeating over and over to itself in the silence of my
      body. Young people are fools in their heads and old people are fools in
      their hearts, and they can only look at each other and pass by in wonder.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are wrong,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;An old person can take your hand
      like this and say, &lsquo;May every good thing come to you, my daughter.&rsquo; For
      all trouble there is sympathy, and for love there is memory, and these are
      the head and the heart talking to each other in quiet friendship. What the
      heart knows to-day the head will understand to-morrow, and as the head
      must be the scholar of the heart it is necessary that our hearts be
      purified and free from every false thing, else we are tainted beyond
      personal redemption.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said the girl, &ldquo;I know of two great follies-they are love and
      speech, for when these are given they can never be taken back again, and
      the person to whom these are given is not any richer, but the giver is
      made poor and abashed. I gave my love to a man who did not want it. I told
      him of my love, and he lifted his eyelids at me; that is my trouble.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      For a moment the Philosopher sat in stricken silence looking on the
      ground. He had a strange disinclination to look at the girl although he
      felt her eyes fixed steadily on him. But in a little while he did look at
      her and spoke again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;To carry gifts to an ungrateful person cannot be justified and need not
      be mourned for. If your love is noble why do you treat it meanly? If it is
      lewd the man was right to reject it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We love as the wind blows,&rdquo; she replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a thing,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;and it is both the biggest and
      the littlest thing in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo; said the girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is pride,&rdquo; he answered. &ldquo;It lives in an empty house. The head which
      has never been visited by the heart is the house pride lives in. You are
      in error, my dear, and not in love. Drive out the knave pride, put a
      flower in your hair and walk freely again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The girl laughed, and suddenly her pale face became rosy as the dawn and
      as radiant and lovely as a cloud. She shed warmth and beauty about her as
      she leaned forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are wrong,&rdquo; she whispered, &ldquo;because he does love me; but he does not
      know it yet. He is young and full of fury, and has no time to look at
      women, but he looked at me. My heart knows it and my head knows it, but I
      am impatient and yearn for him to look at me again. His heart will
      remember me to-morrow, and he will come searching for me with prayers and
      tears, with shouts and threats. I will be very hard to find to-morrow when
      he holds out his arms to the air and the sky, and is astonished and
      frightened to find me nowhere. I will hide from him to-morrow, and frown
      at him when he speaks, and turn aside when he follows me: until the day
      after to-morrow when he will frighten me with his anger, and hold me with
      his furious hands, and make me look at him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Saying this the girl arose and prepared to go away.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He is in that house,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and I would not let him see me here for
      anything in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have wasted all my time,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, smiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What else is time for?&rdquo; said the girl, and she kissed the Philosopher and
      ran swiftly down the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      She had been gone but a few moments when a man came out of the grey house
      and walked quickly across the grass. When he reached the hedge separating
      the field from the road he tossed his two arms in the air, swung them
      down, and jumped over the hedge into the roadway. He was a short, dark
      youth, and so swift and sudden were his movements that he seemed to look
      on every side at the one moment although he bore furiously to his own
      direction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher addressed him mildly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That was a good jump,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man spun around from where he stood, and was by the
      Philosopher&rsquo;s side in an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It would be a good jump for other men,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;but it is only a little
      jump for me. You are very dusty, sir; you must have travelled a long
      distance to-day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A long distance,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher. &ldquo;Sit down here, my friend, and
      keep me company for a little time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not like sitting down,&rdquo; said the young man, &ldquo;but I always consent to
      a request, and I always accept friendship.&rdquo; And, so saying, he threw
      himself down on the grass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you work in that big house?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;I train the hounds for a fat, jovial man, full of
      laughter and insolence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I think you do not like your master.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Believe, sir, that I do not like any master; but this man I hate. I have
      been a week in his service, and he has not once looked on me as on a
      friend. This very day, in the kennel, he passed me as though I were a tree
      or a stone. I almost leaped to catch him by the throat and say: &lsquo;Dog, do
      you not salute your fellow-man?&rsquo; But I looked after him and let him go,
      for it would be an unpleasant thing to strangle a fat person.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you are displeased with your master should you not look for another
      occupation?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was thinking of that, and I was thinking whether I ought to kill him or
      marry his daughter. She would have passed me by as her father did, but I
      would not let a woman do that to me: no man would.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you do to her?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      The young man chuckled &ldquo;I did not look at her the first time, and when she
      came near me the second time I looked another way, and on the third day
      she spoke to me, and while she stood I looked over her shoulder distantly.
      She said she hoped I would be happy in my new home, and she made her voice
      sound pleasant while she said it; but I thanked her and turned away
      carelessly.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is the girl beautiful?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;I have not looked at her yet, although now I
      see her everywhere. I think she is a woman who would annoy me if I married
      her.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you haven&rsquo;t seen her, how can you think that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She has tame feet,&rdquo; said the youth. &ldquo;I looked at them and they got
      frightened. Where have you travelled from, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you that,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;if you will tell me your
      name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is easily told,&rdquo; he answered; &ldquo;my name is MacCulain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I came last night,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;from the place of Angus
      Og in the cave of the Sleepers of Erinn I was bidden say to a man named
      MacCulain that The Grey of Macha had neighed in his sleep and the sword of
      Laeg clashed on the floor as he turned in his slumber.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The young man leaped from the grass.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said he in a strained voice, &ldquo;I do not understand your words, but
      they make my heart to dance and sing within me like a bird.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you listen to your heart,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;you will learn every
      good thing, for the heart is the fountain of wisdom tossing its thoughts
      up to the brain which gives them form,&rdquo;&mdash;and, so saying, he saluted
      the youth and went again on his way by the curving road.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now the day had advanced, noon was long past, and the strong sunlight
      blazed ceaselessly on the world. His path was still on the high mountains,
      running on for a short distance and twisting perpetually to the right hand
      and to the left. One might scarcely call it a path, it grew so narrow.
      Sometimes, indeed, it almost ceased to be a path, for the grass had stolen
      forward inch by inch to cover up the tracks of man. There were no hedges
      but rough, tumbled ground only, which was patched by trailing bushes and
      stretched away in mounds and hummocks beyond the far horizon. There was a
      deep silence everywhere, not painful, for where the sun shines there is no
      sorrow: the only sound to be heard was the swish of long grasses against
      his feet as he trod, and the buzz of an occasional bee that came and was
      gone in an instant.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher was very hungry, and he looked about on all sides to see
      if there was anything he might eat. &ldquo;If I were a goat or a cow,&rdquo; said he,
      &ldquo;I could eat this grass and be nourished. If I were a donkey I could crop
      the hard thistles which are growing on every hand, or if I were a bird I
      could feed on the caterpillars and creeping things which stir innumerably
      everywhere. But a man may not eat even in the midst of plenty, because he
      has departed from nature, and lives by crafty and twisted thought.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Speaking in this manner he chanced to lift his eyes from the ground and
      saw, far away, a solitary figure which melted into the folding earth and
      reappeared again in a different place. So peculiar and erratic were the
      movements of this figure that the Philosopher had great difficulty in
      following it, and, indeed, would have been unable to follow, but that the
      other chanced in his direction. When they came nearer he saw it was a
      young boy, who was dancing hither and thither in any and every direction.
      A bushy mound hid him for an instant, and the next they were standing face
      to face staring at each other. After a moment&rsquo;s silence the boy, who was
      about twelve years of age, and as beautiful as the morning, saluted the
      Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you lost your way, sir?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All paths,&rdquo; the Philosopher replied, &ldquo;are on the earth, and so one can
      never be lost&mdash;but I have lost my dinner.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy commenced to laugh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you laughing at, my son?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because,&rdquo; he replied, &ldquo;I am bringing you your dinner. I wondered what
      sent me out in this direction, for I generally go more to the east.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Have you got my dinner?&rdquo; said the Philosopher anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have,&rdquo; said the boy: &ldquo;I ate my own dinner at home, and I put your
      dinner in my pocket. I thought,&rdquo; he explained, &ldquo;that I might be hungry if
      I went far away.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The gods directed you,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They often do,&rdquo; said the boy, and he pulled a small parcel from his
      pocket.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher instantly sat down, and the boy handed him the parcel. He
      opened this and found bread and cheese.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a good dinner,&rdquo; said he, and commenced to eat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Would you not like a piece also, my son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would like a little piece,&rdquo; said the boy, and he sat down before the
      Philosopher, and they ate together happily.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they had finished the Philosopher praised the gods, and then said,
      more to himself than to the boy:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had a little drink of water I would want nothing else.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is a stream four paces from here,&rdquo; said his companion. &ldquo;I will get
      some water in my cap,&rdquo; and he leaped away.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few moments he came back holding his cap tenderly, and the
      Philosopher took this and drank the water.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want nothing more in the world,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;except to talk with you. The
      sun is shining, the wind is pleasant, and the grass is soft. Sit down
      beside me again for a little time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So the boy sat down, and the Philosopher lit his pipe.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you live far from here?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not far,&rdquo; said the boy. &ldquo;You could see my mother&rsquo;s house from this place
      if you were as tall as a tree, and even from the ground you can see a
      shape of smoke yonder that floats over our cottage.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher looked but could see nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My eyes are not as good as yours are,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;because I am getting
      old.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What does it feel like to be old?&rdquo; said the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It feels stiff like,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that all?&rdquo; said the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; the Philosopher replied after a few moments&rsquo; silence. &ldquo;Can
      you tell me what it looks like to be young?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why not?&rdquo; said the boy, and then a slight look of perplexity crossed his
      face, and he continued, &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t think I can.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Young people,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;do not know what age is, and old
      people forget what youth was. When you begin to grow old always think
      deeply of your youth, for an old man without memories is a wasted life,
      and nothing is worth remembering but our childhood. I will tell you some
      of the differences between being old and young, and then you can ask me
      questions, and so we will get at both sides of the matter. First, an old
      man gets tired quicker than a boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy thought for a moment, and then replied:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not a great difference, for a boy does get very tired.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An old man does not want to eat as often as a boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is not a great difference either,&rdquo; the boy replied, &ldquo;for they both
      do eat. Tell me the big difference.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know it, my son; but I have always thought there was a big
      difference. Perhaps it is that an old man has memories of things which a
      boy cannot even guess at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But they both have memories,&rdquo; said the boy, laughing, &ldquo;and so it is not a
      big difference.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Maybe there is not so much
      difference after all. Tell me things you do, and we will see if I can do
      them also.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But I don&rsquo;t know what I do,&rdquo; he replied.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must know the things you do,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;but you may not
      understand how to put them in order. The great trouble about any kind of
      examination is to know where to begin, but there are always two places in
      everything with which we can commence&mdash;they are the beginning and the
      end. From either of these points a view may be had which comprehends the
      entire period. So we will begin with the things you did this morning.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am satisfied with that,&rdquo; said the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher then continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When you awakened this morning and went out of the house what was the
      first thing you did?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy thought &ldquo;I went out, then I picked up a stone and threw it into
      the field as far as I could.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What then?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Then I ran after the stone to see could I catch up on it before it hit
      the ground.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I ran so fast that I tumbled over myself into the grass.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you do after that?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I lay where I fell and plucked handfuls of the grass with both hands and
      threw them on my back.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you get up then?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I pressed my face into the grass and shouted a lot of times with my
      mouth against the ground, and then I sat up and did not move for a long
      time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Were you thinking?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, I was not thinking or doing anything.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why did you do all these things?&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For no reason at all,&rdquo; said the boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That,&rdquo; said the Philosopher triumphantly, &ldquo;is the difference between age
      and youth. Boys do things for no reason, and old people do not. I wonder
      do we get old because we do things by reason instead of instinct?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know,&rdquo; said the boy, &ldquo;everything gets old. Have you travelled
      very far to-day, sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you that if you will tell me your name.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My name,&rdquo; said the boy, &ldquo;is MacCushin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I came last night,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;from the place of Angus
      Og in the Caste of the Sleepers I was bidden say to one named MacCushin
      that a son would be born to Angus Og and his wife, Caitilin, and that the
      sleepers of Erinn had turned in their slumbers.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy regarded him steadfastly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I know,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;why Angus Og sent me that message. He wants me to make
      a poem to the people of Erinn, so that when the Sleepers arise they will
      meet with friends.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The Sleepers have arisen,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;They are about us on
      every side. They are walking now, but they have forgotten their names and
      the meanings of their names. You are to tell them their names and their
      lineage, for I am an old man, and my work is done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will make a poem some day,&rdquo; said the boy, &ldquo;and every man will shout
      when he hears it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;God be with you, my son,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, and he embraced the boy
      and went forward on his journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      About half an hour&rsquo;s easy travelling brought him to a point from which he
      could see far down below to the pine trees of Coille Doraca. The shadowy
      evening had crept over the world ere he reached the wood, and when he
      entered the little house the darkness had already descended.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath met him as he entered, and was about to
      speak harshly of his long absence, but the Philosopher kissed her with
      such unaccustomed tenderness, and spoke so mildly to her, that, first,
      astonishment enchained her tongue, and then delight set it free in a
      direction to which it had long been a stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Wife,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;I cannot say how joyful I am to see your
      good face again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Thin Woman was unable at first to reply to this salutation, but, with
      incredible speed, she put on a pot of stirabout, began to bake a cake, and
      tried to roast potatoes. After a little while she wept loudly, and
      proclaimed that the world did not contain the equal of her husband for
      comeliness and goodness, and that she was herself a sinful person unworthy
      of the kindness of the gods or of such a mate.
    </p>
    <p>
      But while the Philosopher was embracing Seumas and Brigid Beg, the door
      was suddenly burst open with a great noise, four policemen entered the
      little room, and after one dumbfoundered minute they retreated again
      bearing the Philosopher with them to answer a charge of murder.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK V. THE POLICEMEN
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XIV
    </h2>
    <p>
      SOME distance down the road the policemen halted. The night had fallen
      before they effected their capture, and now, in the gathering darkness,
      they were not at ease. In the first place, they knew that the occupation
      upon which they were employed was not a creditable one to a man whatever
      it might be to a policeman. The seizure of a criminal may be justified by
      certain arguments as to the health of society and the preservation of
      property, but no person wishes under any circumstances to hale a wise man
      to prison. They were further distressed by the knowledge that they were in
      the very centre of a populous fairy country, and that on every side the
      elemental hosts might be ranging, ready to fall upon them with the terrors
      of war or the still more awful scourge of their humour. The path leading
      to their station was a long one, winding through great alleys of trees,
      which in some places overhung the road so thickly that even the full moon
      could not search out that deep blackness. In the daylight these men would
      have arrested an Archangel and, if necessary, bludgeoned him, but in the
      night-time a thousand fears afflicted and a multitude of sounds shocked
      them from every quarter.
    </p>
    <p>
      Two men were holding the Philosopher, one on either side; the other two
      walked one before and one behind him. In this order they were proceeding
      when just in front through the dim light they saw the road swallowed up by
      one of these groves already spoken of. When they came nigh they halted
      irresolutely: the man who was in front (a silent and perturbed sergeant)
      turned fiercely to the others &ldquo;Come on, can&rsquo;t you?&rdquo; said he; &ldquo;what the
      devil are you waiting for?&rdquo; and he strode forward into the black gape.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep a good hold of that man,&rdquo; said the one behind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t be talking out of you,&rdquo; replied he on the right. &ldquo;Haven&rsquo;t we got a
      good grip of him, and isn&rsquo;t he an old man into the bargain?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, keep a good tight grip of him, anyhow, for if he gave you the slip
      in there he&rsquo;d vanish like a weasel in a bush. Them old fellows do be
      slippery customers. Look here, mister,&rdquo; said he to the Philosopher, &ldquo;if
      you try to run away from us I&rsquo;ll give you a clout on the head with my
      baton; do you mind me now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They had taken only a few paces forward when the sound of hasty footsteps
      brought them again to a halt, and in a moment the sergeant came striding
      back. He was angry.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Are you going to stay there the whole night, or what are you going to do
      at all?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let you be quiet now,&rdquo; said another; &ldquo;we were only settling with the man
      here the way he wouldn&rsquo;t try to give us the slip in a dark place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it thinking of giving us the slip he is?&rdquo; said the sergeant. &ldquo;Take
      your baton in your hand, Shawn, and if he turns his head to one side of
      him hit him on that side.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do that,&rdquo; said Shawn, and he pulled out his truncheon.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher had been dazed by the suddenness of these occurrences, and
      the enforced rapidity of his movements prevented him from either thinking
      or speaking, but during this brief stoppage his scattered wits began to
      return to their allegiance. First, bewilderment at his enforcement had
      seized him, and the four men, who were continually running round him and
      speaking all at once, and each pulling him in a different direction, gave
      him the impression that he was surrounded by a great rabble of people, but
      he could not discover what they wanted. After a time he found that there
      were only four men, and gathered from their remarks that he was being
      arrested for murder&mdash;this precipitated him into another and a deeper
      gulf of bewilderment. He was unable to conceive why they should arrest him
      for murder when he had not committed any; and, following this, he became
      indignant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not go another step,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;unless you tell me where you are
      bringing me and what I am accused of.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;what did you kill them with? for it&rsquo;s a
      miracle how they came to their ends without as much as a mark on their
      skins or a broken tooth itself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who are you talking about?&rdquo; the Philosopher demanded.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s mighty innocent you are,&rdquo; he replied. &ldquo;Who would I be talking about
      but the man and woman that used to be living with you beyond in the little
      house? Is it poison you gave them now, or what was it? Take a hold of your
      note-book, Shawn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Can&rsquo;t you have sense, man?&rdquo; said Shawn. &ldquo;How would I be writing in the
      middle of a dark place and me without as much as a pencil, let alone a
      book?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, we&rsquo;ll take it down at the station, and himself can tell us all
      about it as we go along. Move on now, for this is no place to be
      conversing in.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They paced on again, and in another moment they were swallowed up by the
      darkness. When they had proceeded for a little distance there came a
      peculiar sound in front like the breathing of some enormous animal, and
      also a kind of shuffling noise, and so they again halted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a queer kind of a thing in front of us,&rdquo; said one of the men in a
      low voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If I had a match itself,&rdquo; said another.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sergeant had also halted.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Draw well into the side of the road,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and poke your batons in
      front of you. Keep a tight hold of that man, Shawn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do that,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just then one of them found a few matches in his pocket, and he struck a
      light; there was no wind, so that it blazed easily enough, and they all
      peered in front. A big black cart-horse was lying in the middle of the
      road having a gentle sleep, and when the light shone it scrambled to its
      feet and went thundering away in a panic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Isn&rsquo;t that enough to put the heart crossways in you?&rdquo; said one of the
      men, with a great sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay,&rdquo; said another; &ldquo;if you stepped on that beast in the darkness you
      wouldn&rsquo;t know what to be thinking.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t quite remember the way about here,&rdquo; said the sergeant after a
      while, &ldquo;but I think we should take the first turn to the right. I wonder
      have we passed the turn yet; these criss-cross kinds of roads are the
      devil, and it dark as well. Do any of you men know the way?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t,&rdquo; said one voice; &ldquo;I&rsquo;m a Cavan man myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Roscommon,&rdquo; said another, &ldquo;is my country, and I wish I was there now, so
      I do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if we walk straight on we&rsquo;re bound to get somewhere, so step it
      out. Have you got a good hold of that man, Shawn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have so,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher&rsquo;s voice came pealing through the darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is no need to pinch me, sir,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m not pinching you at all,&rdquo; said the man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are so,&rdquo; returned the Philosopher. &ldquo;You have a big lump of skin
      doubled up in the sleeve of my coat, and unless you instantly release it I
      will sit down in the road.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that any better?&rdquo; said the man, relaxing his hold a little.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You have only let out half of it,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher. &ldquo;That&rsquo;s
      better now,&rdquo; he continued, and they resumed their journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      After a few minutes of silence the Philosopher began to speak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not see any necessity in nature for policemen,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;nor do I
      understand how the custom first originated. Dogs and cats do not employ
      these extraordinary mercenaries, and yet their polity is progressive and
      orderly. Crows are a gregarious race with settled habitations and an
      organized commonwealth. They usually congregate in a ruined tower or on
      the top of a church, and their civilization is based on mutual aid and
      tolerance for each other&rsquo;s idiosyncrasies. Their exceeding mobility and
      hardiness renders them dangerous to attack, and thus they are free to
      devote themselves to the development of their domestic laws and customs.
      If policemen were necessary to a civilization crows would certainly have
      evolved them, but I triumphantly insist that they have not got any
      policemen in their republic&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t understand a word you are saying,&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Ants and bees also live in
      specialized communities and have an extreme complexity both of function
      and occupation. Their experience in governmental matters is enormous, and
      yet they have never discovered that a police force is at all essential to
      their wellbeing&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;that whatever you say now will be used
      in evidence against you later on?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;It may be said that these races are
      free from crime, that such vices as they have are organized and communal
      instead of individual and anarchistic, and that, consequently, there is no
      necessity for policecraft, but I cannot believe that these large
      aggregations of people could have attained their present high culture
      without an interval of both national and individual dishonesty&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me now, as you are talking,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;did you buy the
      poison at a chemist&rsquo;s shop, or did you smother the pair of them with a
      pillow?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;If crime is a condition precedent to
      the evolution of policemen, then I will submit that jackdaws are a very
      thievish clan&mdash;they are somewhat larger than a blackbird, and will
      steal wool off a sheep&rsquo;s back to line their nests with; they have,
      furthermore, been known to abstract one shilling in copper and secrete
      this booty so ingeniously that it has never since been recovered&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I had a jackdaw myself,&rdquo; said one of the men. &ldquo;I got it from a woman that
      came to the door with a basket for fourpence. My mother stood on its back
      one day, and she getting out of bed. I split its tongue with a threepenny
      bit the way it would talk, but devil the word it ever said for me. It used
      to hop around letting on it had a lame leg, and then it would steal your
      socks.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shut up!&rdquo; roared the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;these people steal both from from sheep and
      from men, if their peculations range from wool to money, I do not see how
      they can avoid stealing from each other, and consequently, if anywhere, it
      is amongst jackdaws one should look for the growth of a police force, but
      there is no such force in existence. The real reason is that they are a
      witty and thoughtful race who look temperately on what is known as crime
      and evil&mdash;one eats, one steals; it is all in the order of things, and
      therefore not to be quarrelled with. There is no other view possible to a
      philosophical people&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What the devil is he talking about?&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Monkeys are gregarious and thievish and semi-human. They inhabit the
      equatorial latitudes and eat nuts&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you know what he is saying, Shawn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;&mdash;they ought to have evolved professional thief-takers, but it is
      common knowledge that they have not done so. Fishes, squirrels, rats,
      beavers, and bison have also abstained from this singular growth&mdash;therefore,
      when I insist that I see no necessity for policemen and object to their
      presence, I base that objection on logic and facts, and not on any
      immediate petty prejudice.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shawn,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;have you got a good grip on that man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, if he talks any more hit him with your baton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will so,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s a speck of light down yonder, and, maybe, it&rsquo;s a candle in a
      window&mdash;we&rsquo;ll ask the way at that place.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In about three minutes they came to a small house which was overhung by
      trees. If the light had not been visible they would undoubtedly have
      passed it in the darkness. As they approached the door the sound of a
      female voice came to them scoldingly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There&rsquo;s somebody up anyhow,&rdquo; said the sergeant, and he tapped at the
      door.
    </p>
    <p>
      The scolding voice ceased instantly. After a few seconds he tapped again;
      then a voice was heard from just behind the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tomas,&rdquo; said the voice, &ldquo;go and bring up the two dogs with you before I
      take the door off the chain.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The door was then opened a few inches and a face peered out &ldquo;What would
      you be wanting at this hour of the night?&rdquo; said the woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not much, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said the sergeant; &ldquo;only a little direction about the
      road, for we are not sure whether we&rsquo;ve gone too far or not far enough.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The woman noticed their uniforms.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it policemen ye are? There&rsquo;s no harm in your coming in, I suppose, and
      if a drink of milk is any good to ye I have plenty of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Milk&rsquo;s better than nothing,&rdquo; said the sergeant with a sigh.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve a little sup of spirits,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;but it wouldn&rsquo;t be enough to go
      around.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, well,&rdquo; said he, looking sternly at his comrades, &ldquo;everybody has to
      take their chance in this world,&rdquo; and he stepped into the house followed
      by his men.
    </p>
    <p>
      The women gave him a little sup of whisky from a bottle, and to each of
      the other men she gave a cup of milk.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;ll wash the dust out of our gullets, anyhow,&rdquo; said one of them.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were two chairs, a bed, and a table in the room. The Philosopher and
      his attendants sat on the bed. The sergeant sat on the table, the fourth
      man took a chair, and the woman dropped wearily into the remaining chair
      from which she looked with pity at the prisoner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What are you taking the poor man away for?&rdquo; she asked.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a bad one, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said the sergeant. &ldquo;He killed a man and a woman
      that were staying with him and he buried their corpses underneath the
      hearthstone of his house. He&rsquo;s a real malefactor, mind you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it hanging him you&rsquo;ll be, God help us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You never know, and I wouldn&rsquo;t be a bit surprised if it came to that. But
      you were in trouble yourself, ma&rsquo;am, for we heard your voice lamenting
      about something as we came along the road.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I was, indeed,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;for the person that has a son in her house
      has a trouble in her heart.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you tell me now&mdash;What did he do on you?&rdquo; and the sergeant bent a
      look of grave reprobation on a young lad who was standing against the wall
      between two dogs.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;s a good boy enough in some ways,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;but he&rsquo;s too fond of
      beasts. He&rsquo;ll go and lie in the kennel along with them two dogs for hours
      at a time, petting them and making a lot of them, but if I try to give him
      a kiss, or to hug him for a couple of minutes when I do be tired after the
      work, he&rsquo;ll wriggle like an eel till I let him out&mdash;it would make a
      body hate him, so it would. Sure, there&rsquo;s no nature in him, sir, and I&rsquo;m
      his mother.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you young whelp,&rdquo; said the sergeant
      very severely.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And then there&rsquo;s the horse,&rdquo; she continued. &ldquo;Maybe you met it down the
      road a while ago?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We did, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, when he came in Tomas went to tie him up, for he&rsquo;s a caution at
      getting out and wandering about the road, the way you&rsquo;d break your neck
      over him if you weren&rsquo;t minding. After a while I told the boy to come in,
      but he didn&rsquo;t come, so I went out myself, and there was himself and the
      horse with their arms round each other&rsquo;s necks looking as if they were
      moonstruck.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Faith, he&rsquo;s the queer lad!&rdquo; said the sergeant. &ldquo;What do you be making
      love to the horse for, Tomas?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was all I could do to make him come in,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;and then I
      said to him, &lsquo;Sit down alongside of me here, Tomas, and keep me company
      for a little while&rsquo;&mdash;for I do be lonely in the night-time&mdash;but
      he wouldn&rsquo;t stay quiet at all. One minute he&rsquo;d say, &lsquo;Mother, there&rsquo;s a
      moth flying round the candle and it&rsquo;ll be burnt,&rsquo; and then, &lsquo;There was a
      fly going into the spider&rsquo;s web in the corner,&rsquo; and he&rsquo;d have to save it,
      and after that, &lsquo;There&rsquo;s a daddy-long-legs hurting himself on the
      window-pane,&rsquo; and he&rsquo;d have to let it out; but when I try to kiss him he
      pushes me away. My heart is tormented, so it is, for what have I in the
      world but him?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is his father dead, ma&rsquo;am?&rdquo; said the sergeant kindly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll tell the truth,&rdquo; said she. &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know whether he is or not, for a
      long time ago, when we used to live in the city of Bla&rsquo; Cliah, he lost his
      work one time and he never came back to me again. He was ashamed to come
      home I&rsquo;m thinking, the poor man, because he had no money; as if I would
      have minded whether he had any money or not&mdash;sure, he was very fond
      of me, sir, and we could have pulled along somehow. After that I came back
      to my father&rsquo;s place here; the rest of the children died on me, and then
      my father died, and I&rsquo;m doing the best I can by myself. It&rsquo;s only that I&rsquo;m
      a little bit troubled with the boy now and again.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a hard case, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;but maybe the boy is only a
      bit wild not having his father over him, and maybe it&rsquo;s just that he&rsquo;s
      used to yourself, for there isn&rsquo;t a child at all that doesn&rsquo;t love his
      mother. Let you behave yourself now, Tomas; attend to your mother, and
      leave the beasts and the insects alone, like a decent boy, for there&rsquo;s no
      insect in the world will ever like you as well as she does. Could you tell
      me, ma&rsquo;am, if we have passed the first turn on this road, or is it in
      front of us still, for we are lost altogether in the darkness?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s in front of you still,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;about ten minutes down the
      road; you can&rsquo;t miss it, for you&rsquo;ll see the sky where there is a gap in
      the trees, and that gap is the turn you want.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, ma&rsquo;am,&rdquo; said the sergeant; &ldquo;we&rsquo;d better be moving on, for
      there&rsquo;s a long tramp in front of us before we get to sleep this night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He stood up and the men rose to follow him when, suddenly, the boy spoke
      in a whisper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;they are going to hang the man,&rdquo; and he burst into
      tears.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, hush, hush,&rdquo; said the woman, &ldquo;sure, the men can&rsquo;t help it.&rdquo; She
      dropped quickly on her knees and opened her arms, &ldquo;Come over to your
      mother, my darling.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy ran to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are going to hang him,&rdquo; he cried in a high, thin voice, and he
      plucked at her arm violently.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, then, my young boy-o,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;none of that violence.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy turned suddenly and flew at him with astonishing ferocity. He
      hurled himself against the sergeant&rsquo;s legs and bit, and kicked, and struck
      at him. So furiously sudden was his attack that the man went staggering
      back against the wall, then he plucked at the boy and whirled him across
      the room. In an instant the two dogs leaped at him snarling with rage&mdash;one
      of these he kicked into a corner, from which it rebounded again bristling
      and red-eyed; the other dog was caught by the woman, and after a few
      frantic seconds she gripped the first dog also. To a horrible chorus of
      howls and snapping teeth the men hustled outside and slammed the door.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shawn,&rdquo; the sergeant bawled, &ldquo;have you got a good grip of that man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have so,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If he gets away I&rsquo;ll kick the belly out of you; mind that now! Come along
      with you and no more of your slouching.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They marched down the road in a tingling silence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dogs,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;are a most intelligent race of people&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;People, my granny!&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;From the earliest ages their intelligence has been observed and recorded,
      so that ancient literatures are bulky with references to their sagacity
      and fidelity&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Will you shut your old jaw?&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;Elephants also are credited with an
      extreme intelligence and devotion to their masters, and they will build a
      wall or nurse a baby with equal skill and happiness. Horses have received
      high recommendations in this respect, but crocodiles, hens, beetles,
      armadillos, and fish do not evince any remarkable partiality for man&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wish,&rdquo; said the sergeant bitterly, &ldquo;that all them beasts were stuffed
      down your throttle the way you&rsquo;d have to hold your prate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It doesn&rsquo;t matter,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. &ldquo;I do not know why these
      animals should attach themselves to men with gentleness and love and yet
      be able to preserve intact their initial bloodthirstiness, so that while
      they will allow their masters to misuse them in any way they will yet
      fight most willingly with each other, and are never really happy saving in
      the conduct of some private and nonsensical battle of their own. I do not
      believe that it is fear which tames these creatures into mildness, but
      that the most savage animal has a capacity for love which has not been
      sufficiently noted, and which, if more intelligent attention had been
      directed upon it, would have raised them to the status of intellectual
      animals as against intelligent ones, and, perhaps, have opened to us a
      correspondence which could not have been other than beneficial.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep your eyes out for that gap in the trees, Shawn,&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m doing that,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher continued:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why can I not exchange ideas with a cow? I am amazed at the
      incompleteness of my growth when I and a fellow-creature stand dumbly
      before each other without one glimmer of comprehension, locked and barred
      from all friendship and intercourse&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shawn,&rdquo; cried the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t interrupt,&rdquo; said the Philosopher; &ldquo;you are always talking.&mdash;The
      lower animals, as they are foolishly called, have abilities at which we
      can only wonder. The mind of an ant is one to which I would readily go to
      school. Birds have atmospheric and levitational information which millions
      of years will not render accessible to us; who that has seen a spider
      weaving his labyrinth, or a bee voyaging safely in the trackless air, can
      refuse to credit that a vivid, trained intelligence animates these small
      enigmas? and the commonest earthworm is the heir to a culture before which
      I bow with the profoundest veneration&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shawn,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;say something for goodness&rsquo; sake to take the
      sound of that man&rsquo;s clack out of my ear.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wouldn&rsquo;t know what to be talking about,&rdquo; said Shawn, &ldquo;for I never was
      much of a hand at conversation, and, barring my prayers, I got no
      education&mdash;I think myself that he was making a remark about a dog.
      Did you ever own a dog, sergeant?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are doing very well, Shawn,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;keep it up now.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I knew a man had a dog would count up to a hundred for you. He won lots
      of money in bets about it, and he&rsquo;d have made a fortune, only that I
      noticed one day he used to be winking at the dog, and when he&rsquo;d stop
      winking the dog would stop counting. We made him turn his back after that,
      and got the dog to count sixpence, but he barked for more than five
      shillings, he did so, and he would have counted up to a pound, maybe, only
      that his master turned round and hit him a kick. Every person that ever
      paid him a bet said they wanted their money back, but the man went away to
      America in the night, and I expect he&rsquo;s doing well there for he took the
      dog with him. It was a wire-haired terrier bitch, and it was the devil for
      having pups.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is astonishing,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;on what slender compulsion
      people will go to America&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep it up, Shawn,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;you are doing me a favour.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will so,&rdquo; said Shawn. &ldquo;I had a cat one time and it used to have kittens
      every two months.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher&rsquo;s voice arose:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If there was any periodicity about these migrations one could understand
      them. Birds, for example, migrate from their homes in the late autumn and
      seek abroad the sustenance and warmth which the winter would withhold if
      they remained in their native lands. The salmon also, a dignified fish
      with a pink skin, emigrates from the Atlantic Ocean, and betakes himself
      inland to the streams and lakes, where he recuperates for a season, and is
      often surprised by net, angle, or spear&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cut in now, Shawn,&rdquo; said the sergeant anxiously.
    </p>
    <p>
      Shawn began to gabble with amazing speed and in a mighty voice:
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cats sometimes eat their kittens, and sometimes they don&rsquo;t. A cat that
      eats its kittens is a heartless brute. I knew a cat used to eat its
      kittens&mdash;it had four legs and a long tail, and it used to get the
      head-staggers every time it had eaten its kittens. I killed it myself one
      day with a hammer for I couldn&rsquo;t stand the smell it made, so I couldn&rsquo;t&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Shawn,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;can&rsquo;t you talk about something else besides
      cats and dogs?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure, I don&rsquo;t know what to talk about,&rdquo; said Shawn. &ldquo;I&rsquo;m sweating this
      minute trying to please you, so I arm. If you&rsquo;ll tell me what to talk
      about I&rsquo;ll do my endeavours.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;re a fool,&rdquo; said the sergeant sorrowfully; &ldquo;you&rsquo;ll never make a
      constable. I&rsquo;m thinking that I would sooner listen to the man himself than
      to you. Have you got a good hold of him now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have so,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, step out and maybe we&rsquo;ll reach the barracks this night, unless this
      is a road that there isn&rsquo;t any end to at all. What was that? Did you hear
      a noise?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I didn&rsquo;t hear a thing,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thought,&rdquo; said another man, &ldquo;that I heard something moving in the hedge
      at the side of the road.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That&rsquo;s what I heard,&rdquo; said the sergeant. &ldquo;Maybe it was a weasel. I wish
      to the devil that we were out of this place where you can&rsquo;t see as much as
      your own nose. Now did you hear it, Shawn?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did so,&rdquo; said Shawn; &ldquo;there&rsquo;s some one in the hedge, for a weasel would
      make a different kind of a noise if it made any at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep together, men,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;and march on; if there&rsquo;s anybody
      about they&rsquo;ve no business with us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He had scarcely spoken when there came a sudden pattering of feet, and
      immediately the four men were surrounded and were being struck at on every
      side with sticks and hands and feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Draw your batons,&rdquo; the sergeant roared; &ldquo;keep a good grip of that man,
      Shawn.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will so,&rdquo; said Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Stand round him, you other men, and hit anything that comes near you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There was no sound of voices from the assailants, only a rapid scuffle of
      feet, the whistle of sticks as they swung through the air or slapped
      smartly against a body or clashed upon each other, and the quick breathing
      of many people; but from the four policemen there came noise and to spare
      as they struck wildly on every side, cursing the darkness and their
      opposers with fierce enthusiasm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let out,&rdquo; cried Shawn suddenly. &ldquo;Let out or I&rsquo;ll smash your nut for you.
      There&rsquo;s some one pulling at the prisoner, and I&rsquo;ve dropped my baton.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The truncheons of the policemen had been so ferociously exercised that
      their antagonists departed as swiftly and as mysteriously as they came. It
      was just two minutes of frantic, aimless conflict, and then the silent
      night was round them again, without any sound but the slow creaking of
      branches, the swish of leaves as they swung and poised, and the quiet
      croon of the wind along the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come on, men,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;we&rsquo;d better be getting out of this
      place as quick as we can. Are any of ye hurted?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got one of the enemy,&rdquo; said Shawn, panting.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You&rsquo;ve got what?&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got one of them, and he is wriggling like an eel on a pan.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold him tight,&rdquo; said the sergeant excitedly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will so,&rdquo; said Shawn. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a little one by the feel of it. If one of
      ye would hold the prisoner, I&rsquo;d get a better grip on this one. Aren&rsquo;t they
      dangerous villains now?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another man took hold of the Philosopher&rsquo;s arm, and Shawn got both hands
      on his captive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Keep quiet, I&rsquo;m telling you,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;or I&rsquo;ll throttle you, I will so.
      Faith, it seems like a little boy by the feel of it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A little boy!&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, he doesn&rsquo;t reach up to my waist.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must be the young brat from the cottage that set the dogs on us, the
      one that loves beasts. Now then, boy, what do you mean by this kind of
      thing? You&rsquo;ll find yourself in gaol for this, my young buck-o. Who was
      with you, eh? Tell me that now?&rdquo; and the sergeant bent forward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold up your head, sonny, and talk to the sergeant,&rdquo; said Shawn. &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; he
      roared, and suddenly he made a little rush forward. &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve got him,&rdquo; he
      gasped; &ldquo;he nearly got away. It isn&rsquo;t a boy at all, sergeant; there&rsquo;s
      whiskers on it!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you say?&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I put my hand under its chin and there&rsquo;s whiskers on it. I nearly let him
      out with the surprise, I did so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Try again,&rdquo; said the sergeant in a low voice; &ldquo;you are making a mistake.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t like touching them,&rdquo; said Shawn. &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a soft whisker like a
      billy-goat&rsquo;s. Maybe you&rsquo;d try yourself, sergeant, for I tell you I&rsquo;m
      frightened of it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold him over here,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;and keep a good grip of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll do that,&rdquo; said Shawn, and he hauled some reluctant object towards
      his superior.
    </p>
    <p>
      The sergeant put out his hand and touched a head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s only a boy&rsquo;s size to be sure,&rdquo; said he, then he slid his hand down
      the face and withdrew it quickly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are whiskers on it,&rdquo; said he soberly. &ldquo;What the devil can it be? I
      never met whiskers so near the ground before. Maybe they are false ones,
      and it&rsquo;s just the boy yonder trying to disguise himself.&rdquo; He put out his
      hand again with an effort, felt his way to the chin, and tugged.
    </p>
    <p>
      Instantly there came a yell, so loud, so sudden, that every man of them
      jumped in a panic.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are real whiskers,&rdquo; said the sergeant with a sigh. &ldquo;I wish I knew
      what it is. His voice is big enough for two men, and that&rsquo;s a fact. Have
      you got another match on you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have two more in my waistcoat pocket,&rdquo; said one of the men.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Give me one of them,&rdquo; said the sergeant; &ldquo;I&rsquo;ll strike it myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      He groped about until he found the hand with the match.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Be sure and hold him tight, Shawn, the way we can have a good look at
      him, for this is like to be a queer miracle of a thing.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;m holding him by the two arms,&rdquo; said Shawn, &ldquo;he can&rsquo;t stir anything but
      his head, and I&rsquo;ve got my chest on that.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The sergeant struck the match, shading it for a moment with his hand, then
      he turned it on their new prisoner.
    </p>
    <p>
      They saw a little man dressed in tight green clothes; he had a broad pale
      face with staring eyes, and there was a thin fringe of grey whisker under
      his chin&mdash;then the match went out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a Leprecaun,&rdquo; said the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      The men were silent for a full couple of minutes-at last Shawn spoke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you tell me so?&rdquo; said he in a musing voice; &ldquo;that&rsquo;s a queer miracle
      altogether.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said the sergeant. &ldquo;Doesn&rsquo;t it stand to reason that it can&rsquo;t be
      anything else? You saw it yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Shawn plumped down on his knees before his captive.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Tell me where the money is?&rdquo; he hissed. &ldquo;Tell me where the money is or
      I&rsquo;ll twist your neck off.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The other men also gathered eagerly around, shouting threats and commands
      at the Leprecaun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hold your whist,&rdquo; said Shawn fiercely to them. &ldquo;He can&rsquo;t answer the lot
      of you, can he?&rdquo; and he turned again to the Leprecaun and shook him until
      his teeth chattered.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you don&rsquo;t tell me where the money is at once I&rsquo;ll kill you, I will
      so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t got any money at all, sir,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None of your lies,&rdquo; roared Shawn. &ldquo;Tell the truth now or it&rsquo;ll be worse
      for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I haven&rsquo;t got any money,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun, &ldquo;for Meehawl MacMurrachu of
      the Hill stole our crock a while back, and he buried it under a thorn
      bush. I can bring you to the place if you don&rsquo;t believe me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very good,&rdquo; said Shawn. &ldquo;Come on with me now, and I&rsquo;ll clout you if you
      as much as wriggle; do you mind me?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What would I wriggle for?&rdquo; said the Leprecaun: &ldquo;sure I like being with
      you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hereupon the sergeant roared at the top of his voice.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Attention,&rdquo; said he, and the men leaped to position like automata.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it you are going to do with your prisoner, Shawn?&rdquo; said he
      sarcastically. &ldquo;Don&rsquo;t you think we&rsquo;ve had enough tramping of these roads
      for one night, now? Bring up that Leprecaun to the barracks or it&rsquo;ll be
      the worse for you&mdash;do you hear me talking to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But the gold, sergeant,&rdquo; said Shawn sulkily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If there&rsquo;s any gold it&rsquo;ll be treasure trove, and belong to the Crown.
      What kind of a constable are you at all, Shawn? Mind what you are about
      now, my man, and no back answers. Step along there. Bring that murderer up
      at once, whichever of you has him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      There came a gasp from the darkness.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh, Oh, Oh!&rdquo; said a voice of horror.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What&rsquo;s wrong with you?&rdquo; said the sergeant: &ldquo;are you hurted?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The prisoner!&rdquo; he gasped, &ldquo;he, he&rsquo;s got away!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Got away?&rdquo; and the sergeant&rsquo;s voice was a blare of fury.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;While we were looking at the Leprecaun,&rdquo; said the voice of woe, &ldquo;I must
      have forgotten about the other one&mdash;I, I haven&rsquo;t got him&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You gawm!&rdquo; gritted the sergeant.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is it my prisoner that&rsquo;s gone?&rdquo; said Shawn in a deep voice. He leaped
      forward with a curse and smote his negligent comrade so terrible a blow in
      the face, that the man went flying backwards, and the thud of his head on
      the road could have been heard anywhere.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Get up,&rdquo; said Shawn, &ldquo;get up till I give you another one.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That will do,&rdquo; said the sergeant, &ldquo;we&rsquo;ll go home. We&rsquo;re the
      laughing-stock of the world. I&rsquo;ll pay you out for this some time, every
      damn man of ye. Bring that Leprecaun along with you, and quick march.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Oh!&rdquo; said Shawn in a strangled tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is it now?&rdquo; said the sergeant testily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nothing,&rdquo; replied Shawn.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What did you say &lsquo;Oh!&rsquo; for then, you block-head?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s the Leprecaun, sergeant,&rdquo; said Shawn in a whisper&mdash;&ldquo;he&rsquo;s got
      away&mdash;when I was hitting the man there I forgot all about the
      Leprecaun: he must have run into the hedge. Oh, sergeant, dear, don&rsquo;t say
      anything to me now&mdash;!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Quick march,&rdquo; said the sergeant, and the four men moved on through the
      darkness in a silence, which was only skin deep.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XV
    </h2>
    <p>
      BY reason of the many years which he had spent in the gloomy pine wood,
      the Philosopher could see a little in the darkness, and when he found
      there was no longer any hold on his coat he continued his journey quietly,
      marching along with his head sunken on his breast in a deep abstraction.
      He was meditating on the word &ldquo;Me,&rdquo; and endeavouring to pursue it through
      all its changes and adventures. The fact of &ldquo;me-ness&rdquo; was one which
      startled him. He was amazed at his own being. He knew that the hand which
      he held up and pinched with another hand was not him and the endeavour to
      find out what was him was one which had frequently exercised his leisure.
      He had not gone far when there came a tug at his sleeve and looking down
      he found one of the Leprecauns of the Gort trotting by his side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble Sir,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun, &ldquo;you are terrible hard to get into
      conversation with. I have been talking to you for the last long time and
      you won&rsquo;t listen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am listening now,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are, indeed,&rdquo; said the Leprecaun heartily. &ldquo;My brothers are on the
      other side of the road over there beyond the hedge, and they want to talk
      to you: will you come with me, Noble Sir?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why wouldn&rsquo;t I go with you?&rdquo; said the Philosopher, and he turned aside
      with the Leprecaun.
    </p>
    <p>
      They pushed softly through a gap in the hedge and into a field beyond.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come this way, sir,&rdquo; said his guide, and the Philosopher followed him
      across the field. In a few minutes they came to a thick bush among the
      leaves of which the other Leprecauns were hiding. They thronged out to
      meet the Philosopher&rsquo;s approach and welcomed him with every appearance of
      joy. With them was the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath, who embraced her
      husband tenderly and gave thanks for his escape.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The night is young yet,&rdquo; remarked one of the Leprecauns. &ldquo;Let us sit down
      here and talk about what should be done.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am tired enough,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;for I have been travelling all
      yesterday, and all this day and the whole of this night I have been going
      also, so I would be glad to sit down anywhere.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They sat down under the bush and the Philosopher lit his pipe. In the open
      space where they were there was just light enough to see the smoke coming
      from his pipe, but scarcely more. One recognized a figure as a deeper
      shadow than the surrounding darkness; but as the ground was dry and the
      air just touched with a pleasant chill, there was no discomfort. After the
      Philosopher had drawn a few mouthfuls of smoke he passed his pipe on to
      the next person, and in this way his pipe made the circuit of the party.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When I put the children to bed,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;I came down the
      road in your wake with a basin of stirabout, for you had no time to take
      your food, God help you! and I was thinking you must have been hungry.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is so,&rdquo; said the Philosopher in a very anxious voice: &ldquo;but I don&rsquo;t
      blame you, my dear, for letting the basin fall on the road&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;While I was going along,&rdquo; she continued, &ldquo;I met these good people and
      when I told them what happened they came with me to see if anything could
      be done. The time they ran out of the hedge to fight the policemen I
      wanted to go with them, but I was afraid the stirabout would be spilt.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher licked his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am listening to you, my love,&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So I had to stay where I was with the stirabout under my shawl&mdash;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Did you slip then, dear wife?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not, indeed,&rdquo; she replied: &ldquo;I have the stirabout with me this
      minute. It&rsquo;s rather cold, I&rsquo;m thinking, but it is better than nothing at
      all,&rdquo; and she placed the bowl in his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I put sugar in it,&rdquo; said she shyly, &ldquo;and currants, and I have a spoon in
      my pocket.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It tastes well,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, and he cleaned the basin so
      speedily that his wife wept because of his hunger.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time the pipe had come round to him again and it was welcomed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now we can talk,&rdquo; said he, and he blew a great cloud of smoke into the
      darkness and sighed happily.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We were thinking,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;that you won&rsquo;t be able to come
      back to our house for a while yet: the policemen will be peeping about
      Coille Doraca for a long time, to be sure; for isn&rsquo;t it true that if there
      is a good thing coming to a person, nobody takes much trouble to find him,
      but if there is a bad thing or a punishment in store for a man, then the
      whole world will be searched until he be found?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a true statement,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So what we arranged was this&mdash;that you should go to live with these
      little men in their house under the yew tree of the Gort. There is not a
      policeman in the world would find you there; or if you went by night to
      the Brugh of the Boyne, Angus Og himself would give you a refuge.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      One of the Leprecauns here interposed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Noble Sir,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;there isn&rsquo;t much room in our house but there&rsquo;s no
      stint of welcome in it. You would have a good time with us travelling on
      moonlit nights and seeing strange things, for we often go to visit the
      Shee of the Hills and they come to see us; there is always something to
      talk about, and we have dances in the caves and on the tops of the hills.
      Don&rsquo;t be imagining now that we have a poor life for there is fun and
      plenty with us and the Brugh of Angus Mac an Og is hard to be got at.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I would like to dance, indeed,&rdquo; returned the Philosopher, &ldquo;for I do
      believe that dancing is the first and last duty of man. If we cannot be
      gay what can we be? Life is not any use at all unless we find a laugh here
      and there&mdash;but this time, decent men of the Gort, I cannot go with
      you, for it is laid on me to give myself up to the police.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You would not do that,&rdquo; exclaimed the Thin Woman pitifully: &ldquo;You wouldn&rsquo;t
      think of doing that now!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;An innocent man,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;cannot be oppressed, for he is fortified by
      his mind and his heart cheers him. It is only on a guilty person that the
      rigour of punishment can fall, for he punishes himself. This is what I
      think, that a man should always obey the law with his body and always
      disobey it with his mind. I have been arrested, the men of the law had me
      in their hands, and I will have to go back to them so that they may do
      whatever they have to do.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher resumed his pipe, and although the others reasoned with
      him for a long time they could not by any means remove him from his
      purpose. So, when the pale glimmer of dawn had stolen over the sky, they
      arose and went downwards to the cross-roads and so to the Police Station.
    </p>
    <p>
      Outside the village the Leprecauns bade him farewell and the Thin Woman
      also took her leave of him, saying she would visit Angus Og and implore
      his assistance on behalf of her husband, and then the Leprecauns and the
      Thin Woman returned again the way they came, and the Philosopher walked on
      to the barracks.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVI
    </h2>
    <p>
      WHEN he knocked at the barracks door it was opened by a man with tousled,
      red hair, who looked as though he had just awakened from sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What do you want at this hour of the night?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I want to give myself up,&rdquo; said the Philosopher. The policeman looked at
      him &ldquo;A man as old as you are,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;oughtn&rsquo;t to be a fool. Go home
      now, I advise you, and don&rsquo;t say a word to any one whether you did it or
      not. Tell me this now, was it found out, or are you only making a clean
      breast of it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sure I must give myself up,&rdquo; said the Philosopher.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If you must, you must, and that&rsquo;s an end of it. Wipe your feet on the
      rail there and come in&mdash;I&rsquo;ll take your deposition.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have no deposition for you,&rdquo; said the Philosopher, &ldquo;for I didn&rsquo;t do a
      thing at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The policeman stared at him again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If that&rsquo;s so,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;you needn&rsquo;t come in at all, and you needn&rsquo;t have
      wakened me out of my sleep either. Maybe, tho&rsquo;, you are the man that
      fought the badger on the Naas Road&mdash;Eh?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am not,&rdquo; replied the Philosopher: &ldquo;but I was arrested for killing my
      brother and his wife, although I never touched them.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Is that who you are?&rdquo; said the policeman; and then, briskly, &ldquo;You&rsquo;re as
      welcome as the cuckoo, you are so. Come in and make yourself comfortable
      till the men awaken, and they are the lads that&rsquo;ll be glad to see you. I
      couldn&rsquo;t make head or tail of what they said when they came in last night,
      and no one else either, for they did nothing but fight each other and
      curse the banshees and cluricauns of Leinster. Sit down there on the
      settle by the fire and, maybe, you&rsquo;ll be able to get a sleep; you look as
      if you were tired, and the mud of every county in Ireland is on your
      boots.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher thanked him and stretched out on the settle. In a short
      time, for he was very weary, he fell asleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many hours later he was awakened by the sound of voices, and found on
      rising, that the men who had captured him on the previous evening were
      standing by the bed. The sergeant&rsquo;s face beamed with joy. He was dressed
      only in his trousers and shirt. His hair was sticking up in some places
      and sticking out in others which gave a certain wild look to him, and his
      feet were bare. He took the Philosopher&rsquo;s two hands in his own and swore
      if ever there was anything he could do to comfort him he would do that and
      more. Shawn, in a similar state of unclothedness, greeted the Philosopher
      and proclaimed himself his friend and follower for ever. Shawn further
      announced that he did not believe the Philosopher had killed the two
      people, that if he had killed them they must have richly deserved it, and
      that if he was hung he would plant flowers on his grave; for a decenter,
      quieter, and wiser man he had never met and never would meet in the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      These professions of esteem comforted the Philosopher, and he replied to
      them in terms which made the red-haired policeman gape in astonishment and
      approval.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was given a breakfast of bread and cocoa which he ate with his
      guardians, and then, as they had to take up their outdoor duties, he was
      conducted to the backyard and informed he could walk about there and that
      he might smoke until he was black in the face. The policemen severally
      presented him with a pipe, a tin of tobacco, two boxes of matches and a
      dictionary, and then they withdrew, leaving him to his own devices.
    </p>
    <p>
      The garden was about twelve feet square, having high, smooth walls on
      every side, and into it there came neither sun nor wind. In one corner a
      clump of rusty-looking sweet-pea was climbing up the wall&mdash;every leaf
      of this plant was riddled with holes, and there were no flowers on it.
      Another corner was occupied by dwarf nasturtiums, and on this plant, in
      despite of every discouragement, two flowers were blooming, but its leaves
      also were tattered and dejected. A mass of ivy clung to the third corner,
      its leaves were big and glossy at the top, but near the ground there was
      only grey, naked stalks laced together by cobwebs. The fourth wall was
      clothed in a loose Virginia creeper every leaf of which looked like an
      insect that could crawl if it wanted to. The centre of this small plot had
      used every possible artifice to cover itself with grass, and in some
      places it had wonderfully succeeded, but the pieces of broken bottles,
      shattered jampots, and sections of crockery were so numerous that no
      attempt at growth could be other than tentative and unpassioned.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, for a long time, the Philosopher marched up and down. At one moment
      he examined the sweet-pea and mourned with it on a wretched existence.
      Again he congratulated the nasturtium on its two bright children; but he
      thought of the gardens wherein they might have bloomed and the remembrance
      of that spacious, sunny freedom saddened him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Indeed, poor creatures!&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;ye also are in gaol.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The blank, soundless yard troubled him so much that at last he called to
      the red-haired policeman and begged to be put into a cell in preference;
      and to the common cell he was, accordingly, conducted.
    </p>
    <p>
      This place was a small cellar built beneath the level of the ground. An
      iron grating at the top of the wall admitted one blanched wink of light,
      but the place was bathed in obscurity. A wooden ladder led down to the
      cell from a hole in the ceiling, and this hole also gave a spark of
      brightness and some little air to the room. The walls were of stone
      covered with plaster, but the plaster had fallen away in many places
      leaving the rough stones visible at every turn of the eye.
    </p>
    <p>
      There were two men in the cell, and these the Philosopher saluted; but
      they did not reply, nor did they speak to each other. There was a low,
      wooden form fixed to the wall, running quite round the room, and on this,
      far apart from each other, the two men were seated, with their elbows
      resting on their knees, their heads propped upon their hands, and each of
      them with an unwavering gaze fixed on the floor between his feet.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Philosopher walked for a time up and down the little cell, but soon he
      also sat down on the low form, propped his head on his hands and lapsed to
      a melancholy dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      So the day passed. Twice a policeman came down the ladder bearing three
      portions of food, bread and cocoa; and by imperceptible gradations the
      light faded away from the grating and the darkness came. After a great
      interval the policeman again approached carrying three mattresses and
      three rough blankets, and these he bundled through the hole. Each of the
      men took a mattress and a blanket and spread them on the floor, and the
      Philosopher took his share also.
    </p>
    <p>
      By this time they could not see each other and all their operations were
      conducted by the sense of touch alone. They laid themselves down on the
      beds and a terrible, dark silence brooded over the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Philosopher could not sleep, he kept his eyes shut, for the
      darkness under his eyelids was not so dense as that which surrounded him;
      indeed, he could at will illuminate his own darkness and order around him
      the sunny roads or the sparkling sky. While his eyes were closed he had
      the mastery of all pictures of light and colour and warmth, but an
      irresistible fascination compelled him every few minutes to reopen them,
      and in the sad space around he could not create any happiness. The
      darkness weighed very sadly upon him so that in a short time it did creep
      under his eyelids and drowned his happy pictures until a blackness
      possessed him both within and without &ldquo;Can one&rsquo;s mind go to prison as well
      as one&rsquo;s body?&rdquo; said he.
    </p>
    <p>
      He strove desperately to regain his intellectual freedom, but he could
      not. He could conjure up no visions but those of fear. The creatures of
      the dark invaded him, fantastic terrors were thronging on every side: they
      came from the darkness into his eyes and beyond into himself, so that his
      mind as well as his fancy was captured, and he knew he was, indeed, in
      gaol.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was with a great start that he heard a voice speaking from the silence&mdash;a
      harsh, yet cultivated voice, but he could not imagine which of his
      companions was speaking. He had a vision of that man tormented by the
      mental imprisonment of the darkness, trying to get away from his ghosts
      and slimy enemies, goaded into speech in his own despite lest he should be
      submerged and finally possessed by the abysmal demons. For a while the
      voice spoke of the strangeness of life and the cruelty of men to each
      other&mdash;disconnected sentences, odd words of selfpity and
      self-encouragement, and then the matter became more connected and a story
      grew in the dark cell &ldquo;I knew a man,&rdquo; said the voice, &ldquo;and he was a clerk.
      He had thirty shillings a week, and for five years he had never missed a
      day going to his work. He was a careful man, but a person with a wife and
      four children cannot save much out of thirty shillings a week. The rent of
      a house is high, a wife and children must be fed, and they have to get
      boots and clothes, so that at the end of each week that man&rsquo;s thirty
      shillings used to be all gone. But they managed to get along somehow&mdash;the
      man and his wife and the four children were fed and clothed and educated,
      and the man often wondered how so much could be done with so little money;
      but the reason was that his wife was a careful woman... and then the man
      got sick. A poor person cannot afford to get sick, and a married man
      cannot leave his work. If he is sick he has to be sick; but he must go to
      his work all the same, for if he stayed away who would pay the wages and
      feed his family? and when he went back to work he might find that there
      was nothing for him to do. This man fell sick, but he made no change in
      his way of life: he got up at the same time and went to the office as
      usual, and he got through the day somehow without attracting his
      employer&rsquo;s attention. He didn&rsquo;t know what was wrong with him: he only knew
      that he was sick. Sometimes he had sharp, swift pains in his head, and
      again there would be long hours of languor when he could scarcely bear to
      change his position or lift a pen. He would commence a letter with the
      words &lsquo;Dear Sir,&rsquo; forming the letter &lsquo;D&rsquo; with painful, accurate slowness,
      elaborating and thickening the up and down strokes, and being troubled
      when he had to leave that letter for the next one; he built the next
      letter by hair strokes and would start on the third with hatred. The end
      of a word seemed to that man like the conclusion of an event&mdash;it was
      a surprising, isolated, individual thing, having no reference to anything
      else in the world, and on starting a new word he seemed bound, in order to
      preserve its individuality, to write it in a different handwriting. He
      would sit with his shoulders hunched up and his pen resting on the paper,
      staring at a letter until he was nearly mesmerized, and then come to
      himself with a sense of fear, which started him working like a madman, so
      that he might not be behind with his business. The day seemed to be so
      long. It rolled on rusty hinges that could scarcely move. Each hour was
      like a great circle swollen with heavy air, and it droned and buzzed into
      an eternity. It seemed to the man that his hand in particular wanted to
      rest. It was luxury not to work with it. It was good to lay it down on a
      sheet of paper with the pen sloping against his finger, and then watch his
      hand going to sleep&mdash;it seemed to the man that it was his hand and
      not himself wanted to sleep, but it always awakened when the pen slipped.
      There was an instinct in him somewhere not to let the pen slip, and every
      time the pen moved his hand awakened, and began to work languidly. When he
      went home at night he lay down at once and stared for hours at a fly on
      the wall or a crack on the ceiling. When his wife spoke to him he heard
      her speaking as from a great distance, and he answered her dully as though
      he was replying through a cloud. He only wanted to be let alone, to be
      allowed to stare at the fly on the wall, or the crack on the ceiling.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One morning he found that he couldn&rsquo;t get up, or rather, that he didn&rsquo;t
      want to get up. When his wife called him he made no reply, and she seemed
      to call him every ten seconds&mdash;the words, &lsquo;get up, get up,&rsquo; were
      crackling all round him; they were bursting like bombs on the right hand
      and on the left of him: they were scattering from above and all around
      him, bursting upwards from the floor, swirling, swaying, and jostling each
      other. Then the sounds ceased, and one voice only said to him &lsquo;You are
      late!&rsquo; He saw these words like a blur hanging in the air, just beyond his
      eyelids, and he stared at the blur until he fell asleep.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voice in the cell ceased speaking for a few minutes, and then it went
      on again.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;For three weeks the man did not leave his bed&mdash;he lived faintly in a
      kind of trance, wherein great forms moved about slowly and immense words
      were drumming gently for ever. When he began to take notice again
      everything in the house was different. Most of the furniture, paid for so
      hardly, was gone. He missed a thing everywhere&mdash;chairs, a mirror, a
      table: wherever he looked he missed something; and downstairs was worse&mdash;there,
      everything was gone. His wife had sold all her furniture to pay for
      doctors, for medicine, for food and rent. And she was changed too: good
      things had gone from her face; she was gaunt, sharp-featured, miserable&mdash;but
      she was comforted to think he was going back to work soon.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There was a flurry in his head when he went to his office. He didn&rsquo;t know
      what his employer would say for stopping away. He might blame him for
      being sick&mdash;he wondered would his employer pay him for the weeks he
      was absent. When he stood at the door he was frightened. Suddenly the
      thought of his master&rsquo;s eye grew terrible to him: it was a steady, cold,
      glassy eye; but he opened the door and went in. His master was there with
      another man and he tried to say &lsquo;Good morning, sir,&rsquo; in a natural and calm
      voice; but he knew that the strange man had been engaged instead of
      himself, and this knowledge posted itself between his tongue and his
      thought. He heard himself stammering, he felt that his whole bearing had
      become drooping and abject. His master was talking swiftly and the other
      man was looking at him in an embarrassed, stealthy, and pleading manner:
      his eyes seemed to be apologising for having supplanted him&mdash;so he
      mumbled &lsquo;Good day, sir,&rsquo; and stumbled out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When he got outside he could not think where to go. After a while he went
      in the direction of the little park in the centre of the city. It was
      quite near and he sat down on an iron bench facing a pond. There were
      children walking up and down by the water giving pieces of bread to the
      swans. Now and again a labouring man or a messenger went by quickly; now
      and again a middleaged, slovenly-dressed man drooped past aimlessly:
      sometimes a tattered, self-intent woman with a badgered face flopped by
      him. When he looked at these dull people the thought came to him that they
      were not walking there at all; they were trailing through hell, and their
      desperate eyes saw none but devils around them. He saw himself joining
      these battered strollers... and he could not think what he would tell his
      wife when he went home. He rehearsed to himself the terms of his dismissal
      a hundred times. How his master looked, what he had said: and then the
      fine, ironical things he had said to his master. He sat in the park all
      day, and when evening fell he went home at his accustomed hour.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;His wife asked him questions as to how he had got on, and wanted to know
      was there any chance of being paid for the weeks of absence; the man
      answered her volubly, ate his supper and went to bed: but he did not tell
      his wife that he had been dismissed and that there would be no money at
      the end of the week. He tried to tell her, but when he met her eye he
      found that he could not say the words&mdash;he was afraid of the look that
      might come into her face when she heard it&mdash;she, standing terrified
      in those dismantled rooms...!
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In the morning he ate his breakfast and went out again&mdash;to work, his
      wife thought. She bid him ask the master about the three weeks&rsquo; wages, or
      to try and get an advance on the present week&rsquo;s wages, for they were
      hardly put to it to buy food. He said he would do his best, but he went
      straight to the park and sat looking at the pond, looking at the
      passers-by and dreaming. In the middle of the day he started up in a panic
      and went about the city asking for work in offices, shops, warehouses,
      everywhere, but he could not get any. He trailed back heavy-footed again
      to the park and sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He told his wife more lies about his work that night and what his master
      had said when he asked for an advance. He couldn&rsquo;t bear the children to
      touch him. After a little time he sneaked away to his bed.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;A week went that way. He didn&rsquo;t look for work any more. He sat in the
      park, dreaming, with his head bowed into his hands. The next day would be
      the day he should have been paid his wages. The next day! What would his
      wife say when he told her he had no money? She would stare at him and
      flush and say-&rsquo;Didn&rsquo;t you go out every day to work?&rsquo;&mdash;How would he
      tell her then so that she could understand quickly and spare him words?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Morning came and the man ate his breakfast silently. There was no butter
      on the bread, and his wife seemed to be apologising to him for not having
      any. She said, &lsquo;We&rsquo;ll be able to start fair from to-morrow,&rsquo; and when he
      snapped at her angrily she thought it was because he had to eat dry bread.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He went to the park and sat there for hours. Now and again he got up and
      walked into a neighbouring street, but always, after half an hour or so,
      he came back. Six o&rsquo;clock in the evening was his hour for going home. When
      six o&rsquo;clock came he did not move, he still sat opposite the pond with his
      head bowed down into his arms. Seven o&rsquo;clock passed. At nine o&rsquo;clock a
      bell was rung and every one had to leave. He went also. He stood outside
      the gates looking on this side and on that. Which way would he go? All
      roads were alike to him, so he turned at last and walked somewhere. He did
      not go home that night. He never went home again. He never was heard of
      again anywhere in the wide world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The voice ceased speaking and silence swung down again upon the little
      cell. The Philosopher had been listening intently to this story, and after
      a few minutes he spoke &ldquo;When you go up this road there is a turn to the
      left and all the path along is bordered with trees&mdash;there are birds
      in the trees, Glory be to God! There is only one house on that road, and
      the woman in it gave us milk to drink. She has but one son, a good boy,
      and she said the other children were dead; she was speaking of a husband
      who went away and left her&mdash;&lsquo;Why should he have been afraid to come
      home?&rsquo; said she&mdash;&lsquo;sure, I loved him.&rsquo;&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      After a little interval the voice spoke again &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know what became of
      the man I was speaking of. I am a thief, and I&rsquo;m well known to the police
      everywhere. I don&rsquo;t think that man would get a welcome at the house up
      here, for why should he?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Another, a different, querulous kind of voice came from the silence &ldquo;If I
      knew a place where there was a welcome I&rsquo;d go there as quickly as I could,
      but I don&rsquo;t know a place and I never will, for what good would a man of my
      age be to any person? I am a thief also. The first thing I stole was a hen
      out of a little yard. I roasted it in a ditch and ate it, and then I stole
      another one and ate it, and after that I stole everything I could lay my
      hands on. I suppose I will steal as long as I live, and I&rsquo;ll die in a
      ditch at the heel of the hunt. There was a time, not long ago, and if any
      one had told me then that I would rob, even for hunger, I&rsquo;d have been
      insulted: but what does it matter now? And the reason I am a thief is
      because I got old without noticing it. Other people noticed it, but I did
      not. I suppose age comes on one so gradually that it is seldom observed.
      If there are wrinkles on one&rsquo;s face we do not remember when they were not
      there: we put down all kind of little infirmities to sedentary living, and
      you will see plenty of young people bald. If a man has no occasion to tell
      any one his age, and if he never thinks of it himself, he won&rsquo;t see ten
      years&rsquo; difference between his youth and his age, for we live in slow,
      quiet times, and nothing ever happens to mark the years as they go by, one
      after the other, and all the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I lodged in a house for a great many years, and a little girl grew up
      there, the daughter of my landlady. She used to slide down the bannisters
      very well, and she used to play the piano very badly. These two things
      worried me many a time. She used to bring me my meals in the morning and
      the evening, and often enough she&rsquo;d stop to talk with me while I was
      eating. She was a very chatty girl and I was a talkative person myself.
      When she was about eighteen years of age I got so used to her that if her
      mother came with the food I would be worried for the rest of the day. Her
      face was as bright as a sunbeam, and her lazy, careless ways, big, free
      movements, and girlish chatter were pleasant to a man whose loneliness was
      only beginning to be apparent to him through her company. I&rsquo;ve thought of
      it often since, and I suppose that&rsquo;s how it began. She used to listen to
      all my opinions and she&rsquo;d agree with them because she had none of her own
      yet. She was a good girl, but lazy in her mind and body; childish, in
      fact. Her talk was as involved as her actions: she always seemed to be
      sliding down mental bannisters; she thought in kinks and spoke in spasms,
      hopped mentally from one subject to another without the slightest
      difficulty, and could use a lot of language in saying nothing at all. I
      could see all that at the time, but I suppose I was too pleased with my
      own sharp business brains, and sick enough, although I did not know it, of
      my sharp-brained, business companions&mdash;dear Lord! I remember them
      well. It&rsquo;s easy enough to have brains as they call it, but it is not so
      easy to have a little gaiety or carelessness or childishness or whatever
      it was she had. It is good, too, to feel superior to some one, even a
      girl.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One day this thought came to me&mdash;&lsquo;It is time that I settled down.&rsquo; I
      don&rsquo;t know where the idea came from; one hears it often enough and it
      always seems to apply to some one else, but I don&rsquo;t know what brought it
      to roost with me. I was foolish, too: I bought ties and differently shaped
      collars, and took to creasing my trousers by folding them under the bed
      and lying on them all night&mdash;It never struck me that I was more than
      three times her age. I brought home sweets for her and she was delighted.
      She said she adored sweets, and she used to insist on my eating some of
      them with her; she liked to compare notes as to how they tasted while
      eating them. I used to get a toothache from them, but I bore with it
      although at that time I hated toothache almost as much as I hated sweets.
      Then I asked her to come out with me for a walk. She was willing enough
      and it was a novel experience for me. Indeed, it was rather exciting. We
      went out together often after that, and sometimes we&rsquo;d meet people I knew,
      young men from my office or from other offices. I used to be shy when some
      of these people winked at me as they saluted. It was pleasant, too,
      telling the girl who they were, their business and their salaries: for
      there was little I didn&rsquo;t know. I used to tell her of my own position in
      the office and what the chief said to me through the day. Sometimes we
      talked of the things that had appeared in the evening papers. A murder
      perhaps, some phase of a divorce case, the speech a political person had
      made, or the price of stock. She was interested in anything so long as it
      was talk. And her own share in the conversation was good to hear. Every
      lady that passed us had a hat that stirred her to the top of rapture or
      the other pinnacle of disgust. She told me what ladies were frights and
      what were ducks. Under her scampering tongue I began to learn something of
      humanity, even though she saw most people as delightfully funny clowns or
      superb, majestical princes, but I noticed that she never said a bad word
      of a man, although many of the men she looked after were ordinary enough.
      Until I went walking with her I never knew what a shop window was. A
      jeweller&rsquo;s window especially: there were curious things in it. She told me
      how a tiara should be worn, and a pendant, and she explained the kind of
      studs I should wear myself; they were made of gold and had red stones in
      them; she showed me the ropes of pearl or diamonds that she thought would
      look pretty on herself: and one day she said that she liked me very much.
      I was pleased and excited that day, but I was a business man and I said
      very little in reply. I never liked a pig in a poke.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;She used to go out two nights in the week, Monday and Thursday, dressed
      in her best clothes. I didn&rsquo;t know where she went, and I didn&rsquo;t ask&mdash;I
      thought she visited an acquaintance, a girl friend or some such. The time
      went by and I made up my mind to ask her to marry me. I had watched her
      long enough and she was always kind and bright. I liked the way she
      smiled, and I liked her obedient, mannerly bearing. There was something
      else I liked, which I did not recognise then, something surrounding all
      her movements, a graciousness, a spaciousness: I did not analyse it; but I
      know now that it was her youth. I remember that when we were out together
      she walked slowly, but in the house she would leap up and down the stairs&mdash;she
      moved furiously, but I didn&rsquo;t.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;One evening she dressed to go out as usual, and she called at my door to
      know had I everything I wanted. I said I had something to tell her when
      she came home, something important. She promised to come in early to hear
      it, and I laughed at her and she laughed back and went sliding down the
      bannisters. I don&rsquo;t think I have had any reason to laugh since that night.
      A letter came for me after she had gone, and I knew by the shape and the
      handwriting that it was from the office. It puzzled me to think why I
      should be written to. I didn&rsquo;t like opening it somehow.... It was my
      dismissal on account of advancing age, and it hoped for my future welfare
      politely enough. It was signed by the Senior. I didn&rsquo;t grip it at first,
      and then I thought it was a hoax. For a long time I sat in my room with an
      empty mind. I was watching my mind: there were immense distances in it
      that drowsed and buzzed; large, soft movements seemed to be made in my
      mind, and although I was looking at the letter in my hand I was really
      trying to focus those great, swinging spaces in my brain, and my ears were
      listening for a movement of some kind. I can see back to that time
      plainly. I went walking up and down the room. There was a dull,
      subterranean anger in me. I remember muttering once or twice, &lsquo;Shameful!&rsquo; 
      and again I said, &lsquo;Ridiculous!&rsquo; At the idea of age I looked at my face in
      the glass, but I was looking at my mind, and it seemed to go grey, there
      was a heaviness there also. I seemed to be peering from beneath a weight
      at something strange. I had a feeling that I had let go a grip which I had
      held tightly for a long time, and I had a feeling that the letting go was
      a grave disaster... that strange face in the glass! how wrinkled it was!
      there were only a few hairs on the head and they were grey ones. There was
      a constant twitching of the lips and the eyes were deep-set, little and
      dull. I left the glass and sat down by the window, looking out. I saw
      nothing in the street: I just looked into a blackness. My mind was as
      blank as the night and as soundless. There was a swirl outside the window,
      rain tossed by the wind; without noticing, I saw it, and my brain swung
      with the rain until it heaved in circles, and then a feeling of faintness
      awakened me to myself. I did not allow my mind to think, but now and again
      a word swooped from immense distances through my brain, swinging like a
      comet across a sky and jarring terribly when it struck: &lsquo;Sacked&rsquo; was one
      word, &lsquo;Old&rsquo; was another word.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I don&rsquo;t know how long I sat watching the flight of these dreadful words
      and listening to their clanking impact, but a movement in the street
      aroused me. Two people, the girl and a young, slender man, were coming
      slowly up to the house. The rain was falling heavily, but they did not
      seem to mind it. There was a big puddle of water close to the kerb, and
      the girl, stepping daintily as a cat, went round this, but the young man
      stood for a moment beyond it. He raised both arms, clenched his fists,
      swung them, and jumped over the puddle. Then he and the girl stood looking
      at the water, apparently measuring the jump. I could see them plainly by a
      street lamp. They were bidding each other good-bye. The girl put her hand
      to his neck and settled the collar of his coat, and while her hand rested
      on him the young man suddenly and violently flung his arms about her and
      hugged her; then they kissed and moved apart. The man walked to the rain
      puddle and stood there with his face turned back laughing at her, and then
      he jumped straight into the middle of the puddle and began to dance up and
      down in it, the muddy water splashing up to his knees. She ran over to him
      crying &lsquo;Stop, silly!&rsquo; When she came into the house, I bolted my door and I
      gave no answer to her knock.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;In a few months the money I had saved was spent. I couldn&rsquo;t get any work,
      I was too old; they put it that they wanted a younger man. I couldn&rsquo;t pay
      my rent. I went out into the world again, like a baby, an old baby in a
      new world. I stole food, food, food anywhere and everywhere. At first I
      was always caught. Often I was sent to gaol; sometimes I was let go;
      sometimes I was kicked; but I learned to live like a wolf at last. I am
      not often caught now when I steal food. But there is something happening
      every day, whether it is going to gaol or planning how to steal a hen or a
      loaf of bread. I find that it is a good life, much better than the one I
      lived for nearly sixty years, and I have time to think over every sort of
      thing....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the morning came the Philosopher was taken on a car to the big City
      in order that he might be put on his trial and hanged. It was the custom.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022">
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BOOK VI. THE THIN WOMAN&rsquo;S JOURNEY AND THE HAPPY MARCH
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVII
    </h2>
    <p>
      THE ability of the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath for anger was unbounded. She
      was not one of those limited creatures who are swept clean by a gust of
      wrath and left placid and smiling after its passing. She could store her
      anger in those caverns of eternity which open into every soul, and which
      are filled with rage and violence until the time comes when they may be
      stored with wisdom and love; for, in the genesis of life, love is at the
      beginning and the end of things. First, like a laughing child, love came
      to labour minutely in the rocks and sands of the heart, opening the first
      of those roads which lead inwards for ever, and then, the labour of his
      day being done, love fled away and was forgotten. Following came the
      fierce winds of hate to work like giants and gnomes among the prodigious
      debris, quarrying the rocks and levelling the roads which soar inwards;
      but when that work is completed love will come radiantly again to live for
      ever in the human heart, which is Eternity.
    </p>
    <p>
      Before the Thin Woman could undertake the redemption of her husband by
      wrath, it was necessary that she should be purified by the performance of
      that sacrifice which is called the Forgiveness of Enemies, and this she
      did by embracing the Leprecauns of the Gort and in the presence of the sun
      and the wind remitting their crime against her husband. Thus she became
      free to devote her malice against the State of Punishment, while forgiving
      the individuals who had but acted in obedience to the pressure of their
      infernal environment, which pressure is Sin.
    </p>
    <p>
      This done she set about baking the three cakes against her journey to
      Angus Og.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she was baking the cakes, the children, Seumas and Brigid Beg,
      slipped away into the wood to speak to each other and to wonder over this
      extraordinary occurrence.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first their movements were very careful, for they could not be quite
      sure that the policemen had really gone away, or whether they were hiding
      in dark places waiting to pounce on them and carry them away to captivity.
      The word &ldquo;murder&rdquo; was almost unknown to them, and its strangeness was
      rendered still more strange by reason of the nearness of their father to
      the term. It was a terrible word and its terror was magnified by their
      father&rsquo;s unthinkable implication. What had he done? Almost all his actions
      and habits were so familiar to them as to be commonplace, and yet, there
      was a dark something to which he was a party and which dashed before them
      as terrible and ungraspable as a lightning-flash. They understood that it
      had something to do with that other father and mother whose bodies had
      been snatched from beneath the hearthstone, but they knew the Philosopher
      had done nothing in that instance, and, so, they saw murder as a terrible,
      occult affair which was quite beyond their mental horizons.
    </p>
    <p>
      No one jumped out on them from behind the trees, so in a little time their
      confidence returned and they walked less carefully. When they reached the
      edge of the pine wood the brilliant sunshine invited them to go farther,
      and after a little hesitation they did so. The good spaces and the sweet
      air dissipated their melancholy thoughts, and very soon they were racing
      each other to this point and to that. Their wayward flights had carried
      them in the direction of Meehawl MacMurrachu&rsquo;s cottage, and here,
      breathlessly, they threw themselves under a small tree to rest. It was a
      thorn bush, and as they sat beneath it the cessation of movement gave them
      opportunity to again consider the terrible position of their father. With
      children thought cannot be separated from action for very long. They think
      as much with their hands as with their heads. They have to do the thing
      they speak of in order to visualise the idea, and, consequently, Seumas
      Beg was soon reconstructing the earlier visit of the policemen to their
      house in grand pantomime. The ground beneath the thorn bush became the
      hearthstone of their cottage; he and Brigid became four policemen, and in
      a moment he was digging furiously with a broad piece of wood to find the
      two hidden bodies. He had digged for only a few minutes when the piece of
      wood struck against something hard. A very little time sufficed to throw
      the soil off this, and their delight was great when they unearthed a
      beautiful little earthen crock filled to the brim with shining, yellow
      dust. When they lifted this they were astonished at its great weight. They
      played for a long time with it, letting the heavy, yellow shower slip
      through their fingers and watching it glisten in the sunshine. After they
      tired of this they decided to bring the crock home, but by the time they
      reached the Gort na Cloca Mora they were so tired that they could not
      carry it any farther, and they decided to leave it with their friends the
      Leprecauns. Seumas Beg gave the taps on the tree trunk which they had
      learned, and in a moment the Leprecaun whom they knew came up.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We have brought this, sir,&rdquo; said Seumas. But he got no further, for the
      instant the Leprecaun saw the crock he threw his arms around it and wept
      in so loud a voice that his comrades swarmed up to see what had happened
      to him, and they added their laughter and tears to his, to which chorus
      the children subjoined their sympathetic clamour, so that a noise of great
      complexity rang through all the Gort.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Leprecauns&rsquo; surrender to this happy passion was short. Hard on
      their gladness came remembrance and consternation; and then repentance,
      that dismal virtue, wailed in their ears and their hearts. How could they
      thank the children whose father and protector they had delivered to the
      unilluminated justice of humanity? that justice which demands not
      atonement but punishment; which is learned in the Book of Enmity but not
      in the Book of Friendship; which calls hatred Nature, and Love a
      conspiracy; whose law is an iron chain and whose mercy is debility and
      chagrin; the blind fiend who would impose his own blindness; that
      unfruitful loin which curses fertility; that stony heart which would
      petrify the generations of man; before whom life withers away appalled and
      death would shudder again to its tomb. Repentance! they wiped the
      inadequate ooze from their eyes and danced joyfully for spite. They could
      do no more, so they fed the children lovingly and carried them home.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Thin Woman had baked three cakes. One of these she gave to each of the
      children and one she kept herself, whereupon they set out upon their
      journey to Angus Og.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was well after midday when they started. The fresh gaiety of the
      morning was gone, and a tyrannous sun, whose majesty was almost
      insupportable, forded it over the world. There was but little shade for
      the travellers, and, after a time, they became hot and weary and thirsty&mdash;that
      is, the children did, but the Thin Woman, by reason of her thinness, was
      proof against every elemental rigour, except hunger, from which no
      creature is free.
    </p>
    <p>
      She strode in the centre of the road, a very volcano of silence, thinking
      twenty different thoughts at the one moment, so that the urgency of her
      desire for utterance kept her terribly quiet; but against this crust of
      quietude there was accumulating a mass of speech which must at the last
      explode or petrify. From this congestion of thought there arose the first
      deep rumblings, precursors of uproar, and another moment would have heard
      the thunder of her varied malediction, but that Brigid Beg began to cry:
      for, indeed, the poor child was both tired and parched to distraction, and
      Seumas had no barrier against a similar surrender, but two minutes&rsquo; worth
      of boyish pride. This discovery withdrew the Thin Woman from her fiery
      contemplations, and in comforting the children she forgot her own
      hardships.
    </p>
    <p>
      It became necessary to find water quickly: no difficult thing, for the
      Thin Woman, being a Natural, was like all other creatures able to sense
      the whereabouts of water, and so she at once led the children in a
      slightly different direction. In a few minutes they reached a well by the
      road-side, and here the children drank deeply and were comforted. There
      was a wide, leafy tree growing hard by the well, and in the shade of this
      tree they sat down and ate their cakes.
    </p>
    <p>
      While they rested the Thin Woman advised the children on many important
      matters. She never addressed her discourse to both of them at once, but
      spoke first to Seumas on one subject and then to Brigid on another
      subject; for, as she said, the things which a boy must learn are not those
      which are necessary to a girl. It is particularly important that a man
      should understand how to circumvent women, for this and the capture of
      food forms the basis of masculine wisdom, and on this subject she spoke to
      Seumas. It is, however, equally urgent that a woman should be skilled to
      keep a man in his proper place, and to this thesis Brigid gave an
      undivided attention.
    </p>
    <p>
      She taught that a man must hate all women before he is able to love a
      woman, but that he is at liberty, or rather he is under express command,
      to love all men because they are of his kind. Women also should love all
      other women as themselves, and they should hate all men but one man only,
      and him they should seek to turn into a woman, because women, by the order
      of their beings, must be either tyrants or slaves, and it is better they
      should be tyrants than slaves. She explained that between men and women
      there exists a state of unremitting warfare, and that the endeavour of
      each sex is to bring the other to subjection; but that women are possessed
      by a demon called Pity which severely handicaps their battle and
      perpetually gives victory to the male, who is thus constantly rescued on
      the very ridges of defeat. She said to Seumas that his fatal day would
      dawn when he loved a woman, because he would sacrifice his destiny to her
      caprice, and she begged him for love of her to beware of all that twisty
      sex. To Brigid she revealed that a woman&rsquo;s terrible day is upon her when
      she knows that a man loves her, for a man in love submits only to a woman,
      a partial, individual and temporary submission, but a woman who is loved
      surrenders more fully to the very god of love himself, and so she becomes
      a slave, and is not alone deprived of her personal liberty, but is even
      infected in her mental processes by this crafty obsession. The fates work
      for man, and therefore, she averred, woman must be victorious, for those
      who dare to war against the gods are already assured of victory: this
      being the law of life, that only the weak shall conquer. The limit of
      strength is petrifaction and immobility, but there is no limit to
      weakness, and cunning or fluidity is its counsellor. For these reasons,
      and in order that life might not cease, women should seek to turn their
      husbands into women; then they would be tyrants and their husbands would
      be slaves, and life would be renewed for a further period.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the Thin Woman proceeded with this lesson it became at last so
      extremely complicated that she was brought to a stand by the knots, so she
      decided to resume their journey and disentangle her argument when the
      weather became cooler.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were repacking the cakes in their wallets when they observed a stout,
      comely female coming towards the well. This woman, when she drew near,
      saluted the Thin Woman, and her the Thin Woman saluted again, whereupon
      the stranger sat down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s hot weather, surely,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;and I&rsquo;m thinking it&rsquo;s as much as a
      body&rsquo;s life is worth to be travelling this day and the sun the way it is.
      Did you come far, now, ma&rsquo;am, or is it that you are used to going the
      roads and don&rsquo;t mind it?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Not far,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Far or near,&rdquo; said the stranger, &ldquo;a perch is as much as I&rsquo;d like to
      travel this time of the year. That&rsquo;s a fine pair of children you have with
      you now, ma&rsquo;am.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;They are,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;ve ten of them myself,&rdquo; the other continued, &ldquo;and I often wondered
      where they came from. It&rsquo;s queer to think of one woman making ten new
      creatures and she not getting a penny for it, nor any thanks itself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do you ever talk more than two words at the one time, ma&rsquo;am?&rdquo; said the
      stranger.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I&rsquo;d give a penny to hear you,&rdquo; replied the other angrily, &ldquo;for a more
      bad-natured, cross-grained, cantankerous person than yourself I never met
      among womankind. It&rsquo;s what I said to a man only yesterday, that thin ones
      are bad ones, and there isn&rsquo;t any one could be thinner than you are
      yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The reason you say that,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman calmly, &ldquo;is because you are
      fat and you have to tell lies to yourself to hide your misfortune, and let
      on that you like it. There is no one in the world could like to be fat,
      and there I leave you, ma&rsquo;am. You can poke your finger in your own eye,
      but you may keep it out of mine if you please, and, so, good-bye to you;
      and if I wasn&rsquo;t a quiet woman I&rsquo;d pull you by the hair of the head up a
      hill and down a hill for two hours, and now there&rsquo;s an end of it. I&rsquo;ve
      given you more than two words; let you take care or I&rsquo;ll give you two more
      that will put blisters on your body for ever. Come along with me now,
      children, and if ever you see a woman like that woman you&rsquo;ll know that she
      eats until she can&rsquo;t stand, and drinks until she can&rsquo;t sit, and sleeps
      until she is stupid; and if that sort of person ever talks to you remember
      that two words are all that&rsquo;s due to her, and let them be short ones, for
      a woman like that would be a traitor and a thief, only that she&rsquo;s too lazy
      to be anything but a sot, God help her I and, so, good-bye.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thereupon the Thin Woman and the children arose, and having saluted the
      stranger they went down the wide path; but the other woman stayed where
      she was sitting, and she did not say a word even to herself.
    </p>
    <p>
      As she strode along the Thin Woman lapsed again to her anger, and became
      so distant in her aspect that the children could get no companionship from
      her; so, after a while, they ceased to consider her at all and addressed
      themselves to their play. They danced before and behind and around her.
      They ran and doubled, shouted and laughed and sang. Sometimes they
      pretended they were husband and wife, and then they plodded quietly side
      by side, making wise, occasional remarks on the weather, or the condition
      of their health, or the state of the fields of rye. Sometimes one was a
      horse and the other was a driver, and then they stamped along the road
      with loud, fierce snortings and louder and fiercer commands. At another
      moment one was a cow being driven with great difficulty to market by a
      driver whose temper had given way hours before; or they both became goats
      and with their heads jammed together they pushed and squealed viciously;
      and these changes lapsed into one another so easily that at no moment were
      they unoccupied. But as the day wore on to evening the immense surrounding
      quietude began to weigh heavily upon them. Saving for their own shrill
      voices there was no sound, and this unending, wide silence at last
      commanded them to a corresponding quietness. Little by little they ceased
      their play. The scamper became a trot, each run was more and more
      curtailed in its length, the race back became swifter than the run forth,
      and, shortly, they were pacing soberly enough one on either side of the
      Thin Woman sending back and forth a few quiet sentences. Soon even these
      sentences trailed away into the vast surrounding stillness. Then Brigid
      Beg clutched the Thin Woman&rsquo;s right hand, and not long after Seumas gently
      clasped her left hand, and these mute appeals for protection and comfort
      again released her from the valleys of fury through which she had been so
      fiercely careering.
    </p>
    <p>
      As they went gently along they saw a cow lying in a field, and, seeing
      this animal, the Thin Woman stopped thoughtfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Everything,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;belongs to the wayfarer,&rdquo; and she crossed into
      the field and milked the cow into a vessel which she had.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I wonder,&rdquo; said Seumas, &ldquo;who owns that cow.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Maybe,&rdquo; said Brigid Beg, &ldquo;nobody owns her at all.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The cow owns herself,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;for nobody can own a thing
      that is alive. I am sure she gives her milk to us with great goodwill, for
      we are modest, temperate people without greed or pretension.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On being released the cow lay down again in the grass and resumed its
      interrupted cud. As the evening had grown chill the Thin Woman and the
      children huddled close to the warm animal. They drew pieces of cake from
      their wallets, and ate these and drank happily from the vessel of milk.
      Now and then the cow looked benignantly over its shoulder bidding them a
      welcome to its hospitable flanks. It had a mild, motherly eye, and it was
      very fond of children. The youngsters continually deserted their meal in
      order to put their arms about the cow&rsquo;s neck to thank and praise her for
      her goodness, and to draw each other&rsquo;s attention to various excellences in
      its appearance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Cow,&rdquo; said Brigid Beg in an ecstasy, &ldquo;I love you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So do I,&rdquo; said Seumas. &ldquo;Do you notice the kind of eyes it has?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why does a cow have horns?&rdquo; said Brigid.
    </p>
    <p>
      So they asked the cow that question, but it only smiled and said nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If a cow talked to you,&rdquo; said Brigid, &ldquo;what would it say?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let us be cows,&rdquo; replied Seumas, &ldquo;and then, maybe, we will find out.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So they became cows and ate a few blades of grass, but they found that
      when they were cows they did not want to say anything but &ldquo;moo,&rdquo; and they
      decided that cows did not want to say anything more than that either, and
      they became interested in the reflection that, perhaps, nothing else was
      worth saying.
    </p>
    <p>
      A long, thin, yellow-coloured fly was going in that direction on a
      journey, and he stopped to rest himself on the cow&rsquo;s nose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are welcome,&rdquo; said the cow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It&rsquo;s a great night for travelling,&rdquo; said the fly, &ldquo;but one gets tired
      alone. Have you seen any of my people about?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No,&rdquo; replied the cow, &ldquo;no one but beetles to-night, and they seldom stop
      for a talk. You&rsquo;ve rather a good kind of life, I suppose, flying about and
      enjoying yourself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We all have our troubles,&rdquo; said the fly in a melancholy voice, and he
      commenced to clean his right wing with his leg.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Does any one ever lie against your back the way these people are lying
      against mine, or do they steal your milk?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are too many spiders about,&rdquo; said the fly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No corner is safe from them; they squat in the grass and pounce on you.
      I&rsquo;ve got a twist, my eye trying to watch them. They are ugly, voracious
      people without manners or neighbourliness, terrible, terrible creatures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have seen them,&rdquo; said the cow, &ldquo;but they never done me any harm. Move
      up a little bit please, I want to lick my nose: it&rsquo;s queer how itchy my
      nose gets&rdquo;&mdash;the fly moved up a bit. &ldquo;If,&rdquo; the cow continued, &ldquo;you had
      stayed there, and if my tongue had hit you, I don&rsquo;t suppose you would ever
      have recovered.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your tongue couldn&rsquo;t have hit me,&rdquo; said the by. &ldquo;I move very quickly you
      know.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Hereupon the cow slily whacked her tongue across her nose. She did not see
      the fly move, but it was hovering safely half an inch over her nose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You see,&rdquo; said the fly.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do,&rdquo; replied the cow, and she bellowed so sudden and furious a snort of
      laughter that the fly was blown far away by that gust and never came back
      again.
    </p>
    <p>
      This amused the cow exceedingly, and she chuckled and sniggered to herself
      for a long time. The children had listened with great interest to the
      conversation, and they also laughed delightedly, and the Thin Woman
      admitted that the fly had got the worse of it; but, after a while, she
      said that the part of the cow&rsquo;s back against which she was resting was
      bonier than anything she had ever leaned upon before, and that while
      thinness was a virtue no one had any right to be thin in lumps, and that
      on this count the cow was not to be commended. On hearing this the cow
      arose, and without another look at them it walked away into the dusky
      field. The Thin Woman told the children afterwards that she was sorry she
      had said anything, but she was unable to bring her self to apologise to
      the cow, and so they were forced to resume their journey in order to keep
      themselves warm.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was a sickle moon in the sky, a tender sword whose radiance stayed
      in its own high places and did not at all illumine the heavy world below;
      the glimmer of infrequent stars could also be seen with spacious, dark
      solitudes between them; but on the earth the darkness gathered in fold on
      fold of misty veiling, through which the trees uttered an earnest whisper,
      and the grasses lifted their little voices, and the wind crooned its
      thrilling, stern lament.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the travellers walked on, their eyes, flinching from the darkness,
      rested joyfully on the gracious moon, but that joy lasted only for a
      little time. The Thin Woman spoke to them curiously about the moon, and,
      indeed, she might speak with assurance on that subject, for her ancestors
      had sported in the cold beam through countless dim generations.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is not known,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;that the fairies seldom dance for joy, but
      for sadness that they have been expelled from the sweet dawn, and
      therefore their midnight revels are only ceremonies to remind them of
      their happy state in the morning of the world before thoughtful curiosity
      and self-righteous moralities drove them from the kind face of the sun to
      the dark exile of midnight. It is strange that we may not be angry while
      looking on the moon. Indeed, no mere appetite or passion of any kind dare
      become imperative in the presence of the Shining One; and this, in a more
      limited degree, is true also of every form of beauty; for there is
      something in an absolute beauty to chide away the desires of materiality
      and yet to dissolve the spirit in ecstasies of fear and sadness. Beauty
      has no liking for Thought, but will send terror and sorrow on those who
      look upon her with intelligent eyes. We may neither be angry nor gay in
      the presence of the moon, nor may we dare to think in her bailiwick, or
      the Jealous One will surely afflict us. I think that she is not benevolent
      but malign, and that her mildness is a cloak for many shy infamies. I
      think that beauty tends to become frightful as it becomes perfect, and
      that, if we could see it comprehendingly, the extreme of beauty is a
      desolating hideousness, and that the name of ultimate, absolute beauty is
      Madness. Therefore men should seek loveliness rather than beauty, and so
      they would always have a friend to go beside them, to understand and to
      comfort them, for that is the business of loveliness: but the business of
      beauty&mdash;there is no person at all knows what that is. Beauty is the
      extreme which has not yet swung to and become merged in its opposite. The
      poets have sung of this beauty and the philosophers have prophesied of it,
      thinking that the beauty which passes all understanding is also the peace
      which passeth understanding; but I think that whatever passes
      understanding, which is imagination, is terrible, standing aloof from
      humanity and from kindness, and that this is the sin against the Holy
      Ghost, the great Artist. An isolated perfection is a symbol of terror and
      pride, and it is followed only by the head of man, but the heart winces
      from it aghast, cleaving to that loveliness which is modesty and
      righteousness. Every extreme is bad, in order that it may swing to and
      fertilize its equally horrible opposite.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Thus, speaking more to herself than to the children, the Thin Woman
      beguiled the way. The moon had brightened as she spoke, and on either side
      of the path, wherever there was a tree or a rise in the ground, a black
      shadow was crouching tensely watchful, seeming as if it might spring into
      terrible life at a bound. Of these shadows the children became so fearful
      that the Thin Woman forsook the path and adventured on the open hillside,
      so that in a short time the road was left behind and around them stretched
      the quiet slopes in the full shining of the moon.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they had walked for a long time the children became sleepy; they were
      unused to being awake in the night, and as there was no place where they
      could rest, and as it was evident that they could not walk much further,
      the Thin Woman grew anxious. Already Brigid had made a tiny, whimpering
      sound, and Seumas had followed this with a sigh, the slightest
      prolongation of which might have trailed into a sob, and when children are
      overtaken by tears they do not understand how to escape from them until
      they are simply bored by much weeping.
    </p>
    <p>
      When they topped a slight incline they saw a light shining some distance
      away, and toward this the Thin Woman hurried. As they drew near she saw it
      was a small fire, and around this some figures were seated. In a few
      minutes she came into the circle of the firelight, and here she halted
      suddenly. She would have turned and fled, but fear loosened her knees so
      that they would not obey her will; also the people by the fire had
      observed her, and a great voice commanded that she should draw near.
    </p>
    <p>
      The fire was made of branches of heather, and beside it three figures sat.
      The Thin Woman, hiding her perturbation as well as she could, came nigh
      and sat down by the fire. After a low word of greeting she gave some of
      her cake to the children, drew them close to her, wrapped her shawl about
      their heads and bade them sleep. Then, shrinkingly, she looked at her
      hosts.
    </p>
    <p>
      They were quite naked, and each of them gazed on her with intent
      earnestness. The first was so beautiful that the eye failed upon him,
      flinching aside as from a great brightness. He was of mighty stature, and
      yet so nobly proportioned, so exquisitely slender and graceful, that no
      idea of gravity or bulk went with his height. His face was kingly and
      youthful and of a terrifying serenity. The second man was of equal height,
      but broad to wonderment. So broad was he that his great height seemed
      diminished. The tense arm on which he leaned was knotted and ridged with
      muscle, and his hand gripped deeply into the ground. His face seemed as
      though it had been hammered from hard rock, a massive, blunt face as rigid
      as his arm. The third man can scarcely be described. He was neither short
      nor tall. He was muscled as heavily as the second man. As he sat he looked
      like a colossal toad squatting with his arms about his knees, and upon
      these his chin rested. He had no shape nor swiftness, and his head was
      flattened down and was scarcely wider than his neck. He had a protruding
      dog-like mouth that twitched occasionally, and from his little eyes there
      glinted a horrible intelligence. Before this man the soul of the Thin
      Woman grovelled. She felt herself crawling to him. The last terrible
      abasement of which humanity is capable came upon her: a fascination which
      would have drawn her to him in screaming adoration. Hardly could she look
      away from him, but her arms were about the children, and love, mightiest
      of the powers, stirred fiercely in her heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first man spoke to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Woman,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;for what purpose do you go abroad on this night and on
      this hill?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I travel, sir,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;searching for the Brugh of Angus
      the son of the Dagda Mor.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are all children of the Great Father,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;Do you know who we
      are?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not know that,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are the Three Absolutes, the Three Redeemers, the three Alembics&mdash;the
      Most Beautiful Man, the Strongest Man and the Ugliest Man. In the midst of
      every strife we go unhurt. We count the slain and the victors and pass on
      laughing, and to us in the eternal order come all the peoples of the world
      to be regenerated for ever. Why have you called to us?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I did not call to you, indeed,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman; &ldquo;but why do you sit
      in the path so that travellers to the House of the Dagda are halted on
      their journey?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There are no paths closed to us,&rdquo; he replied; &ldquo;even the gods seek us, for
      they grow weary in their splendid desolation&mdash;saving Him who liveth
      in all things and in us; Him we serve and before His awful front we abase
      ourselves. You, O Woman, who are walking in the valleys of anger, have
      called to us in your heart, therefore we are waiting for you on the side
      of the hill. Choose now one of us to be your mate, and do not fear to
      choose, for our kingdoms are equal and our powers are equal.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why would I choose one of you,&rdquo; replied the Thin Woman, &ldquo;when I am well
      married already to the best man in the world?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Beyond us there is no best man,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;for we are the best in beauty,
      and the best in strength, and the best in ugliness; there is no excellence
      which is not contained in us three. If you are married what does that
      matter to us who are free from the pettiness of jealousy and fear, being
      at one with ourselves and with every manifestation of nature.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;If,&rdquo; she replied, &ldquo;you are the Absolute and are above all pettiness, can
      you not be superior to me also and let me pass quietly on my road to the
      Dagda!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We are what all humanity desire,&rdquo; quoth he, &ldquo;and we desire all humanity.
      There is nothing, small or great, disdained by our immortal appetites. It
      is not lawful, even for the Absolute, to outgrow Desire, which is the
      breath of God quick in his creatures and not to be bounded or surmounted
      by any perfection.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      During this conversation the other great figures had leaned forward
      listening intently but saying nothing. The Thin Woman could feel the
      children like little, terrified birds pressing closely and very quietly to
      her sides.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;tell me what is Beauty and what is Strength and what is
      Ugliness? for, although I can see these things, I do not know what they
      are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will tell you that,&rdquo; he replied&mdash;&ldquo;Beauty is Thought and Strength
      is Love and Ugliness is Generation. The home of Beauty is the head of man.
      The home of Strength is the heart of man, and in the loins Ugliness keeps
      his dreadful state. If you come with me you shall know all delight. You
      shall live unharmed in the flame of the spirit, and nothing that is gross
      shall bind your limbs or hinder your thought. You shall move as a queen
      amongst all raging passions without torment or despair. Never shall you be
      driven or ashamed, but always you will choose your own paths and walk with
      me in freedom and contentment and beauty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;All things,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;must act according to the order of
      their being, and so I say to Thought, if you hold me against my will
      presently I will bind you against your will, for the holder of an
      unwilling mate becomes the guardian and the slave of his captive.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;and against a thing that is true I cannot
      contend; therefore, you are free from me, but from my brethren you are not
      free.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The Thin Woman turned to the second man.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are Strength?&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am Strength and Love,&rdquo; he boomed, &ldquo;and with me there is safety and
      peace; my days have honour and my nights quietness. There is no evil thing
      walks near my lands, nor is any sound heard but the lowing of my cattle,
      the songs of my birds and the laughter of my happy children. Come then to
      me who gives protection and happiness and peace, and does not fail or grow
      weary at any time.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will not go with you,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;for I am a mother and my
      strength cannot be increased; I am a mother and my love cannot be added
      to. What have I further to desire from thee, thou great man?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are free of me,&rdquo; said the second man, &ldquo;but from my brother you are
      not free.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then to the third man the Thin Woman addressed herself in terror, for to
      that hideous one something cringed within her in an ecstasy of loathing.
      That repulsion which at its strongest becomes attraction gripped her. A
      shiver, a plunge, and she had gone, but the hands of the children withheld
      her while in woe she abased herself before him.
    </p>
    <p>
      He spoke, and his voice came clogged and painful as though it urged from
      the matted pores of the earth itself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;There is none left to whom you may go but me only. Do not be afraid, but
      come to me and I will give you these wild delights which have been long
      forgotten. All things which are crude and riotous, all that is gross and
      without limit is mine. You shall not think and suffer any longer; but you
      shall feel so surely that the heat of the sun will be happiness: the taste
      of food, the wind that blows upon you, the ripe ease of your body&mdash;these
      things will amaze you who have forgotten them. My great arms about you
      will make you furious and young again; you shall leap on the hillside like
      a young goat and sing for joy as the birds sing. Leave this crabbed
      humanity that is barred and chained away from joy and come with me, to
      whose ancient quietude at the last both Strength and Beauty will come like
      children tired in the evening, returning to the freedom of the brutes and
      the birds, with bodies sufficient for their pleasure and with no care for
      Thought or foolish curiosity.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the Thin Woman drew back from his hand, saying &ldquo;It is not lawful to
      turn again when the journey is commenced, but to go forward to whatever is
      appointed; nor may we return to your meadows and trees and sunny places
      who have once departed from them. The torments of the mind may not be
      renounced for any easement of the body until the smoke that blinds us is
      blown away, and the tormenting flame has fitted us for that immortal
      ecstasy which is the bosom of God. Nor is it lawful that ye great ones
      should beset the path of travellers, seeking to lure them away with
      cunning promises. It is only at the cross-roads ye may sit where the
      traveller will hesitate and be in doubt, but on the highway ye have no
      power.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You are free of me,&rdquo; said the third man, &ldquo;until you are ready to come to
      me again, for I only of all things am steadfast and patient, and to me all
      return in their seasons. There are brightnesses in my secret places in the
      woods, and lamps in my gardens beneath the hills, tended by the angels of
      God, and behind my face there is another face not hated by the Bright
      Ones.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So the three Absolutes arose and strode mightily away; and as they went
      their thunderous speech to each other boomed against the clouds and the
      earth like a gusty wind, and, even when they had disappeared, that great
      rumble could be heard dying gently away in the moonlit distances.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Thin Woman and the children went slowly forward on the rugged, sloping
      way. Far beyond, near the distant summit of the hill there was a light
      gleaming.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yonder,&rdquo; said the Thin Woman, &ldquo;is the Brugh of Angus Mac an Og, the son
      of the Dagda Mor,&rdquo; and toward this light she assisted the weary children.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a little she was in the presence of the god and by him refreshed and
      comforted. She told him all that had happened to her husband and implored
      his assistance. This was readily accorded, for the chief business of the
      gods is to give protection and assistance to such of their people as
      require it; but (and this is their limitation) they cannot give any help
      until it is demanded, the freewill of mankind being the most jealously
      guarded and holy principle in life; therefore, the interference of the
      loving gods comes only on an equally loving summons.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      CHAPTER XVIII
    </h2>
    <p>
      CAITILIN NI MURRACHU sat alone in the Brugh of Angus much as she had sat
      on the hillside and in the cave of Pan, and again she was thinking. She
      was happy now. There was nothing more she could desire, for all that the
      earth contained or the mind could describe was hers. Her thoughts were no
      longer those shy, subterranean gropings which elude the hand and the
      understanding. Each thought was a thing or a person, visible in its own
      radiant personal life, and to be seen or felt, welcomed or repulsed, as
      was its due. But she had discovered that happiness is not laughter or
      satisfaction, and that no person can be happy for themselves alone. So she
      had come to understand the terrible sadness of the gods, and why Angus
      wept in secret; for often in the night she had heard him weeping, and she
      knew that his tears were for those others who were unhappy, and that he
      could not be comforted while there was a woeful person or an evil deed
      hiding in the world. Her own happiness also had become infected with this
      alien misery, until she knew that nothing was alien to her, and that in
      truth all persons and all things were her brothers and sisters and that
      they were living and dying in distress; and at the last she knew that
      there was not any man but mankind, nor any human being but only humanity.
      Never again could the gratification of a desire give her pleasure for her
      sense of oneness was destroyed&mdash;she was not an individual only; she
      was also part of a mighty organism ordained, through whatever stress, to
      achieve its oneness, and this great being was threefold, comprising in its
      mighty units God and Man and Nature&mdash;the immortal trinity. The duty
      of life is the sacrifice of self: it is to renounce the little ego that
      the mighty ego may be freed; and, knowing this, she found at last that she
      knew Happiness, that divine discontent which cannot rest nor be at ease
      until its bourne is attained and the knowledge of a man is added to the
      gaiety of a child. Angus had told her that beyond this there lay the great
      ecstasy which is Love and God and the beginning and the end of all things;
      for everything must come from the Liberty into the Bondage, that it may
      return again to the Liberty comprehending all things and fitted for that
      fiery enjoyment. This cannot be until there are no more fools living, for
      until the last fool has grown wise wisdom will totter and freedom will
      still be invisible. Growth is not by years but by multitudes, and until
      there is a common eye no one person can see God, for the eye of all nature
      will scarcely be great enough to look upon that majesty. We shall greet
      Happiness by multitudes, but we can only greet Him by starry systems and a
      universal love.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was so thinking when Angus Og came to her from the fields. The god was
      very radiant, smiling like the young morn when the buds awake, and to his
      lips song came instead of speech.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My beloved,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;we will go on a journey today.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My delight is where you go,&rdquo; said Caitilin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will go down to the world of men&mdash;from our quiet dwelling among
      the hills to the noisy city and the multitude of people. This will be our
      first journey, but on a time not distant we will go to them again, and we
      will not return from that journey, for we will live among our people and
      be at peace.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May the day come soon,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;When thy son is a man he will go before us on that journey,&rdquo; said Angus,
      and Caitilin shivered with a great delight, knowing that a son would be
      born to her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Angus Og put upon his bride glorious raiment, and they went out to
      the sunlight. It was the early morning, the sun had just risen and the dew
      was sparkling on the heather and the grass. There was a keen stir in the
      air that stung the blood to joy, so that Caitilin danced in uncontrollable
      gaiety, and Angus, with a merry voice, chanted to the sky and danced also.
      About his shining head the birds were flying; for every kiss he gave to
      Caitilin became a bird, the messengers of love and wisdom, and they also
      burst into triumphant melody, so that the quiet place rang with their
      glee. Constantly from the circling birds one would go flying with great
      speed to all quarters of space. These were his messengers flying to every
      fort and dun, every rath and glen and valley of Eire to raise the Sluaige
      Shee (the Fairy Host). They were birds of love that flew, for this was a
      hosting of happiness, and, therefore the Shee would not bring weapons with
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was towards Kilmasheogue their happy steps were directed, and soon they
      came to the mountain.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath had left the god she visited all the
      fairy forts of Kilmasheogue, and directed the Shee who lived there to be
      in waiting at the dawn on the summit of the mountain; consequently, when
      Angus and Caitilin came up the hill, they found the six clans coming to
      receive them, and with these were the people of the younger Shee, members
      of the Tuatha da Danaan, tall and beautiful men and women who had
      descended to the quiet underworld when the pressure of the sons of Milith
      forced them with their kind enchantments and invincible velour to the
      country of the gods.
    </p>
    <p>
      Of those who came were Aine Ni Rogail of Cnoc Aine and Ivil of Craglea,
      the queens of North and South Munster, and Una the queen of Ormond; these,
      with their hosts, sang upon the summit of the hill welcoming the god.
      There came the five guardians of Ulster, the fomentors of combat:&mdash;Brier
      Mac Belgan of Dromona Breg, Redg Rotbill from the slopes of Magh-Itar,
      Tinnel the son of Boclacthna of Slieve Edlicon, Grici of Cruachan-Aigle, a
      goodly name, and Gulban Glas Mac Grici, whose dun is in the Ben of Gulban.
      These five, matchless in combat, marched up the hill with their tribes,
      shouting as they went. From north and south they came, and from east and
      west, bright and happy beings, a multitude, without fear, without
      distraction, so that soon the hill was gay with their voices and their
      noble raiment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Among them came the people of the Lupra, the ancient Leprecauns of the
      world, leaping like goats among the knees of the heroes. They were headed
      by their king Udan Mac Audain and Beg Mac Beg his tanist, and, following
      behind, was Glomhar O&rsquo;Glomrach of the sea, the strongest man of their
      people, dressed in the skin of a weasel; and there were also the chief men
      of that clan, well known of old, Conan Mac Rihid, Gaerku Mac Gairid,
      Mether Mac Mintan and Esirt Mac Beg, the son of Bueyen, born in a victory.
      This king was that same Udan the chief of the Lupra who had been placed
      under bonds to taste the porridge in the great cauldron of Emania, into
      which pot he fell, and was taken captive with his wife, and held for five
      weary years, until he surrendered that which he most valued in the world,
      even his boots: the people of the hills laugh still at the story, and the
      Leprecauns may still be mortified by it.
    </p>
    <p>
      There came Bove Derg, the Fiery, seldom seen, and his harper the son of
      Trogain, whose music heals the sick and makes the sad heart merry; Rochy
      Mac Elathan, Dagda Mor, the Father of Stars, and his daughter from the
      Cave of Cruachan; Credh Mac Aedh of Raghery and Cas Corach son of the
      great Ollav; Mananaan Mac Lir came from his wide waters shouting louder
      than the wind, with his daughters Cliona and Aoife and Etain Fair-Hair;
      and Coll and Cecht and Mac Greina, the Plough, the Hazel, and the Sun came
      with their wives, whose names are not forgotten, even Banba and Fodla and
      Eire, names of glory. Lugh of the Long-Hand, filled with mysterious
      wisdom, was not absent, whose father was sadly avenged on the sons of
      Turann&mdash;these with their hosts.
    </p>
    <p>
      And one came also to whom the hosts shouted with mighty love, even the
      Serene One, Dana, the Mother of the gods, steadfast for ever. Her breath
      is on the morning, her smile is summer. From her hand the birds of the air
      take their food. The mild ox is her friend, and the wolf trots by her
      friendly side; at her voice the daisy peeps from her cave and the nettle
      couches his lance. The rose arrays herself in innocence, scattering abroad
      her sweetness with the dew, and the oak tree laughs to her in the air.
      Thou beautiful! the lambs follow thy footsteps, they crop thy bounty in
      the meadows and are not thwarted: the weary men cling to thy bosom
      everlasting. Through thee all actions and the deeds of men, through thee
      all voices come to us, even the Divine Promise and the breath of the
      Almighty from afar laden with goodness.
    </p>
    <p>
      With wonder, with delight, the daughter of Murrachu watched the hosting of
      the Shee. Sometimes her eyes were dazzled as a jewelled forehead blazed in
      the sun, or a shoulder-torque of broad gold flamed like a torch. On fair
      hair and dark the sun gleamed: white arms tossed and glanced a moment and
      sank and reappeared. The eyes of those who did not hesitate nor compute
      looked into her eyes, not appraising, not questioning, but mild and
      unafraid. The voices of free people spoke in her ears and the laughter of
      happy hearts, unthoughtful of sin or shame, released from the hard bondage
      of selfhood. For these people, though many, were one. Each spoke to the
      other as to himself, without reservation or subterfuge. They moved freely
      each in his personal whim, and they moved also with the unity of one
      being: for when they shouted to the Mother of the gods they shouted with
      one voice, and they bowed to her as one man bows. Through the many minds
      there went also one mind, correcting, commanding, so that in a moment the
      interchangeable and fluid became locked, and organic with a simultaneous
      understanding, a collective action-which was freedom.
    </p>
    <p>
      While she looked the dancing ceased, and they turned their faces with one
      accord down the mountain. Those in the front leaped forward, and behind
      them the others went leaping in orderly progression.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then Angus Og ran to where she stood, his bride of Beauty &ldquo;Come, my
      beloved,&rdquo; said he, and hand in hand they raced among the others, laughing
      as they ran.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here there was no green thing growing; a carpet of brown turf spread to
      the edge of sight on the sloping plain and away to where another mountain
      soared in the air. They came to this and descended. In the distance,
      groves of trees could be seen, and, very far away, the roofs and towers
      and spires of the Town of the Ford of Hurdles, and the little roads that
      wandered everywhere; but on this height there was only prickly furze
      growing softly in the sunlight; the bee droned his loud song, the birds
      flew and sang occasionally, and the little streams grew heavy with their
      falling waters. A little further and the bushes were green and beautiful,
      waving their gentle leaves in the quietude, and beyond again, wrapped in
      sunshine and peace, the trees looked on the world from their calm heights,
      having no complaint to make of anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a little they reached the grass land and the dance began. Hand sought
      for hand, feet moved companionably as though they loved each other;
      quietly intimate they tripped without faltering, and, then, the loud song
      arose&mdash;they sang to the lovers of gaiety and peace, long defrauded
      &ldquo;Come to us, ye who do not know where ye are&mdash;ye who live among
      strangers in the house of dismay and self-righteousness. Poor, awkward
      ones! How bewildered and bedevilled ye go! Amazed ye look and do not
      comprehend, for your eyes are set upon a star and your feet move in the
      blessed kingdoms of the Shee Innocents! in what prisons are ye flung? To
      what lowliness are ye bowed? How are ye ground between the laws and the
      customs? The dark people of the Fomor have ye in thrall; and upon your
      minds they have fastened a band of lead, your hearts are hung with iron,
      and about your loins a cincture of brass impressed, woeful! Believe it,
      that the sun does shine, the flowers grow, and the birds sing pleasantly
      in the trees. The free winds are everywhere, the water tumbles on the
      hills, the eagle calls aloud through the solitude, and his mate comes
      speedily. The bees are gathering honey in the sunlight, the midges dance
      together, and the great bull bellows across the river. The crow says a
      word to his brethren, and the wren snuggles her young in the hedge....
      Come to us, ye lovers of life and happiness. Hold out thy hand&mdash;a
      brother shall seize it from afar. Leave the plough and the cart for a
      little time: put aside the needle and the awl&mdash;Is leather thy
      brother, O man?... Come away! come away! from the loom and the desk, from
      the shop where the carcasses are hung, from the place where raiment is
      sold and the place where it is sewn in darkness: O bad treachery! Is it
      for joy you sit in the broker&rsquo;s den, thou pale man? Has the attorney
      enchanted thee?... Come away! for the dance has begun lightly, the wind is
      sounding over the hill, the sun laughs down into the valley, and the sea
      leaps upon the shingle, panting for joy, dancing, dancing, dancing for
      joy....&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      They swept through the goat tracks and the little boreens and the curving
      roads. Down to the city they went dancing and singing; among the streets
      and the shops telling their sunny tale; not heeding the malignant eyes and
      the cold brows as the sons of Balor looked sidewards. And they took the
      Philosopher from his prison, even the Intellect of Man they took from the
      hands of the doctors and lawyers, from the sly priests, from the
      professors whose mouths are gorged with sawdust, and the merchants who
      sell blades of grass&mdash;the awful people of the Fomor... and then they
      returned again, dancing and singing, to the country of the gods....
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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