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diff --git a/39752-0.txt b/39752-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0b7605f --- /dev/null +++ b/39752-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9382 @@ +The Project Gutenberg eBook of Fairy Legends and Traditions of The +South of Ireland, by T. Crofton Crocker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you +will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before +using this eBook. + +Title: Fairy Legends and Traditions of The South of Ireland + +Author: T. Crofton Crocker + +Release Date: October 29, 2012 [eBook #39752] +[Most recently updated: August 17, 2022] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +Produced by: Barbara Watson, Matthew Wheaton and the Online Distributed +Proofreading Canada Team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file +was produced from images generously made available by The Internet +Archive/American Libraries.) +Revised by Richard Tonsing. + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAIRY LEGENDS OF SOUTH OF IRELAND *** + + + + + FAIRY LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND. + + + BY + + T. CROFTON CROCKER. + + + A New Edition. + + WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS, + AFTER DESIGNS OF THE AUTHOR AND OTHERS. + + + “Come l’araba Fenice + Che ci sia, ognun lo dice; + Dove sia, nessun lo sa.”—METASTASIO. + + + Philadelphia: + LEA AND BLANCHARD. + 1844. + + + + +PREFACE. + + +The erudite Lessing styles a preface “the history of a book.” Now, +though there can be no necessity for a preface in that sense of the +word to the reprint of a work of mere whim, which has been nearly ten +years before the public, yet a few words are requisite to prevent the +present condensed and revised edition from being considered an +abridgment. + +However compact may be the mode of printing adopted, the act of +compressing into one volume the three in which the “Fairy Legends” +originally appeared, involved to a certain extent the necessity of +selection, perhaps the most difficult of all tasks judiciously to +perform; but the following statement will show the system proceeded +on. + +Forty tales descriptive of Irish superstitions now appear instead of +fifty. All superfluous annotations have been struck out, and a brief +summary at the end of each section substituted, explanatory of the +classification adopted, and in which a few additional notes have been +introduced, as well as upon the text. It is therefore hoped that this +curtailment will be regarded as an essential improvement; some useless +repetition in the tales being thereby avoided, and much irrelevant +matter in the notes dispensed with, although nothing which illustrates +in the slightest degree the popular Fairy Creed of Ireland has been +sacrificed. At the same time, the omission of a portion of the ten +immaterial tales will sufficiently answer doubts idly raised as to the +question of authorship. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + + THE SHEFRO. + + I. The Legend of Knocksheogowna, + II. The Legend of Knockfierna, + III. The Legend of Knockgrafton, + IV. The Priest’s Supper, + V. The Brewery of Egg-shells, + VI. Legend of Bottle Hill, + VII. The Confessions of Tom Bourke, + VIII. Fairies or no Fairies, + _Note on the Section._ + + THE CLURICAUNE. + + IX. The Haunted Cellar, + X. Master and Man, + XI. The Little Shoe, + _Note on the Section._ + + THE BANSHEE. + + XII. The Bunworth Banshee, + XIII. The MᶜCarthy Banshee, + _Note on the Section._ + + THE PHOOKA. + + XIV. The Spirit Horse, + XV. Daniel O’Rourke, + XVI. The Crookened Back, + _Note on the Section._ + + THIERNA NA OGE. + + XVII. Fior Usga, + XVIII. Cormac and Mary (_Ballad_,) + XIX. The Legend of Lough Gur, + XX. The Enchanted Lake, + XXI. The Legend of O’Donoghue, + _Note on the Section._ + + THE MERROW. + + XXII. The Lady of Gollerus, + XXIII. Flory Cantillon’s Funeral, + XXIV. The Lord of Dunkerron (_Ballad_,) + XXV. The Wonderful Tune, + _Note on the Section._ + + THE DULLAHAN. + + XXVI. The Good Woman, + XXVII. Hanlon’s Mill, + XXVIII. The Death Coach (_Ballad_,) + XXIX. The Headless Horseman, + _Note on the Section._ + + THE FIR DARRIG. + + XXX. Diarmid Bawn, the Piper, + XXXI. Teigue of the Lee, + XXXII. Ned Sheehy’s Excuse, + XXXIII. The Lucky Guest, + _Note on the Section._ + + TREASURE LEGENDS. + + XXXIV. Dreaming Tim Jarvis, + XXXV. Rent-Day, + XXXVI. Linn-na-Payshtha, + _Note on the Section._ + + ROCKS AND STONES. + + XXXVII. The Legend of Cairn Thierna, + XXXVIII. The Rock of the Candle, + XXXIX. Clough na Cuddy, + XL. The Giant’s Stairs. + + APPENDIX—Letter from Sir Walter Scott. + + + + +TO THE DOWAGER LADY CHATTERTON. + +CASTLE MAHON. + + + THEE, Lady, would I lead through Fairy-land + (Whence cold and doubting reasoners are exiled,) + A land of dreams, with air-built castles piled; + The moonlight SHEFROS there, in merry band + With artful CLURICAUNE, should ready stand + To welcome thee—Imagination’s child! + Till on thy ear would burst so sadly wild + The BANSHEE’S shriek, who points with wither’d hand. + In the dim twilight should the PHOOKA come, + Whose dusky form fades in the sunny light, + That opens clear calm LAKES upon thy sight, + Where blessed spirits dwell in endless bloom. + I know thee, Lady—thou wilt not deride + Such Fairy Scenes.—Then onward with thy Guide. + + T. Crofton Croker. [signature] + +[Illustration: The Wood Engravings after Designs by + Mr. BROOKE, R. H. A., + Mr. MᶜCLISE, + and the AUTHOR.] + + + + +Irish FAIRY LEGENDS. + + +[Illustration: “Look there! look there, mammy!”] + + + + +FAIRY LEGENDS. + + + + +THE SHEFRO. + + ————————“Fairy Elves + Whose midnight revels, by a forest side + Or fountain some belated peasant sees, + Or dreams he sees, while over-head the Moon + Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth + Wheels her pale course.”— + MILTON. + + + + +LEGENDS OF THE SHEFRO. + + + + +THE LEGEND OF KNOCKSHEOGOWNA. + +I. + + +In Tipperary is one of the most singularly shaped hills in the world. +It has got a peak at the top like a conical nightcap thrown carelessly +over your head as you awake in the morning. On the very point is built +a sort of lodge, where in the summer the lady who built it and her +friends used to go on parties of pleasure; but that was long after the +days of the fairies, and it is, I believe, now deserted. + +But before lodge was built, or acre sown, there was close to the head +of this hill a large pasturage, where a herdsman spent his days and +nights among the herd. The spot had been an old fairy ground, and the +good people were angry that the scene of their light and airy gambols +should be trampled by the rude hoofs of bulls and cows. The lowing of +the cattle sounded sad in their ears, and the chief of the fairies of +the hill determined in person to drive away the new comers; and the +way she thought of was this. When the harvest nights came on, and the +moon shone bright and brilliant over the hill, and the cattle were +lying down hushed and quiet, and the herdsman, wrapt in his mantle, +was musing with his heart gladdened by the glorious company of the +stars twinkling above him, she would come and dance before him,—now +in one shape—now in another,—but all ugly and frightful to behold. +One time she would be a great horse, with the wings of an eagle, and a +tail like a dragon, hissing loud and spitting fire. Then in a moment +she would change into a little man lame of a leg, with a bull’s head, +and a lambent flame playing round it. Then into a great ape, with +duck’s feet, and a turkey cock’s tail. But I should be all day about +it were I to tell you all the shapes she took. And then she would +roar, or neigh, or hiss, or bellow, or howl, or hoot, as never yet was +roaring, neighing, hissing, bellowing, howling, or hooting, heard in +this world before or since. The poor herdsman would cover his face, +and call on all the saints for help, but it was no use. With one puff +of her breath she would blow away the fold of his great coat, let him +hold it never so tightly over his eyes, and not a saint in heaven paid +him the slightest attention. And to make matters worse, he never could +stir; no, nor even shut his eyes, but there was obliged to stay, held +by what power he knew not, gazing at these terrible sights until the +hair of his head would lift his hat half a foot over his crown, and +his teeth would be ready to fall out from chattering. But the cattle +would scamper about mad, as if they were bitten by the fly; and this +would last until the sun rose over the hill. + +The poor cattle from want of rest were pining away, and food did them +no good; besides, they met with accidents without end. Never a night +passed that some of them did not fall into a pit, and get maimed, or, +may be, killed. Some would tumble into a river and be drowned; in a +word, there seemed never to be an end of the accidents. But what made +the matter worse, there could not be a herdsman got to tend the cattle +by night. One visit from the fairy drove the stoutest hearted almost +mad. The owner of the ground did not know what to do. He offered +double, treble, quadruple wages, but not a man could be found for the +sake of money to go through the horror of facing the fairy. She +rejoiced at the successful issue of her project, and continued her +pranks. The herd gradually thinning, and no man daring to remain on +the ground, the fairies came back in numbers, and gambolled as merrily +as before, quaffing dew-drops from acorns, and spreading their feast +on the heads of capacious mushrooms. + +What was to be done? the puzzled farmer thought in vain. He found that +his substance was daily diminishing, his people terrified, and his +rent-day coming round. It is no wonder that he looked gloomy, and +walked mournfully down the road. Now in that part of the world dwelt +a man of the name of Larry Hoolahan, who played on the pipes better +than any other player within fifteen parishes. A roving, dashing blade +was Larry, and feared nothing. Give him plenty of liquor, and he would +defy the devil. He would face a mad bull, or fight single-handed +against a fair. In one of his gloomy walks the farmer met him, and on +Larry’s asking the cause of his down looks, he told him all his +misfortunes. “If that is all ails you,” said Larry, “make your mind +easy. Were there as many fairies on Knocksheogowna as there are potato +blossoms in Eliogurty, I would face them. It would be a queer thing, +indeed, if I, who never was afraid of a proper man, should turn my +back upon a brat of a fairy not the bigness of one’s thumb.” “Larry,” +said the farmer, “do not talk so bold, for you know not who is hearing +you; but if you make your words good, and watch my herds for a week on +the top of the mountain, your hand shall be free of my dish till the +sun has burnt itself down to the bigness of a farthing rushlight.” + +The bargain was struck, and Larry went to the hill-top, when the moon +began to peep over the brow. He had been regaled at the farmer’s +house, and was bold with the extract of barley-corn. So he took his +seat on a big stone under a hollow of the hill, with his back to the +wind, and pulled out his pipes. He had not played long when the voice +of the fairies was heard upon the blast, like a slow stream of music. +Presently they burst out into a loud laugh, and Larry could plainly +hear one say, “What! another man upon the fairies’ ring? Go to him, +queen, and make him repent his rashness;” and they flew away. Larry +felt them pass by his face as they flew, like a swarm of midges; and, +looking up hastily, he saw between the moon and him a great black cat, +standing on the very tip of its claws, with its back up, and mewing +with the voice of a water-mill. Presently it swelled up towards the +sky, and turning round on its left hind-leg, whirled till it fell to +the ground, from which it started up in the shape of a salmon, with a +cravat round its neck, and a pair of new topboots. “Go on, jewel,” +said Larry; “if you dance, I’ll pipe;” and he struck up. So she turned +into this, and that, and the other, but still Larry played on, as he +well knew how. At last she lost patience, as ladies will do when you +do not mind their scolding, and changed herself into a calf, +milk-white as the cream of Cork, and with eyes as mild as those of the +girl I love. She came up gentle and fawning, in hopes to throw him off +his guard by quietness, and then to work him some wrong. But Larry was +not so deceived; for when she came up, he, dropping his pipes, leaped +upon her back. + +Now from the top of Knocksheogowna, as you look westward to the broad +Atlantic, you will see the Shannon, queen of rivers; “spreading like a +sea,” and running on in gentle course to mingle with the ocean through +the fair city of Limerick. It on this night shone under the moon, and +looked beautiful from the distant hill. Fifty boats were gliding up +and down on the sweet current, and the song of the fishermen rose +gaily from the shore. Larry, as I said before, leaped upon the back of +the fairy, and she, rejoiced at the opportunity, sprung from the +hill-top, and bounded clear, at one jump, over the Shannon, flowing as +it was just ten miles from the mountain’s base. It was done in a +second, and when she alighted on the distant bank, kicking up her +heels, she flung Larry on the soft turf. No sooner was he thus +planted, than he looked her straight in the face, and scratching his +head, cried out, “By my word, well done! that was not a bad leap _for +a calf_!” + +She looked at him for a moment, and then assumed her own shape. +“Laurence,” said she, “you are a bold fellow; will you come back the +way you went?” “And that’s what I will,” said he, “if you let me.” So +changing to a calf again, again Larry got on her back, and at another +bound they were again upon the top of Knocksheogowna. The fairy, once +more resuming her figure, addressed him: “You have shown so much +courage, Laurence,” said she, “that while you keep herds on this hill +you never shall be molested by me or mine. The day dawns, go down to +the farmer, and tell him this; and if any thing I can do may be of +service to you, ask, and you shall have it.” She vanished accordingly; +and kept her word in never visiting the hill during Larry’s life: but +he never troubled her with requests. He piped and drank at the +farmer’s expense, and roosted in his chimney corner, occasionally +casting an eye to the flock. He died at last, and is buried in a green +valley of pleasant Tipperary: but whether the fairies returned to the +hill of Knocksheogowna[1] after his death, is more than I can say. + + [1] Knocksheogowna signifies “_The Hill of the Fairy Calf._” + + + + +THE LEGEND OF KNOCKFIERNA.[2] + +II. + + + [2] “Called by the people of the country ‘_Knock Dhoinn + Firinne_,’ the mountain of Donn of Truth. This mountain is very + high, and may be seen for several miles round; and when people + are desirous to know whether or not any day will rain, they look + at the top of Knock Firinne, and if they see a vapour or mist + there, they immediately conclude that rain will soon follow, + believing that Donn (the lord or chief) of that mountain and his + aërial assistants are collecting the clouds, and that he holds + them there for some short time, to warn the people of the + approaching rain. As the appearance of mist on that mountain in + the morning is considered an infallible sign that that day will + be rainy, Donn is called ‘_Donn Firinne_,’ Donn of Truth.”—MR. + EDWARD O’REILLY. + +It is a very good thing not to be any way in dread of the fairies, for +without doubt they have then less power over a person; but to make too +free with them, or to disbelieve in them altogether, is as foolish a +thing as man, woman, or child can do. + +It has been truly said, that “good manners are no burden,” and that +“civility costs nothing;” but there are some people fool-hardy enough +to disregard doing a civil thing, which, whatever they may think, can +never harm themselves or any one else, and who at the same time will +go out of their way for a bit of mischief, which never can serve them; +but sooner or later they will come to know better, as you shall hear +of Carroll O’Daly, a strapping young fellow up out of Connaught, whom +they used to call, in his own country, “Devil Daly.” + +Carroll O’Daly used to go roving about from one place to another, and +the fear of nothing stopped him; he would as soon pass an old +churchyard or a regular fairy ground, at any hour of the night as go +from one room into another, without ever making the sign of the cross, +or saying, “Good luck attend you, gentlemen.” + +It so happened that he was once journeying, in the county of Limerick, +towards “the Balbec of Ireland,” the venerable town of Kilmallock; and +just at the foot of Knockfierna he overtook a respectable-looking man +jogging along upon a white pony. The night was coming on, and they +rode side by side for some time, without much conversation passing +between them, further than saluting each other very kindly; at last, +Carroll O’Daly asked his companion how far he was going? + +“Not far your way,” said the farmer, for such his appearance bespoke +him; “I’m only going to the top of this hill here.” + +“And what might take you there,” said O’Daly, “at this time of the +night?” + +“Why then,” replied the farmer, “if you want to know; ’tis the _good +people_.” + +“The fairies you mean,” said O’Daly. + +“Whist! whist!” said his fellow-traveller, “or you may be sorry for +it;” and he turned his pony off the road they were going, towards a +little path which led up the side of the mountain, wishing Carroll +O’Daly good night and a safe journey. + +“That fellow,” thought Carroll, “is about no good this blessed night, +and I would have no fear of swearing wrong if I took my Bible oath +that it is something else beside the fairies, or the good people, as +he calls them, that is taking him up the mountain at this hour. The +fairies!” he repeated, “is it for a well-shaped man like him to be +going after little chaps like the fairies! To be sure some say there +are such things, and more say not; but I know this, that never afraid +would I be of a dozen of them, ay, of two dozen, for that matter, if +they are no bigger than what I hear tell of.” + +Carroll O’Daly, whilst these thoughts were passing in his mind, had +fixed his eyes steadfastly on the mountain, behind which the full moon +was rising majestically. Upon an elevated point that appeared darkly +against the moon’s disk, he beheld the figure of a man leading a pony, +and he had no doubt it was that of the farmer with whom he had just +parted company. + +A sudden resolve to follow flashed across the mind of O’Daly with the +speed of lightning: both his courage and curiosity had been worked up +by his cogitations to a pitch of chivalry; and, muttering, “Here’s +after you, old boy!” he dismounted from his horse, bound him to an old +thorntree, and then commenced vigorously ascending the mountain. + +Following as well as he could the direction taken by the figures of +the man and pony, he pursued his way, occasionally guided by their +partial appearance: and after toiling nearly three hours over a rugged +and sometimes swampy path, came to a green spot on the top of the +mountain, where he saw the white pony at full liberty grazing as +quietly as may be. O’Daly looked around for the rider, but he was +nowhere to be seen; he, however, soon discovered, close to where the +pony stood, an opening in the mountain like the mouth of a pit, and he +remembered having heard, when a child, many a tale about the +“Poul-duve,” or Black Hole of Knockfierna; how it was the entrance to +the fairy castle which was within the mountain; and how a man whose +name was Ahern, a land surveyor in that part of the country, had once +attempted to fathom it with a line, and had been drawn down into it, +and was never again heard of; with many other tales of the like +nature. + +“But,” thought O’Daly, “these are old woman’s stories: and since I’ve +come up so far, I’ll just knock at the castle door and see if the +fairies are at home.” + +No sooner said than done; for, seizing a large stone, as big, ay, +bigger than his two hands, he flung it with all his strength down +into the Poul-duve of Knockfierna. He heard it bounding and tumbling +about from one rock to another with a terrible noise, and he leaned +his head over to try and hear when it would reach the bottom,—and +what should the very stone he had thrown in do but come up again with +as much force as it had gone down, and gave him such a blow full in +the face, that it sent him rolling down the side of Knockfierna, head +over heels, tumbling from one crag to another, much faster than he +came up. And in the morning Carroll O’Daly was found lying beside his +horse; the bridge of his nose broken, which disfigured him for life; +his head all cut and bruised, and both his eyes closed up, and as +black as if Sir Daniel Donnelly had painted them for him. + +Carroll O’Daly was never bold again in riding along near the haunts of +the fairies after dusk; but small blame to him for that; and if ever +he happened to be benighted in a lonesome place, he would make the +best of his way to his journey’s end, without asking questions, or +turning to the right or to the left, to seek after the good people, or +any who kept company with them. + + + + +THE LEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON. + +III. + + +There was once a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of Aherlow, at +the foot of the gloomy Galtee mountains, and he had a great hump on +his back: he looked just as if his body had been rolled up and placed +upon his shoulders; and his head was pressed down with the weight so +much, that his chin, when he was sitting, used to rest upon his knees +for support. The country people were rather shy of meeting him in any +lonesome place, for though, poor creature, he was as harmless and as +inoffensive as a new-born infant, yet his deformity was so great, that +he scarcely appeared to be a human being. And some ill-minded persons +had set strange stories about him afloat. He was said to have a great +knowledge of herbs and charms; but certain it was that he had a mighty +skilful hand in platting straw and rushes into hats and baskets, which +was the way he made his livelihood. + +Lusmore, for that was the nickname put upon him by reason of his +always wearing a sprig of the fairy cap, or lusmore,[3] in his little +straw hat, would ever get a higher penny for his plaited work than any +one else, and perhaps that was the reason why some one, out of envy, +had circulated the strange stories about him. Be that as it may, it +happened that he was returning one evening from the pretty town of +Cahir towards Cappagh, and as little Lusmore walked very slowly, on +account of the great hump upon his back, it was quite dark when he +came to the old moat of Knockgrafton, which stood on the right hand +side of his road. Tired and weary was he, and noways comfortable in +his own mind at thinking how much farther he had to travel, and that +he should be walking all the night; so he sat down under the moat to +rest himself, and began looking mournfully enough upon the moon, +which, + + “Rising in clouded majesty, at length, + Apparent Queen, unveil’d her peerless light, + And o’er the dark her silver mantle threw.” + + [3] Literally, the great herb—_Digitalis purpurea_. + +Presently there rose a wild strain of unearthly melody upon the ear of +little Lusmore; he listened, and he thought that he had never heard +such ravishing music before. It was like the sound of many voices, +each mingling and blending with the other so strangely, that they +seemed to be one, though all singing different strains, and the words +of the song were these:— + +_Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, when +there would be a moment’s pause, and then the round of melody went on +again. + +Lusmore listened attentively, scarcely drawing his breath, lest he +might lose the slightest note. He now plainly perceived that the +singing was within the moat, and, though at first it had charmed him +so much, he began to get tired of hearing the same round sung over and +over so often without any change; so, availing himself of the pause +when the _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, had been sung three times, he took up +the tune and raised it with the words _augus Da Cadine_, and then went +on singing with the voices inside of the moat, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, +finishing the melody when the pause again came, with _augus Da +Cadine_.[4] + + [4] Correctly written, _Dia Luain_, _Dia Mairt_, _agus Dia + Ceadaoine_, i. e. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. + +The fairies within Knockgrafton, for the song was a fairy melody, when +they heard this addition to their tune, were so much delighted, that +with instant resolve it was determined to bring the mortal among them, +whose musical skill so far exceeded theirs, and little Lusmore was +conveyed into their company with the eddying speed of a whirlwind. + +Glorious to behold was the sight that burst upon him as he came down +through the moat, twirling round and round with the lightness of a +straw, to the sweetest music that kept time to his motion. The +greatest honour was then paid him, for he was put up above all the +musicians, and he had servants tending upon him, and every thing to +his heart’s content, and a hearty welcome to all; and, in short, he +was made as much of as if he had been the first man in the land. + +Presently Lusmore saw a great consultation going forward among the +fairies, and, notwithstanding all their civility, he felt very much +frightened, until one, stepping out from the rest, came up to him, and +said,— + + “Lusmore! Lusmore! + Doubt not, nor deplore, + For the hump which you bore + On your back is no more!— + Look down on the floor, + And view it, Lusmore!” + +When these words were said, poor little Lusmore felt himself so light, +and so happy, that he thought he could have bounded at one jump over +the moon, like the cow in the history of the cat and the fiddle; and +he saw, with inexpressible pleasure, his hump tumble down upon the +ground from his shoulders. He then tried to lift up his head, and he +did so with becoming caution, fearing that he might knock it against +the ceiling of the grand hall, where he was; he looked round and round +again with the greatest wonder and delight upon every thing, which +appeared more and more beautiful; and, overpowered at beholding such a +resplendent scene, his head grew dizzy, and his eyesight became dim. +At last he fell into a sound sleep, and when he awoke, he found that +it was broad daylight, the sun shining brightly, the birds singing +sweet; and that he was lying just at the foot of the moat of +Knockgrafton, with the cows and sheep grazing peaceably round about +him. The first thing Lusmore did, after saying his prayers, was to put +his hand behind to feel for his hump, but no sign of one was there on +his back, and he looked at himself with great pride, for he had now +become a well-shaped dapper little fellow; and more than that, he +found himself in a full suit of new clothes, which he concluded the +fairies had made for him. + +Towards Cappagh he went, stepping out as lightly, and springing up at +every step, as if he had been all his life a dancing-master. Not a +creature who met Lusmore knew him without his hump, and he had great +work to persuade every one that he was the same man—in truth he was +not, so far as outward appearance went. + +Of course it was not long before the story of Lusmore’s hump got +about, and a great wonder was made of it. Through the country, for +miles round, it was the talk of every one, high and low. + +One morning as Lusmore was sitting contented enough at his cabin-door, +up came an old woman to him, and asked if he could direct her to +Cappagh. + +“I need give you no directions, my good woman,” said Lusmore, “for +this is Cappagh; and who do you want here?” + +“I have come,” said the woman, “out of Decie’s country, in the county +of Waterford, looking after one Lusmore, who, I have heard tell, had +his hump taken off by the fairies: for there is a son of a gossip of +mine has got a hump on him that will be his death; and may be, if he +could use the same charm as Lusmore, the hump may be taken off him. +And now I have told you the reason of my coming so far: ’tis to find +out about this charm, if I can.” + +Lusmore, who was ever a good-natured little fellow, told the woman all +the particulars; how he had raised the tune for the fairies at +Knockgrafton, how his hump had been removed from his shoulders, and +how he had got a new suit of clothes into the bargain. + +The woman thanked him very much, and then went away quite happy and +easy in her own mind. When she came back to her gossip’s house, in the +county Waterford, she told her every thing that Lusmore had said, and +they put the little hump-backed man, who was a peevish and cunning +creature from his birth, upon a car, and took him all the way across +the country. It was a long journey, but they did not care for that, so +the hump was taken from off him; and they brought him, just at +nightfall, and left him under the old moat of Knockgrafton. + +Jack Madden for that was the humpy man’s name, had not been sitting +there long when he heard the tune going on within the moat much +sweeter than before; for the fairies were singing it the way Lusmore +had settled their music for them, and the song was going on: _Da +Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _augus +Da Cadine_, without ever stopping. Jack Madden, who was in a great +hurry to get quit of his hump, never thought of waiting until the +fairies had done, or watching for a fit opportunity to raise the tune +higher again than Lusmore had: so having heard them sing it over seven +times without stopping, out he bawls, never minding the time, or the +humour of the tune, or how he could bring his words in properly, +_augus da Cadine augus Da Hena_,[5] thinking that if one day was good, +two were better; and that, if Lusmore had one new suit of clothes +given to him, he should have two. + + [5] And Wednesday and Thursday. + +No sooner had the words passed his lips than he was taken up and +whisked into the moat with prodigious force; and the fairies came +crowding round about him with great anger, screeching and screaming, +and roaring out, “Who spoiled our tune? who spoiled our tune?” and one +stepped up to him above all the rest and said— + + “Jack Madden! Jack Madden! + Your words came so bad in + The tune we feel glad in;— + This castle you’re had in, + That your life we may sadden;— + Here’s two humps for Jack Madden!” + +And twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore’s hump, and put it +down upon poor Jack’s back, over his own, where it became fixed as +firmly, as if it was nailed on with twelvepenny nails, by the best +carpenter that ever drove one. Out of their castle they then kicked +him; and in the morning, when Jack Madden’s mother and her gossip came +to look after their little man, they found him half dead, lying at the +foot of the moat, with the other hump upon his back. Well, to be sure +how they did look at each other! but they were afraid to say any +thing, lest a hump might be put upon their own shoulders: home they +brought the unlucky Jack Madden with them, as downcast in their hearts +and their looks as ever two gossips were; and what through the weight +of his other hump and the long journey, he died soon after, leaving, +they say, his heavy curse to any one who would go to listen to fairy +tunes again. + + + + +THE PRIEST’S SUPPER. + +IV. + + +It is said by those who ought to understand such things, that the good +people, or the fairies, are some of the angels who were turned out of +heaven, and who landed on their feet in this world, while the rest of +their companions, who had more sin to sink them, went down further to +a worse place. Be this as it may, there was a merry troop of the +fairies, dancing and playing all manner of wild pranks on a bright +moonlight evening towards the end of September. The scene of their +merriment was not far distant from Inchegeela, in the west of the +county Cork—a poor village, although it had a barrack for soldiers; +but great mountains and barren rocks, like those round about it, are +enough to strike poverty into any place: however, as the fairies can +have every thing they want for wishing, poverty does not trouble them +much, and all their care is to seek out unfrequented nooks and places +where it is not likely any one will come to spoil their sport. + +On a nice green sod by the river’s side were the little fellows +dancing in a ring as gaily as may be, with their red caps wagging +about at every bound in the moonshine; and so light were these bounds, +that the lobes of dew, although they trembled under their feet, were +not disturbed by their capering. Thus did they carry on their gambols, +spinning round and round, and twirling and bobbing, and diving and +going through all manner of figures, until one of them chirped out— + + “Cease, cease with your drumming, + Here’s an end to our mumming; + By my smell + I can tell + A priest this way is coming!” + +And away every one of the fairies scampered off as hard as they could, +concealing themselves under the green leaves of the lusmore, where, if +their little red caps should happen to peep out, they would only look +like its crimson bells; and more hid themselves in the hollow of +stones; or at the shady side of brambles, and others under the bank of +the river, and in holes and crannies of one kind or another. + +The fairy speaker was not mistaken; for along the road, which was +within view of the river, came Father Horrigan on his pony, thinking +to himself that as it was so late he would make an end of his journey +at the first cabin he came to. According to this determination, he +stopped at the dwelling of Dermod Leary, lifted the latch, and entered +with “My blessing on all here.” + +I need not say that Father Horrigan was a welcome guest wherever he +went, for no man was more pious or better beloved in the country. Now +it was a great trouble to Dermod that he had nothing to offer his +reverence for supper as a relish to the potatoes which “the old +woman,” for so Dermod called his wife, though she was not much past +twenty, had down boiling in the pot over the fire: he thought of the +net which he had set in the river, but as it had been there only a +short time, the chances were against his finding a fish in it. “No +matter,” thought Dermod, “there can be no harm in stepping down to +try, and may be as I want the fish for the priest’s supper, that one +will be there before me.” + +Down to the river-side went Dermod, and he found in the net as fine a +salmon as ever jumped in the bright waters of “the spreading Lee;” but +as he was going to take it out, the net was pulled from him, he could +not tell how or by whom, and away got the salmon, and went swimming +along with the current as gaily as if nothing had happened. + +Dermod looked sorrowfully at the wake which the fish had left upon the +water, shining like a line of silver in the moonlight, and then, with +an angry motion of his right hand, and a stamp of his foot, gave vent +to his feelings by muttering, “May bitter bad luck attend you night +and day for a blackguard schemer of a salmon, wherever you go! You +ought to be ashamed of yourself, if there’s any shame in you to give +me the slip after this fashion! And I’m clear in my own mind you’ll +come to no good, for some kind of evil thing or other helped you—did +I not feel it pull the net against me as strong as the devil himself?” + +“That’s not true for you,” said one of the little fairies, who had +scampered off at the approach of the priest, coming up to Dermod +Leary, with a whole throng of companions at his heels; “there was only +a dozen and a half of us pulling against you.” + +Dermod gazed on the tiny speaker with wonder, who continued: “Make +yourself noways uneasy about the priest’s supper; for if you will go +back and ask him one question from us, there will be as fine a supper +as ever was put on a table spread out before him in less than no +time.” + +“I’ll have nothing at all to do with you,” replied Dermod, in a tone +of determination; and after a pause he added, “I’m much obliged to you +for your offer, sir, but I know better than to sell myself to you or +the like of you for a supper; and more than that, I know Father +Horrigan has more regard for my soul than to wish me to pledge it for +ever, out of regard to any thing you could put before him—so there’s +an end of the matter.” + +The little speaker, with a pertinacity not to be repulsed by Dermod’s +manner, continued, “Will you ask the priest one civil question for +us?” + +Dermod considered for some time, and he was right in doing so, but he +thought that no one could come to harm out of asking a civil question. +“I see no objection to do that same, gentlemen,” said Dermod; “But I +will have nothing in life to do with your supper,—mind that.” + +“Then,” said the little speaking fairy, whilst the rest came crowding +after him from all parts, “go and ask Father Horrigan to tell us +whether our souls will be saved at the last day, like the souls of +good Christians; and if you wish us well, bring back word what he says +without delay.” + +Away went Dermod to his cabin, where he found the potatoes thrown out +on the table, and his good wife handing the biggest of them all, a +beautiful laughing red apple, smoking like a hard-ridden horse on a +frosty night, over to Father Horrigan. + +“Please your reverence,” said Dermod, after some hesitation, “may I +make bold to ask your honour one question?” + +“What may that be?” said Father Horrigan. + +“Why, then, begging your reverence’s pardon for my freedom, it is, if +the souls of the good people are to be saved at the last day?” + +“Who bid you ask me that question, Leary?” said the priest, fixing his +eyes upon him very sternly, which Dermod could not stand before at +all. + +“I’ll tell no lies about the matter, and nothing in life but the +truth,” said Dermod. “It was the good people themselves who sent me to +ask the question, and there they are in thousands down on the bank of +the river waiting for me to go back with the answer.” + +“Go back by all means,” said the priest, “and tell them, if they want +to know, to come here to me themselves, and I’ll answer that or any +other question they are pleased to ask, with the greatest pleasure in +life.” + +Dermod accordingly returned to the fairies, who came swarming round +about him to hear what the priest had said in reply; and Dermod spoke +out among them like a bold man as he was: but when they heard that +they must go to the priest, away they fled, some here and more there; +and some this way and more that, whisking by poor Dermod so fast and +in such numbers, that he was quite bewildered. + +When he came to himself, which was not for a long time, back he went +to his cabin and ate his dry potatoes along with Father Horrigan, who +made quite light of the thing; but Dermod could not help thinking it +a mighty hard case that his reverence, whose words had the power to +banish the fairies at such a rate, should have no sort of relish to +his supper, and that the fine salmon he had in the net should have +been got away from him in such a manner. + + + + +THE BREWERY OF EGG-SHELLS. + +V. + + +It may be considered impertinent, were I to explain what is meant by a +changeling; both Shakspeare and Spenser have already done so, and who +is there unacquainted with the Midsummer Night’s Dream[6] and the +Fairy Queen?[7] + + [6] Act ii. sc. 1. + + [7] Book i. canto 10. + +Now Mrs. Sullivan fancied that her youngest child had been changed by +“fairies’ theft,” to use Spenser’s words, and certainly appearances +warranted such a conclusion; for in one night her healthy, blue-eyed +boy had become shrivelled up into almost nothing, and never ceased +squalling and crying. This naturally made poor Mrs. Sullivan very +unhappy; and all the neighbours, by way of comforting her, said, that +her own child was, beyond any kind of doubt, with the good people, +and that one of themselves had been put in his place. + +Mrs. Sullivan, of course, could not disbelieve what every one told +her, but she did not wish to hurt the thing; for although its face was +so withered, and its body wasted away to a mere skeleton, it had still +a strong resemblance to her own boy; she, therefore, could not find it +in her heart to roast it alive on the griddle, or to burn its nose off +with the red-hot tongs, or to throw it out in the snow on the +road-side, notwithstanding these, and several like proceedings, were +strongly recommended to her for the recovery of her child. + +One day who should Mrs. Sullivan meet but a cunning woman, well known +about the country by the name of Ellen Leah (or Gray Ellen). She had +the gift, however she got it, of telling where the dead were, and what +was good for the rest of their souls; and could charm away warts and +wens, and do a great many wonderful things of the same nature. + +“You’re in grief this morning, Mrs. Sullivan,” were the first words of +Ellen Leah to her. + +“You may say that, Ellen,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “and good cause I have +to be in grief, for there was my own fine child whipped off from me +out of his cradle, without as much as by your leave, or ask your +pardon, and an ugly dony bit of a shrivelled-up fairy put in his +place: no wonder then that you see me in grief, Ellen.” + +“Small blame to you, Mrs. Sullivan,” said Ellen Leah; “but are you +sure ’tis a fairy?” + +“Sure!” echoed Mrs. Sullivan, “sure enough am I to my sorrow, and can +I doubt my own two eyes? Every mother’s soul must feel for me!” + +“Will you take an old woman’s advice?” said Ellen Leah, fixing her +wild and mysterious gaze upon the unhappy mother; and, after a pause, +she added, “but may be you’ll call it foolish?” + +“Can you get me back my child,—my own child, Ellen?” said Mrs. +Sullivan with great energy. + +“If you do as I bid you,” returned Ellen Leah, “you’ll know.” Mrs. +Sullivan was silent in expectation, and Ellen continued. “Put down the +big pot, full of water, on the fire, and make it boil like mad; then +get a dozen new-laid eggs, break them, and keep the shells, but throw +away the rest; when that is done, put the shells in the pot of boiling +water, and you will soon know whether it is your own boy or a fairy. +If you find that it is a fairy in the cradle, take the red-hot poker +and cram it down his ugly throat, and you will not have much trouble +with him after that, I promise you.” + +Home went Mrs. Sullivan, and did as Ellen Leah desired. She put the +pot in the fire, and plenty of turf under it, and set the water +boiling at such a rate that if ever water was red hot—it surely was. + +The child was lying for a wonder quite easy and quiet in the cradle, +every now and then cocking his eye, that would twinkle as keen as a +star in a frosty night, over at the great fire, and the big pot upon +it; and he looked on with great attention at Mrs. Sullivan breaking +the eggs, and putting down the egg-shells to boil. At last he asked, +with the voice of a very old man, “What are you doing, mammy?” + +Mrs. Sullivan’s heart, as she said herself, was up in her mouth ready +to choke her, at hearing the child speak. But she contrived to put the +poker in the fire, and to answer, without making any wonder at the +words, “I’m brewing, _a vick_” (my son). + +“And what are you brewing, mammy?” said the little imp, whose +supernatural gift of speech now proved beyond question that he was a +fairy substitute. + +“I wish the poker was red,” thought Mrs. Sullivan; but it was a large +one, and took a long time heating: so she determined to keep him in +talk until the poker was in a proper state to thrust down his throat, +and therefore repeated the question. + +“Is it what I’m brewing, _a vick_,” said she, “you want to know?” + +“Yes, mammy: what are you brewing?” returned the fairy. + +“Egg-shells, _a vick_,” said Mrs. Sullivan. + +“Oh!” shrieked the imp, starting up in the cradle, and clapping his +hands together, “I’m fifteen hundred years in the world, and I never +saw a brewery of egg-shells before!” The poker was by this time quite +red, and Mrs. Sullivan seizing it, ran furiously towards the cradle; +but somehow or other her foot slipped, and she fell flat on the floor, +and the poker flew out of her hand to the other end of the house. +However, she got up, without much loss of time, and went to the cradle +intending to pitch the wicked thing that was in it into the pot of +boiling water, when there she saw her own child in a sweet sleep, one +of his soft round arms rested upon the pillow—his features were as +placid as if their repose had never been disturbed, save the rosy +mouth which moved with a gentle and regular breathing. + +Who can tell the feelings of a mother when she looks upon her sleeping +child? Why should I, therefore, endeavour to describe those of Mrs. +Sullivan at again beholding her long-lost boy? The fountain of her +heart overflowed with the excess of joy—and she wept!—tears trickled +silently down her cheeks, nor did she strive to check them—they were +tears not of sorrow, but of happiness. + + + + +LEGEND OF BOTTLE HILL. + +VI. + + + “Come listen to a tale of times of old, + Come listen to me—” + +It was in the good days, when the little people, most impudently +called fairies, were more frequently seen than they are in these +unbelieving times, that a farmer, named Mick Purcell, rented a few +acres of barren ground in the neighbourhood of the once celebrated +preceptory of Mourne, situated about three miles from Mallow, and +thirteen from “the beautiful city called Cork.” Mick had a wife and +family: they all did what they could, and that was but little, for the +poor man had no child grown up big enough to help him in his work: and +all the poor woman could do was to mind the children, and to milk the +one cow, and to boil the potatoes, and to carry the eggs to market to +Mallow; but with all they could do, ’twas hard enough on them to pay +the rent. Well, they did manage it for a good while; but at last came +a bad year, and the little grain of oats was all spoiled, and the +chickens died of the pip, and the pig got the measles,—_she_ was sold +in Mallow, and brought almost nothing; and poor Mick found that he +hadn’t enough to half pay his rent, and two gales were due. + +“Why then, Molly,” says he, “what’ll we do?” + +“Wisha, then, mavourneen, what would you do but take the cow to the +fair of Cork and sell her?” says she; “and Monday is fair day, and so +you must go to-morrow, that the poor beast may be rested _again_ the +fair.” + +“And what’ll we do when she’s gone?” says Mick, sorrowfully. + +“Never a know I know, Mick; but sure God won’t leave us without Him, +Mick; and you know how good He was to us when poor little Billy was +sick, and we had nothing at all for him to take, that good doctor +gentleman at Ballydahin come riding and asking for a drink of milk; +and how he gave us two shillings; and how he sent the things and +bottles for the child, and gave me my breakfast when I went over to +ask a question, so he did: and how he came to see Billy, and never +left off his goodness till he was quite well?” + +“Oh! you are always that way, Molly, and I believe you are right after +all, so I won’t be sorry for selling the cow; but I’ll go to-morrow, +and you must put a needle and thread through my coat, for you know +’tis ripped under the arm.” + +Molly told him he should have every thing right; and about twelve +o’clock next day he left her, getting a charge not to sell his cow +except for the highest penny. Mick promised to mind it, and went his +way along the road. He drove his cow slowly through the little stream +which crosses it and runs by the old walls of Mourne. As he passed he +glanced his eye upon the towers and one of the old elder trees which +were only then little bits of switches. + +“Oh, then, if I only had half the money that’s buried in you, ’tisn’t +driving this poor cow I’d be now! Why, then, isn’t it too bad that it +should be there covered over with earth, and many a one besides me +wanting? Well, if it is God’s will, I’ll have some money myself coming +back.” + +So saying, he moved on after his beast; ’twas a fine day, and the sun +shone brightly on the walls of the old abbey as he passed under them; +he then crossed an extensive mountain tract, and after six long miles +he came to the top of that hill—Bottle Hill ’tis called now, but that +was not the name of it then, and just there a man overtook him. + +“Good morrow,” says he. “Good morrow,” kindly, says Mick, looking at +the stranger, who was a little man, you’d almost call him a dwarf, +only he wasn’t quite so little neither: he had a bit of an old, +wrinkled, yellow face, for all the world like a dried cauliflower, +only he had a sharp little nose, and red eyes, and white hair, and his +lips were not red, but all his face was one colour, and his eyes never +were quiet, but looking at every thing, and although they were red, +they made Mick feel quite cold when he looked at them. In truth he did +not much like the little man’s company; and he couldn’t see one bit of +his legs, nor his body; for, though the day was warm, he was all +wrapped up in a big great coat. Mick drove his cow something faster, +but the little man kept up with him. Mick didn’t know how he walked, +for he was almost afraid to look at him, and to cross himself, for +fear the old man would be angry. Yet he thought his fellow-traveller +did not seem to walk like other men, nor to put one foot before the +other, but to glide over the rough road, and rough enough it was, like +a shadow, without noise and without effort. Mick’s heart trembled +within him, and he said a prayer to himself, wishing he hadn’t come +out that day, or that he was on fair hill, or that he hadn’t the cow +to mind, that he might run away from the bad thing—when, in the midst +of his fears, he was again addressed by his companion. + +“Where are you going with the cow, honest man?” + +“To the fair of Cork then,” says Mick, trembling at the shrill and +piercing tones of the voice. + +“Are you going to sell her?” said the stranger. + +“Why, then, what else am I going for but to sell her?” + +“Will you sell her to me?” + +Mick started—he was afraid to have any thing to do with the little +man, and he was more afraid to say no. + +“What’ll you give for her?” at last says he. + +“I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you this bottle,” said the little one, +pulling a bottle from under his coat. + +Mick looked at him and the bottle, and, in spite of his terror, he +could not help bursting into a loud fit of laughter. + +“Laugh if you will,” said the little man, “but I tell you this bottle +is better for you than all the money you will get for the cow in +Cork—ay, than ten thousand times as much.” + +Mick laughed again. “Why then,” says he, “do you think I am such a +fool as to give my good cow for a bottle—and an empty one, too? +indeed, then, I won’t.” + +“You had better give me the cow, and take the bottle—you’ll not be +sorry for it.” + +“Why, then, and what would Molly say? I’d never hear the end of it; +and how would I pay the rent? and what would we all do without a penny +of money? + +“I tell you this bottle is better to you than money; take it, and give +me the cow. I ask you for the last time, Mick Purcell.” + +Mick started. + +“How does he know my name?” thought he. + +The stranger proceeded: “Mick Purcell, I know you, and I have regard +for you; therefore do as I warn you, or you may be sorry for it. How +do you know but your cow will die before you get to Cork?” + +Mick was going to say “God forbid!” but the little man went on (and he +was too attentive to say any thing to stop him; for Mick was a very +civil man, and he knew better than to interrupt a gentleman, and +that’s what many people, that hold their heads higher, don’t mind +now). + +“And how do you know but there will be much cattle at the fair, and +you will get a bad price, or may be you might be robbed when you are +coming home? but what need I talk more to you when you are determined +to throw away your luck, Mick Purcell? + +“Oh! no, I would not throw away my luck, sir,” said Mick; “and if I +was sure the bottle was as good as you say, though I never liked an +empty bottle, although I had drank what was in it, I’d give you the +cow in the name——” + +“Never mind names,” said the stranger, “but give me the cow; I would +not tell you a lie. Here, take the bottle, and when you go home do +what I direct exactly.” + +Mick hesitated. + +“Well then, good by, I can stay no longer: once more, take it, and be +rich; refuse it, and beg for your life, and see your children in +poverty, and your wife dying for want: that will happen to you, Mick +Purcell!” said the little man with a malicious grin, which made him +look ten times more ugly than ever. + +“May be ’tis true,” said Mick, still hesitating: he did not know what +to do—he could hardly help believing the old man, and at length in a +fit of desperation he seized the bottle—“Take the cow,” said he, “and +if you are telling a lie, the curse of the poor will be on you.” + +“I care neither for your curses nor your blessings, but I have spoken +truth, Mick Purcell, and that you will find to-night, if you do what I +tell you.” + +“And what’s that?” says Mick. + +“When you go home, never mind if your wife is angry, but be quiet +yourself, and make her sweep the room clean, set the table out right, +and spread a clean cloth over it; then put the bottle on the ground, +saying these words: ‘Bottle, do your duty,’ and you will see the end +of it.” + +“And is this all?” says Mick. + +“No more,” said the stranger. “Good by, Mick Purcell—you are a rich +man.” + +“God grant it!” said Mick, as the old man moved after the cow, and +Mick retraced the road towards his cabin; but he could not help +turning back his head, to look after the purchaser of his cow, who was +nowhere to be seen. + +“Lord between us and harm!” said Mick: “_He_ can’t belong to this +earth; but where is the cow?” She too was gone, and Mick went homeward +muttering prayers, and holding fast the bottle. + +“And what would I do if it broke?” thought he. “Oh! but I’ll take care +of that;” so he put it into his bosom, and went on anxious to prove +his bottle, and doubting of the reception he should meet from his +wife; balancing his anxieties with his expectations, his fears with +his hopes, he reached home in the evening, and surprised his wife, +sitting over the turf fire in the big chimney. + +“Oh! Mick, are you come back! Sure you wer’n’t at Cork all the way! +What has happened to you? Where is the cow? Did you sell her? How much +money did you get for her? What news have you? Tell us every thing +about it.” + +“Why then, Molly, if you’ll give me time, I’ll tell you all about it. +If you want to know where the cow is, ’tisn’t Mick can tell you, for +the never a know does he know where she is now.” + +“Oh! then, you sold her; and where’s the money?” + +“Arrah! stop awhile, Molly, and I’ll tell you all about it.” + +“But what is that bottle under your waistcoat?” said Molly, spying its +neck sticking out. + +“Why, then, be easy now, can’t you,” says Mick, “till I tell it to +you?” and putting the bottle on the table, “That’s all I got for the +cow.” + +His poor wife was thunderstruck. “All you got! and what good is that, +Mick? Oh! I never thought you were such a fool; and what’ll we do for +the rent, and what——” + +“Now, Molly,” says Mick, “can’t you hearken to reason? Didn’t I tell +you how the old man, or whatsomever he was, met me,—no, he did not +meet me neither, but he was there with me—on the big hill, and how he +made me sell him the cow, and told me the bottle was the only thing +for me?” + +“Yes, indeed, the only thing for you, you fool!” said Molly, seizing +the bottle to hurl it at her poor husband’s head; but Mick caught it, +and quietly (for he minded the old man’s advice) loosened his wife’s +grasp, and placed the bottle again in his bosom. Poor Molly sat down +crying, while Mick told his story, with many a crossing and blessing +between him and harm. His wife could not help believing him, +particularly as she had as much faith in fairies as she had in the +priest, who indeed never discouraged her belief in the fairies; may +be, he didn’t know she believed in them, and may be, he believed in +them himself. She got up, however, without saying one word, and began +to sweep the earthen floor with a bunch of heath; then she tidied up +every thing, and put out the long table, and spread the clean cloth, +for she had only one, upon it, and Mick, placing the bottle on the +ground, looked at it and said, “Bottle, do your duty.” + +“Look there! look there, mammy!” said his chubby eldest son, a boy +about five years old—“look there! look there!” and he sprang to his +mother’s side, as two tiny little fellows rose like light from the +bottle, and in an instant covered the table with dishes and plates of +gold and silver, full of the finest victuals that ever were seen, and +when all was done went into the bottle again. Mick and his wife looked +at every thing with astonishment; they had never seen such plates and +dishes before, and didn’t think they could ever admire them enough; +the very sight almost took away their appetites; but at length Molly +said, “Come and sit down, Mick, and try and eat a bit: sure you ought +to be hungry after such a good day’s work.” + +“Why, then, the man told no lie about the bottle.” + +Mick sat down, after putting the children to the table; and they made +a hearty meal, though they couldn’t taste half the dishes. + +“Now,” says Molly, “I wonder will those two good little gentlemen +carry away these fine things again?” They waited, but no one came; so +Molly put up the dishes and plates very carefully, saying, “Why, then, +Mick, that was no lie sure enough; but you’ll be a rich man yet, Mick +Purcell.” + +Mick and his wife and children went to their bed, not to sleep, but to +settle about selling the fine things they did not want, and to take +more land. Mick went to Cork and sold his plate, and bought a horse +and cart, and began to show that he was making money; and they did all +they could to keep the bottle a secret; but for all that, their +landlord found it out, for he came to Mick one day and asked him where +he got all his money—sure it was not by the farm; and he bothered him +so much, that at last Mick told him of the bottle. His landlord +offered him a deal of money for it; but Mick would not give it, till +at last he offered to give him all his farm for ever: so Mick, who was +very rich, thought he’d never want any more money, and gave him the +bottle: but Mick was mistaken—he and his family spent money as if +there was no end of it; and, to make the story short, they became +poorer and poorer, till at last they had nothing left but one cow; and +Mick once more drove his cow before him to sell her at Cork fair, +hoping to meet the old man and get another bottle. It was hardly +day-break when he left home, and he walked on at a good pace till he +reached the big hill: the mists were sleeping in the valleys and +curling like smoke-wreaths upon the brown heath around him. The sun +rose on his left, and just at his feet a lark sprang from its grassy +couch and poured forth its joyous matin song, ascending into the clear +blue sky, + + “Till its form like a speck in the airiness blending + And thrilling with music, was melting in light.” + +Mick crossed himself, listening as he advanced to the sweet song of +the lark, but thinking, notwithstanding, all the time of the little +old man; when, just as he reached the summit of the hill, and cast his +eyes over the extensive prospect before and around him, he was +startled and rejoiced by the same well-known voice:—“Well, Mick +Purcell, I told you, you would be a rich man.” + +“Indeed, then, sure enough I was, that’s no lie for you, sir. Good +morning to you, but it is not rich I am now—but have you another +bottle, for I want it now as much as I did long ago; so if you have +it, sir, here is the cow for it.” + +“And here is the bottle,” said the old man, smiling; “you know what to +do with it.” + +“Oh! then, sure I do, as good right I have.” + +“Well, farewell for ever, Mick Purcell: I told you, you would be a +rich man.” + +“And good-bye to you, sir,” said Mick, as he turned back; “and good +luck to you, and good luck to the big hill—it wants a name—Bottle +Hill.—Good-bye, sir, good-bye;” so Mick walked back as fast as he +could, never looking after the white-faced little gentleman and the +cow, so anxious was he to bring home the bottle. Well, he arrived with +it safely enough, and called out, as soon as he saw Molly,—“Oh! sure, +I’ve another bottle!” + +“Arrah! then have you? why, then, you’re a lucky man, Mick Purcell, +that’s what you are.” + +In an instant she put every thing right; and Mick, looking at his +bottle, exultingly cried out, “Bottle, do your duty.” In a twinkling, +two great stout men with big cudgels issued from the bottle (I do not +know how they got room in it), and belaboured poor Mick and his wife +and all his family, till they lay on the floor, when in they went +again. Mick, as soon as he recovered, got up and looked about him; he +thought and thought, and at last he took up his wife and his children; +and, leaving them to recover as well as they could, he took the bottle +under his coat, and went to his landlord, who had a great company: he +got a servant to tell him he wanted to speak to him, and at last he +came out to Mick. + +“Well, what do you want now?” + +“Nothing, sir, only I have another bottle.” + +“Oh! ho! is it as good as the first?” + +“Yes, sir, and better; if you like, I will show it to you before all +the ladies and gentlemen.” + +“Come along, then.” So saying, Mick was brought into the great hall, +where he saw his old bottle standing high up on a shelf: “Ah! ha!” +says he to himself, “may be I won’t have you by and by.” + +“Now,” says his landlord, “show us your bottle.” Mick set it on the +floor, and uttered the words; in a moment the landlord was tumbled on +the floor; ladies and gentlemen, servants and all, were running and +roaring, and sprawling, and kicking and shrieking. Wine cups and +salvers were knocked about in every direction, until the landlord +called out, “Stop those two devils, Mick Purcell, or I’ll have you +hanged!” + +“They never shall stop,” said Mick, “till I get my own bottle that I +see up there at top of that shelf.” + +“Give it down to him, give it down to him, before we are all killed!” +says the landlord. + +Mick put the bottle in his bosom; in jumped the two men into the new +bottle, and he carried the bottles home. I need not lengthen my story +by telling how he got richer than ever, how his son married his +landlord’s only daughter, how he and his wife died when they were very +old, and how some of the servants, fighting at their wake, broke the +bottles; but still the hill has the name upon it; ay, and so ’twill be +always Bottle Hill to the end of the world, and so it ought, for it is +a strange story. + + + + +THE CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE. + +VII. + + +Tom Bourke lives in a low long farm-house, resembling in outward +appearance a large barn, placed at the bottom of the hill, just where +the new road strikes off from the old one, leading from the town of +Kilworth to that of Lismore. He is of a class of persons who are a +sort of black swans in Ireland; he is a wealthy farmer. Tom’s father +had, in the good old times, when a hundred pounds were no +inconsiderable treasure, either to lend or spend, accommodated his +landlord with that sum at interest; and obtained, as a return for the +civility, a long lease, about half-a-dozen times more valuable than +the loan which procured it. The old man died worth several hundred +pounds, the greater part of which, with his farm, he bequeathed to his +son Tom. But, besides all this, Tom received from his father, upon his +death-bed, another gift, far more valuable than worldly riches, +greatly as he prized, and is still known to prize them. He was +invested with the privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of +communicating with those mysterious beings called “the good people.” + +Tom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about fifty-five +years of age. His hair is perfectly white, short and bushy behind, but +rising in front erect and thick above his forehead, like a new +clothes-brush. His eyes are of that kind which I have often observed +with persons of a quick but limited intellect—they are small, gray, +and lively. The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather +within, which they twinkle, give them an expression of shrewdness and +intelligence, if not of cunning. And this is very much the character +of the man. If you want to make a bargain with Tom Bourke, you must +act as if you were a general besieging a town, and make your advances +a long time before you can hope to obtain possession; if you march up +boldly, and tell him at once your object, you are for the most part +sure to have the gates closed in your teeth. Tom does not wish to part +with what you wish to obtain, or another person has been speaking to +him for the whole of the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems +to meet the most favourable reception. “Very well, sir;” “That’s true, +sir;” “I’m very thankful to your honour,” and other expressions of +kindness and confidence, greet you in reply to every sentence; and you +part from him wondering how he can have obtained the character which +he universally bears, of being a man whom no one can make any thing of +in a bargain. But when you next meet him, the flattering illusion is +dissolved: you find you are a great deal farther from your object than +you were when you thought you had almost succeeded: his eye and his +tongue express a total forgetfulness of what the mind within never +lost sight of for an instant; and you have to begin operations afresh, +with the disadvantage of having put your adversary completely upon his +guard. + +Yet, although Tom Bourke is, whether from supernatural revealings, or +(as many will think more probable) from the tell-truth, experience, so +distrustful of mankind, and so close in his dealings with them, he is +no misanthrope. No man loves better the pleasures of the genial board. +The love of money, indeed, which is with him (and who will blame him?) +a very ruling propensity, and the gratification which it has received +from habits of industry, sustained throughout a pretty long and +successful life, have taught him the value of sobriety, during those +seasons, at least, when a man’s business requires him to keep +possession of his senses. He has therefore a general rule, never to +get drunk but on Sundays. But, in order that it should be a general +one to all intents and purposes, he takes a method which, according to +better logicians than he is, always proves the rule. He has many +exceptions: among these, of course, are the evenings of all the fair +and market days that happen in his neighbourhood; so also all the days +on which funerals, marriages, and christenings, take place among his +friends within many miles of him. As to this last class of exceptions, +it may appear at first very singular, that he is much more punctual +in his attendance at the funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of +his friends. This may be construed as an instance of disinterested +affection for departed worth, very uncommon in this selfish world. But +I am afraid that the motives which lead Tom Bourke to pay more court +to the dead than the living are precisely those which lead to the +opposite conduct in the generality of mankind—a hope of future +benefit and a fear of future evil. For the good people, who are a race +as powerful as they are capricious, have their favourites among those +who inhabit the world; often show their affection, by easing the +objects of it from the load of this burdensome life; and frequently +reward or punish the living, according to the degree of reverence paid +to the obsequies and the memory of the elected dead. + +It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of those good people, with +whom he is said to hold frequent and intimate communications. To the +faithful, who believe in their power, and their occasional delegation +of it to him, he seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his +high prerogative, when any unfortunate being is _struck_[8] in his +neighbourhood. Still, he will not be won unsued: he is at first +difficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by a little gentle +violence. On these occasions he is unusually solemn and mysterious, +and if one word of reward be mentioned, he at once abandons the +unhappy patient, such a proposition being a direct insult to his +supernatural superiors. It is true, that as the labourer is worthy of +his hire, most persons, gifted as he is, do not scruple to receive a +token of gratitude from the patients or their friends, _after_ their +recovery. + + [8] The term “fairy struck” is applied to paralytic affections, + which are supposed to proceed from a blow given by the invisible + hand of an offended fairy; this belief, of course, creates fairy + doctors, who by means of charms and mysterious journeys profess + to cure the afflicted. It is only fair to add, that the term has + also a convivial acceptation, the fairies being not unfrequently + made to bear the blame of the effects arising from too copious a + sacrifice to Bacchus. + + The importance attached to the manner and place of burial by the + peasantry is almost incredible; it is always a matter of + consideration and often of dispute whether the deceased shall be + buried with his or her “own people.” + +To do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these occasions, as I have heard +from many competent authorities, perfectly disinterested. Not many +months since, he recovered a young woman (the sister of a tradesman +living near him,) who had been struck speechless after returning from +a funeral, and had continued so for several days. He steadfastly +refused receiving any compensation; saying, that even if he had not as +much as would buy him his supper, he could take nothing in this case, +because the girl had offended at the funeral one of the _good people_ +belonging to his own family, and though he would do her a kindness, he +could take none from her. + +About the time this last remarkable affair took place, my friend Mr. +Martin, who is a neighbour of Tom’s, had some business to transact +with him, which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a conclusion. +At last Mr. Martin, having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a +legal process, which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was +arranged to their mutual satisfaction, and with perfect good-humour +between the parties. The accommodation took place after dinner at Mr. +Martin’s house, and he invited Tom to walk into the parlour and take a +glass of punch, made of some excellent _potteen_, which was on the +table: he had long wished to draw out his highly endowed neighbour on +the subject of his supernatural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who was in +the room, was rather a favourite of Tom’s, this seemed a good +opportunity. + +“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “that was a curious business of Molly +Dwyer’s, who recovered her speech so suddenly the other day.” + +“You may say that, sir,” replied Tom Bourke; “but I had to travel far +for it: no matter for that, now. Your health, ma’am,” said he, turning +to Mrs. Martin. + +“Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once in that way +in your own family,” said Mrs. Martin. + +“So I had, ma’am; trouble enough; but you were only a child at that +time.” + +“Come, Tom,” said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupting him, “take +another tumbler;” and he then added, “I wish you would tell us +something of the manner in which so many of your children died. I am +told they dropped off, one after another, by the same disorder, and +that your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way, when the +physicians had given over.” + +“’Tis true for you, sir,” returned Tom; “your father, the doctor (God +be good to him, I won’t belie him in his grave) told me, when my +fourth little boy was a week sick, that himself and Doctor Barry did +all that man could do for him; but they could not keep him from going +after the rest. No more they could, if the people that took away the +rest wished to take him too. But they left him; and sorry to the heart +I am I did not know before why they were taking my boys from me; if I +did, I would not be left trusting to two of ’em now.” + +“And how did you find it out, Tom?” inquired Mr. Martin. + +“Why, then, I’ll tell you, sir,” said Bourke: “When your father said +what I told you, I did not know very well what to do. I walked down +the little _bohereen_, you know, sir, that goes to the river-side near +Dick Heafy’s ground; for ’twas a lonesome place, and I wanted to think +of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me, when I +thought I was to lose my little boy; and I did not know well how to +face his mother with the news, for she doted down upon him. Beside, +she never got the better of all she cried at her brother’s berrin +(burying) the week before. As I was going down the bohereen, I met an +old bocough,[9] that used to come about the place once or twice a +year, and used always to sleep in our barn while he staid in the +neighbourhood. So he asked me how I was. ‘Bad enough, Shamous +(James),’ says I. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble,’ says he; ‘but you’re a +foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be well enough if you would +only do what you ought with him.’ ‘What more can I do with him, +Shamous?’ says I: ‘the doctors give him over.’ ‘The doctors know no +more what ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her +milk,’ says Shamous: ‘but go to such a one,’ says he, telling me his +name, ‘and try what he’ll say to you.’” + + [9] A peculiar class of beggars resembling the Gaberlunzie man + of Scotland. + +“And who was that, Tom?” asked Mr. Martin. + +“I could not tell you that, sir,” said Bourke, with a mysterious look: +“howsoever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this. But +I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first, may be I’d +have now some of them that’s gone, and so Shamous often told me. Well, +sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By course, +I did every thing as he bid me. According to his order, I took the +little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and +made a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay down +by his side, in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell asleep. +He got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was drawn +through the river, and breathed hard, with a great _impression_ +(oppression) on his chest, and was very bad—very bad entirely through +the night. I thought about twelve o’clock he was going at last, and I +was just getting up to go call the man I told you of; but there was no +occasion. My friends were getting the better of them that wanted to +take him away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house but the child +and myself. There was only one halfpenny candle lighting, and that +was stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough +of light where we were laying to see a person walking or standing near +us: and there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except +the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls. Just as I was thinking of +getting up, as I told you—I wont belie my father, sir—he was a good +father to me—I saw him standing at the bed-side, holding out his +right hand to me, and leaning his other hand on the stick he used to +carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all +as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would not lose the +child. ‘Is that you, father?’ says I. He said nothing. ‘If that’s +you,’ says I again, ‘for the love of them that’s gone, let me catch +your hand.’ And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a child’s. +He stayed about as long as you’d be going from this to the gate below +at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the +child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn’t +to-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the +town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains.” + +“But I think, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “it appears as if you are more +indebted to your father than to the man recommended to you by Shamous; +or do you suppose it was he who made favour with your enemies among +the good people, and that then your father——” + +“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Bourke, interrupting him; “but don’t +call them my enemies. ’Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to +sit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir.—Here’s +wishing you a good health and long life.” + +“I assure you,” returned Mr. Martin, “I meant no offence, Tom; but was +it not as I say?” + +“I can’t tell you that, sir,” said Bourke; “I’m bound down, sir. +Howsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of, and my father, and +those they know, settled it between them.” + +There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage to inquire of +Tom, whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and a +pair of pigeons, at the time of his son’s illness—circumstances often +mysteriously hinted at by Tom. + +“See that now,” said he, returning to Mr. Martin, “how well she +remembers it! True for you, ma’am. The goat I gave the mistress your +mother, when the doctors ordered her goats’ whey.” + +Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued—“Why, then, I’ll +tell you how that was. The goat was as well as e’er a goat ever was, +for a month after she was sent to Killaan to your father’s. The +morning after the night I just told you of, before the child woke, his +mother was standing at the gap leading out of the barn-yard into the +road, and she saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth, off +the church, down towards her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till +they came to the house on the hill at the other side of the river, +facing our farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and +after looking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight +across the river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where the +child and I were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing, +sir?” + +“Certainly not, Tom,” returned Mr. Martin. + +“Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to +cry.—‘Whisht, you fool!’ says I: ‘’tis all for the better.’ ’Twas +true for me. What do you think, ma’am; the goat that I gave your +mother, that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, +as merry as a bee, dropped down dead, without any body knowing why, +before Jack’s face; and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly +from the top of the house out of the town, towards the Lismore road. +’Twas at the same time my woman saw them, as I just told you.” + +“’Twas very strange, indeed, Tom,” said Mr. Martin; “I wish you could +give us some explanation of it.” + +“I wish I could, sir,” was Tom Bourke’s answer; “but I’m bound down. I +can’t tell but what I’m allowed to tell, any more than a sentry is let +walk more than his rounds.” + +“I think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the +man that assisted in the cure of your son,” said Mr. Martin. + +“So I had, sir,” returned Bourke. “I had a trial of that man. But +that’s neither here nor there. I can’t tell you any thing about that, +sir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?” + +“Oh! very much indeed,” said Mr. Martin. + +“But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him the +better through the story,” added Mrs. Martin. Tom Bourke paused for a +minute to consider this proposition. + +“Well, I believe I may tell you that, any how; his name is Patrick. He +was always a smart, active, ’cute boy, and would be a great clerk if +he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother’s +wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to bury her. +Her people and my father’s people—I mean their friends, sir, among +the _good people_, had the greatest battle that was known for many a +year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she’d be taken. +They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to +settle it. The neighbours wondered how long I was before I buried my +mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that +time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth +morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried +her in Kilcrumper churchyard with my father’s people.” + +“He was a valuable friend, Tom,” said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty +suppressing a smile. “But you were about to tell how he became so +skilful.” + +“So I will, and welcome,” replied Bourke. “Your health, ma’am. I am +drinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never +tasted the like of it: it goes down one’s throat like sweet oil. But +what was I going to say?—Yes—well—Patrick, many a long year ago, +was coming home from a _berrin_ late in the evening, and walking by +the side of the river opposite the big inch,[10] near Ballyhefaan +ford.[11] He had taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a little +merry, as you may say, and knew very well what he was doing. The moon +was shining, for it was in the month of August, and the river was as +smooth and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long +time but the fall of the water at the mill wier about a mile down the +river, and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of +the river. All at once, there was a noise of a great number of people, +laughing as if they’d break their hearts, and of a piper playing among +them. It came from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw, +through the mist that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people +dancing on the inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance as he was of a +glass, and that’s saying enough for him; so he whipped[12] off his +shoes and stockings, and away with him across the ford. After putting +on his shoes and stockings at the other side of the river, he walked +over to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being +minded. He thought, sir, that he’d show them better dancing than any +of themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and good right he +had, for there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or +treble with him. But pwah!—his dancing was no more to theirs than +mine would be to the mistress there. They did not seem as if they had +a bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire +them. Patrick was ’shamed within himself, for he thought he had not +his fellow in all the country round; and was going away when a little +old man, that was looking at the company for some time bitterly as if +he did not like what was going on, came up to him. ‘Patrick,’ says he. +Patrick started, for he did not think any body there knew him. +‘Patrick,’ says he, ‘you’re discouraged, and no wonder for you. But +you have a friend near you. I’m your friend, and your father’s friend, +and I think worse (more) of your little finger than I do of all that +are here, though they think no one is as good as themselves. Go into +the ring and call for a lilt. Don’t be afeard. I tell you the best of +them did not do as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.’ +Patrick felt something within him as if he ought not to gainsay the +old man. He went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the +best double he had. And, sure enough, all that the others were able +for was nothing to him! He bounded like an eel, now here and now +there, as light as a feather, although the people could hear the music +answered by his steps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the +left foot of the piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then +they got a table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts +from the whole company. At last he called for a trencher; and when +they saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not +know what to make of him. Some praised him for the best dancer that +ever entered a ring; others hated him because he was better than +themselves; although they had good right to think themselves better +than him or any other man that never went the long journey.” + + [10] Inch—low meadow ground near a river. + + [11] A ford of the river Funcheon (the Fanchin of Spenser,) on + the road leading from Fermoy to Araglin. + + [12] _i. e._ “In the time of a crack of a whip,” he took off his + shoes and stockings. + +“And what was the cause of his great success?” inquired Mr. Martin. + +“He could not help it, sir,” replied Tom Bourke. “They that could make +him do more than that made him do it. Howsomever, when he had done, +they wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not +persuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your +presence, that he would not dance a step more; and the word was hardly +out of his mouth, when he found himself all alone, with nothing but a +white cow grazing by his side.” + +“Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these extraordinary +powers in the dance, Tom?” said Mr. Martin. + +“I’ll tell you that too, sir,” answered Bourke, “when I come to it. +When he went home, sir, he was taken with a shivering, and went to +bed; and the next day they found he got the fever, or something like +it, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn’t make out +what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors gave +him over. But it’s little they know what ailed him. When he was, as +you may say, about ten days sick, and every body thought he was going, +one of the neighbours came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from +Ballinlacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I can’t tell +you his name either, only it was Darby. The minute Darby saw Patrick, +he took a little bottle, with the juice of herbs in it, out of his +pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same every day for +three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as +hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time before he +came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day sometimes by the +ditch side, talking to himself, like as if there was some one along +with him. And so there was surely, or he wouldn’t be the man he is +to-day. + +“I suppose it was from some such companion he learned his skill,” said +Mr. Martin. + +“You have it all now, sir,” replied Bourke. “Darby told him his +friends were satisfied with what he did the night of the dance; and +though they couldn’t hinder the fever, they’d bring him over it, and +teach him more than many knew beside him. And so they did. For you see +all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a +different faction; only the old man that spoke to him; he was a friend +of Patrick’s family, and it went again’ his heart, you see, that the +others were so light, and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear +’em boasting how they’d dance with any set in the whole country round. +So he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave him the +skill that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to be sure +it was only learning he was that time when he was wandering in his +mind after the fever.” + +“I have heard many strange stories about that inch near Ballyhefaan +ford,” said Mr. Martin. “’Tis a great place for the good people, isn’t +it, Tom?” + +“You may say that, sir,” returned Bourke. “I could tell you a great +deal about it. Many a time I sat for as good as two hours by +moonlight, at th’ other side of the river, looking at ’em playing goal +as if they’d break their hearts over it; with their coats and +waistcoats off, and white handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and +red ones on th’ other, just as you’d see on a Sunday in Mr. Simming’s +big field. I saw ’em one night play till the moon set, without one +party being able to take the ball from th’ other. I’m sure they were +going to fight, only, ’twas near morning. I’m told your grandfather, +ma’am, used to see ’em, there, too,” said Bourke, turning to Mrs. +Martin. + +“So I have been told, Tom,” replied Mrs. Martin. “But don’t they say +that the churchyard of Kilcrumper[13] is just as favourite a place +with the good people as Ballyhefaan inch.” + + [13] About two hundred yards off the Dublin mail-coach road, + nearly mid-way between Kilworth and Fermoy. + +“Why, then, may be, you never heard, ma’am, what happened to Davy +Roche in that same churchyard,” said Bourke; and turning to Mr. +Martin, added, “’twas a long time before he went into your service, +sir. He was walking home of an evening, from the fair of Kilcummer, a +little merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin. +So he walked along with it, and thought it very queer, that he did not +know a mother’s soul in the crowd, but one man, and he was sure that +man was dead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin, +till they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and then he went in and staid +with the rest, to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was +covered, what should they do but gather about a piper, that come along +with ’em, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy longed to +be among ’em (for he hadn’t a bad foot of his own, that time, whatever +he may now;) but he was loath to begin, because they all seemed +strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was dead. +Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him. +‘Davy,’ says he, ‘take out a partner, and show what you can do, but +take care and don’t offer to kiss her.’ ‘That I won’t,’ says Davy, +‘although her lips were made of honey.’ And with that he made his bow +to the _purtiest_ girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance. +’Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th’ admiration, do you +see, of all that were there. ’Twas all very well till the jig was +over; but just as they had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was +warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner, +according to custom. The smack was no sooner off his lips, you see, +than he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him, +and all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy said they seemed as +if they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that +happened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it +was a great many hours later than he thought it; ’twas near morning +when he came home; but they couldn’t get a word out of him till the +next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o’clock.” + +When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and the berrin, it +became quite evident that spirits of some sort were working too strong +within him to admit of his telling many more tales of the good people. +Tom seemed conscious of this.—He muttered for a few minutes broken +sentences concerning churchyards, river-sides, leprechauns, and _dina +magh_, which were quite unintelligible, perhaps to himself, certainly +to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length he made a slight motion of the +head upwards, as if he would say, “I can talk no more;” stretched his +arm on the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly, and +with the most knowing and cautious air; and rising from his chair, +walked, or rather rolled, to the parlour door. Here he turned round to +face his host and hostess; but after various ineffectual attempts to +bid them good night, the words, as they rose, being always choked by a +violent hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung to +and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he was obliged to +depart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by Tom’s wife, who knew well what +sort of allurement detained him, when he remained out after a certain +hour, was in attendance to conduct his master home. I have no doubt +that he returned without meeting any material injury, as I know that +within the last month, he was, to use his own words, “As stout and +hearty a man as any of his age in the county Cork.” + + + + +FAIRIES OR NO FAIRIES. + +VIII. + + +John Mulligan was as fine an old fellow as ever threw a Carlow spur +into the sides of a horse. He was, besides, as jolly a boon companion +over a jug of punch as you would meet from Carnsore Point to Bloody +Farland. And a good horse he used to ride; and a stiffer jug of punch +than his was not in nineteen baronies. May be he stuck more to it than +he ought to have done—but that is nothing whatever to the story I am +going to tell. + +John believed devoutly in fairies; and an angry man was he if you +doubted them. He had more fairy stories than would make, if properly +printed in a rivulet of print running down a meadow of margin, two +thick quartos for Mr. Murray, of Albemarle street; all of which he +used to tell on all occasions that he could find listeners. Many +believed his stories—many more did not believe them—but nobody, in +process of time, used to contradict the old gentleman, for it was a +pity to vex him. But he had a couple of young neighbours who were just +come down from their first vacation in Trinity College to spend the +summer months with an uncle of theirs, Mr. Whaley, an old Cromwellian, +who lived at Ballybegmullinahone, and they were too full of logic to +let the old man have his own way undisputed. + +Every story he told they laughed at, and said that it was +impossible—that it was merely old woman’s gabble, and other such +things. When he would insist that all his stories were derived from +the most credible sources—nay, that some of them had been told him by +his own grandmother, a very respectable old lady, but slightly +affected in her faculties, as things that came under her own +knowledge—they cut the matter short by declaring that she was in her +dotage, and at the best of times had a strong propensity to pulling a +long bow. + +“But,” said they, “Jack Mulligan did you ever see a fairy yourself?” + +“Never,” was the reply.—“Never, as I am a man of honour and credit.” + +“Well, then,” they answered, “until you do, do not be bothering us +with any more tales of my grandmother.” + +Jack was particularly nettled at this, and took up the cudgels for his +grandmother; but the younkers were too sharp for him, and finally he +got into a passion, as people generally do who have the worst of an +argument. This evening it was at their uncle’s, an old crony of his, +with whom he had dined—he had taken a large portion of his usual +beverage, and was quite riotous. He at last got up in a passion, +ordered his horse, and, in spite of his host’s entreaties, galloped +off, although he had intended to have slept there; declaring that he +would not have any thing more to do with a pair of jackanapes puppies, +who, because they had learned how to read good-for-nothing books in +cramp writing, and were taught by a parcel of wiggy, red-snouted, +prating prigs, (“not,” added he, “however, that I say a man may not be +a good man and have a red nose,”) they imagined they knew more than a +man who had held buckle and tongue together facing the wind of the +world for five dozen years. + +He rode off in a fret, and galloped as hard as his horse Shaunbuie +could powder away over the limestone. “Yes, indeed!” muttered he, “the +brats had me in one thing—I never did see a fairy; and I would give +up five as good acres as ever grew apple-potatoes to get a glimpse of +one—and by the powers! what is that?” + +He looked, and saw a gallant spectacle. His road lay by a noble +demesne, gracefully sprinkled with trees, not thickly planted as in a +dark forest, but disposed, now in clumps of five or six, now standing +singly, towering over the plain of verdure around them as a beautiful +promontory arising out of the sea. He had come right opposite the +glory of the wood. It was an oak, which in the oldest title-deeds of +the county, and they were at least five hundred years old, was called +the old oak of Ballinghassig. Age had hollowed its centre, but its +massy boughs still waved with their dark serrated foliage. The moon +was shining on it bright. If I were a poet, like Mr. Wordsworth, I +should tell you how the beautiful light was broken into a thousand +different fragments—and how it filled the entire tree with a glorious +flood, bathing every particular leaf, and showing forth every +particular bough; but, as I am not a poet, I shall go on with my +story. By this light Jack saw a brilliant company of lovely little +forms dancing under the oak with an unsteady and rolling motion. The +company was large. Some spread out far beyond the farthest boundary of +the shadow of the oak’s branches—some were seen glancing through the +flashes of light shining through its leaves—some were barely visible, +nestling under the trunk—some, no doubt, were entirely concealed from +his eyes. Never did man see any thing more beautiful. They were not +three inches in height, but they were white as the driven snow, and +beyond number numberless. Jack threw the bridle over his horse’s neck, +and drew up to the low wall which bounded the demesne, and leaning +over it, surveyed with infinite delight, their diversified gambols. By +looking long at them, he soon saw objects which had not struck him at +first; in particular that in the middle was a chief of superior +stature, round whom the group appeared to move. He gazed so long that +he was quite overcome with joy, and could not help shouting out: +“Bravo! little fellow,” said he, “well kicked and strong.” But the +instant he uttered the words the night was darkened, and the fairies +vanished with the speed of lightning. + +“I wish,” said Jack, “I had held my tongue; but no matter now. I shall +just turn bridle about and go back to Ballybegmullinahone Castle, and +beat the young Master Whaleys, fine reasoners as they think +themselves, out of the field clean.” + +No sooner said than done: and Jack was back again as if upon the wings +of the wind. He rapped fiercely at the door, and called aloud for the +two collegians. + +“Halloo!” said he, “young Flatcaps, come down, if you dare. Come down, +if you dare, and I shall give you _oc-oc-_ocular demonstration of the +truth of what I was saying.” + +Old Whaley put his head out of the window, and said, “Jack Mulligan, +what brings you back so soon?” + +“The fairies,” shouted Jack; “the fairies!” + +“I am afraid,” muttered the Lord of Ballybegmullinahone, “the last +glass you took was too little watered; but, no matter—come in and +cool yourself over a tumbler of punch.” + +He came in and sat down again at table. In great spirits he told his +story;—how he had seen thousands and tens of thousands of fairies +dancing about the old oak of Ballinghassig; he described their +beautiful dresses of shining silver; their flat-crowned hats, +glittering in the moonbeams; and the princely stature and demeanour of +the central figure. He added, that he heard them singing and playing +the most enchanting music; but this was merely imagination. The young +men laughed, but Jack held his ground. “Suppose,” said one of the +lads, “we join company with you on the road, and ride along to the +place, where you saw that fine company of fairies?” + +“Done!” cried Jack; “but I will not promise that you will find them +there, for I saw them scudding up in the sky like a flight of bees, +and heard their wings whizzing through the air.” This, you know, was a +bounce, for Jack had heard no such thing. + +Off rode the three, and came to the demesne of Oakwood. They arrived +at the wall flanking the field where stood the great oak; and the +moon, by this time, having again emerged from the clouds, shone bright +as when Jack had passed. “Look there,” he cried, exultingly: for the +same spectacle again caught his eyes, and he pointed to it with his +horsewhip; “look, and deny if you can.” + +“Why,” said one of the lads, pausing, “true it is that we do see a +company of white creatures; but were they fairies ten times over, I +shall go among them;” and he dismounted to climb over the wall. + +“Ah, Tom! Tom,” cried Jack, “stop, man, stop! what are you doing? The +fairies—the good people, I mean—hate to be meddled with. You will be +pinched or blinded; or your horse will cast its shoe; or—look! a +wilful man will have his way. Oh! oh! he is almost at the oak—God +help him! for he is past the help of man.” + +By this time Tom was under the tree, and burst out laughing. “Jack,” +said he, “keep your prayers to yourself. Your fairies are not bad at +all. I believe they will make tolerably good catsup.” + +“Catsup,” said Jack, who, when he found that the two lads (for the +second had followed his brother) were both laughing in the middle of +the fairies, had dismounted and advanced slowly—“What do you mean by +catsup?” + +“Nothing,” replied Tom, “but that they are mushrooms (as indeed they +were:) and your Oberon is merely this overgrown puff-ball.” + +Poor Mulligan gave a long whistle of amazement, staggered back to his +horse without saying a word, and rode home in a hard gallop, never +looking behind him. Many a long day was it before he ventured to face +the laughers at Ballybegmullinahone; and to the day of his death the +people of the parish, ay, and five parishes round called him nothing +but musharoon Jack, such being their pronunciation of mushroom. + +I should be sorry if all my fairy stories ended with so little +dignity: but— + + “These our actors, + As I foretold you, were all spirits, and + Are melted into air—into thin air.” + + The name SHEFRO, by which the foregoing section is + distinguished, literally signifies a fairy house or mansion, + and is adopted as a general name for the Elves who are supposed + to live in troops or communities, and were popularly supposed + to have castles or mansions of their own.—See _Stewart’s + Popular Superstitions of the Highlands_, 1823, pp. 90, 91, &c. + + _Sia_, _sigh_, _sighe_, _sigheann_, _siabhra_, _siachaire_, + _siogidh_, are Irish words, evidently springing from a common + Celtic root, used to express a fairy or goblin, and even a hag + or witch. Thus we have the compounds _Leannan-sighe_, a + familiar, from _Leannan_, a pet, and _Sioghdhraoidheachd_, + enchantment with or by spirits. + + _Sigh gàoithe_ or _siaheann-gàoithe_, a whirlwind, is so termed + because it is said to be raised by the fairies. The close of + day called _Sia_, because twilight, + + “That sweet hour, when day is almost closing,” + + is the time when the fairies are most frequently seen. Again, + _Sigh_ is a hill or hillock, because the fairies are believed + to dwell within. _Sidhe_, _sidheadh_, and _sigh_, are names for + a blast or blight, because it is supposed to proceed from the + fairies. + + The term _Shoges_, i.e. _Sigh oges_ (young or little spirits,) + Fairies, is used in a curious poem printed under the name of + “The Irish Hudibras,” 1689, pp. 23, and 81; a copy of which, + entitled “The Fingallian Travesty,” is among the Sloane MSS. + No. 900. In the Third Part of O’Flaherty’s Ogygia, it is + related that St. Patrick and some of his followers, who were + chanting matins beside a fountain, were taken for “_Sidhe_, or + fairies,” by some pagan ladies. + + “The Irish,” according to the Rev. James Hely’s translation of + O’Flaherty, “call these _Sidhe_, aërial spirits or phantoms, + because they are seen to come out of pleasant hills, where the + common people imagine they reside, which fictitious habitations + are called by us _Sidhe_ or _Siodha_.” + + For a similar extended use of the German word _Alp_, _Elf_, &c. + see Introductory Essay to the Grimms’ _Irische Elfenmärchen_, + pp. 55–62. + + + + +LEGENDS OF THE CLURICAUNE. + + “————————— That sottish elf + Who quaffs with swollen lips the ruby wine, + Draining the cellar with as free a hand + As if it were his purse which ne’er lacked coin;— + And then, with feign’d contrition ruminates + Upon his wasteful pranks, and revelry, + In some secluded dell or lonely grove + Tinsel’d by Twilight.”— + Δ. + + + + +THE HAUNTED CELLAR. + +IX. + + +There are few people who have not heard of the Mac Carthies—one of +the real old Irish families, with the true Milesian blood running in +their veins, as thick as buttermilk. Many were the clans of this +family in the south; as the Mac Carthy-more—and the Mac +Carthy-reagh—and the Mac Carthy of Muskerry; and all of them were +noted for their hospitality to strangers, gentle and simple. + +But not one of that name, or of any other, exceeded Justin Mac Carthy, +of Ballinacarthy, at putting plenty to eat and drink upon his table; +and there was a right hearty welcome for every one who would share it +with him. Many a wine-cellar would be ashamed of the name if that at +Ballinacarthy was the proper pattern for one; large as that cellar +was, it was crowded with bins of wine, and long rows of pipes, and +hogsheads, and casks, that it would take more time to count than any +sober man could spare in such a place, with plenty to drink about him, +and a hearty welcome to do so. + +There are many, no doubt, who will think that the butler would have +little to complain of in such a house; and the whole country round +would have agreed with them, if a man could be found to remain as Mr. +Mac Carthy’s butler for any length of time worth speaking of; yet not +one who had been in his service gave him a bad word. + +“We have no fault,” they would say, “to find with the master; and if +he could but get any one to fetch his wine from the cellar, we might +every one of us have grown gray in the house, and have lived quiet and +contented enough in his service until the end of our days.” + +“’Tis a queer thing that, surely,” thought young Jack Leary, a lad who +had been brought up from a mere child in the stables of Ballinacarthy +to assist in taking care of the horses, and had occasionally lent a +hand in the butler’s pantry:—“’tis a mighty queer thing, surely, that +one man after another cannot content himself with the best place in +the house of a good master, but that every one of them must quit, all +through the means, as they say, of the wine-cellar. If the master, +long life to him! would but make me his butler, I warrant never the +word more would be heard of grumbling at his bidding to go to the +wine-cellar.” + +Young Leary accordingly watched for what he conceived to be a +favourable opportunity of presenting himself to the notice of his +master. + +A few mornings after, Mr. Mac Carthy went into his stable-yard rather +earlier than usual, and called loudly for the groom to saddle his +horse, as he intended going out with the hounds. But there was no +groom to answer, and young Jack Leary led Rainbow out of the stable. + +“Where is William?” inquired Mr. Mac Carthy. + +“Sir?” said Jack; and Mr. Mac Carthy repeated the question. + +“Is it William, please your honour?” returned Jack; “why, then, to +tell the truth, he had just _one_ drop too much last night.” + +“Where did he get it?” said Mr. Mac Carthy; “for since Thomas went +away, the key of the wine-cellar has been in my pocket, and I have +been obliged to fetch what was drank myself.” + +“Sorrow a know I know,” said Leary, “unless the cook might have given +him the _least taste_ in life of whiskey. But,” continued he, +performing a low bow by seizing with his right hand a lock of hair, +and pulling down his head by it, whilst his left leg which had been +put forward, was scraped back against the ground, “may I make so bold +as just to ask your honour one question?” + +“Speak out, Jack,” said Mr. Mac Carthy. + +“Why, then, does your honour want a butler?” + +“Can you recommend me one,” returned his master, with a smile of good +humour upon his countenance, “and one who will not be afraid of going +to my wine-cellar?” + +“Is the wine-cellar all the matter?” said young Leary: “not a doubt +have I of myself then for that.” + +“So you mean to offer me your services in the capacity of butler?” +said Mr. Mac Carthy, with some surprise. + +“Exactly so,” answered Leary, now for the first time looking up from +the ground. + +“Well, I believe you to be a good lad, and have no objection to give +you a trial.” + +“Long may your honour reign over us, and the Lord spare you to us!” +ejaculated Leary, with another national bow, as his master rode off; +and he continued for some time to gaze after him with a vacant stare, +which slowly and gradually assumed a look of importance. + +“Jack Leary,” said he at length, “Jack—is it Jack?” in a tone of +wonder; “faith, ’tis not Jack now, but Mr. John, the butler;” and with +an air of becoming consequence he strided out of the stable-yard +towards the kitchen. + +It is of little purport to my story, although it may afford an +instructive lesson to the reader, to depict the sudden transition of +nobody into somebody. Jack’s former stable companion, a poor +superannuated hound named Bran, who had been accustomed to receive +many an affectionate tap on the head, was spurned from him with a kick +and an “Out of the way, sirrah.” Indeed, poor Jack’s memory seemed +sadly affected by this sudden change of situation. What established +the point beyond all doubt was his almost forgetting the pretty face +of Peggy, the kitchen wench, whose heart he had assailed but the +preceding week by the offer of purchasing a gold ring for the fourth +finger of her right hand, and a lusty imprint of good-will upon her +lips. + +When Mr. Mac Carthy returned from hunting, he sent for Jack Leary—so +he still continued to call his new butler. “Jack,” said he, “I believe +you are a trustworthy lad, and here are the keys of my cellar. I have +asked the gentlemen with whom I hunted to-day to dine with me, and I +hope they may be satisfied at the way in which you will wait on them +at table; but, above all, let there be no want of wine after dinner.” + +Mr. John having a tolerably quick eye for such things, and being +naturally a handy lad, spread his cloth accordingly, laid his plates +and knives and forks in the same manner he had seen his predecessors +in office perform these mysteries, and really, for the first time, got +through attendance on dinner very well. + +It must not be forgotten, however, that it was at the house of an +Irish country squire, who was entertaining a company of booted and +spurred fox-hunters, not very particular about what are considered +matters of infinite importance under other circumstances and in other +societies. + +For instance, few of Mr. Mac Carthy’s guests, (though all excellent +and worthy men in their way,) cared much whether the punch produced +after soup was made of Jamaica or Antigua rum; some even would not +have been inclined to question the correctness of good old Irish +whiskey; and, with the exception of their liberal host himself, every +one in company preferred the port which Mr. Mac Carthy put on his +table to the less ardent flavour of claret,—a choice rather at +variance with modern sentiment. + +It was waxing near midnight, when Mr. Mac Carthy rang the bell three +times. This was a signal for more wine; and Jack proceeded to the +cellar to procure a fresh supply, but it must be confessed not without +some little hesitation. + +The luxury of ice was then unknown in the south of Ireland; but the +superiority of cool wine had been acknowledged by all men of sound +judgment and true taste. + +The grandfather of Mr. Mac Carthy, who had built the mansion of +Ballinacarthy upon the site of an old castle which had belonged to his +ancestors, was fully aware of this important fact; and in the +construction of his magnificent wine-cellar had availed himself of a +deep vault, excavated out of the solid rock in former times as a place +of retreat and security. The descent to this vault was by a flight of +steep stone stairs, and here and there in the wall were narrow +passages—I ought rather to call them crevices; and also certain +projections which cast deep shadows, and looked very frightful when +any one went down the cellar stairs with a single light: indeed, two +lights did not much improve the matter, for though the breadth of the +shadows became less, the narrow crevices remained as dark and darker +than ever. + +Summoning up all his resolution, down went the new butler, bearing in +his right hand a lantern and the key of the cellar, and in his left a +basket, which he considered sufficiently capacious to contain an +adequate stock for the remainder of the evening; he arrived at the +door without any interruption whatever; but when he put the key, which +was of an ancient and clumsy kind—for it was before the days of +Bramah’s patent,—and turned it in the lock, he thought he heard a +strange kind of laughing within the cellar, to which some empty +bottles that stood upon the floor outside vibrated so violently, that +they struck against each other: in this he could not be mistaken, +although he may have been deceived in the laugh; for the bottles were +just at his feet, and he saw them in motion. + +Leary paused for a moment, and looked about him with becoming caution. +He then boldly seized the handle of the key, and turned it with all +his strength in the lock, as if he doubted his own power of doing so; +and the door flew open with a most tremendous crash, that, if the +house had not been built upon the solid rock, would have shook it from +the foundation. + +To recount what the poor fellow saw would be impossible, for he seems +not to know very clearly himself: but what he told the cook the next +morning was, that he heard a roaring and bellowing like a mad bull, +and that all the pipes and hogsheads and casks in the cellar went +rocking backwards and forwards with so much force, that he thought +every one would have been staved in, and that he should have been +drowned or smothered in wine. + +When Leary recovered, he made his way back as well as he could to the +dining-room, where he found his master and the company very impatient +for his return. + +“What kept-you?” said Mr. Mac Carthy in an angry voice; “and where is +the wine? I rung for it half an hour since.” + +“The wine is in the cellar, I hope, sir,” said Jack, trembling +violently; “I hope ’tis not all lost.” + +“What do you mean, fool?” exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy in a still more +angry tone: “why did you not fetch some with you?” + +Jack looked wildly about him, and only uttered a deep groan. + +“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Mac Carthy to his guests, “this is too much. +When I next see you to dinner, I hope it will be in another house, for +it is impossible I can remain longer in this, where a man has no +command over his own wine-cellar, and cannot get a butler to do his +duty. I have long thought of moving from Ballinacarthy; and I am now +determined, with the blessing of God, to leave it to-morrow. But wine +shall you have, were I to go myself to the cellar for it.” So saying, +he rose from the table, took the key and lantern from his half +stupified servant, who regarded him with a look of vacancy, and +descended the narrow stairs, already described, which led to his +cellar. + +When he arrived at the door, which he found open, he thought he heard +a noise, as if of rats or mice scrambling over the casks, and on +advancing perceived a little figure, about six inches in height, +seated astride upon the pipe of the oldest port in the place, and +bearing the spigot upon his shoulder. Raising the lantern, Mr. Mac +Carthy contemplated the little fellow with wonder: he wore a red +nightcap on his head; before him was a short leather apron, which now, +from his attitude, fell rather on one side; and he had stockings of a +light blue colour, so long as nearly to cover the entire of his legs; +with shoes, having huge silver buckles in them, and with high heels +(perhaps out of vanity to make him appear taller). His face was like a +withered winter apple; and his nose, which was of a bright crimson +colour, about the tip wore a delicate purple bloom, like that of a +plum: yet his eyes twinkled + + “like those mites + Of candied dew in moony nights— + +and his mouth twitched up at one side with an arch grin. + +“Ha, scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy, “have I found you at last? +disturber of my cellar—what are you doing there?” + +“Sure, and master,” returned the little fellow, looking up at him with +one eye, and with the other throwing a sly glance towards the spigot +on his shoulder, “a’n’t we going to move to-morrow? and sure you would +not leave your own little Cluricaune Naggeneen behind you?” + +“Oh!” thought Mr. Mac Carthy, “if you are to follow me, Master +Naggeneen, I don’t see much use in quitting Ballinacarthy.” So filling +with wine the basket which young Leary in his fright had left behind +him, and locking the cellar door, he rejoined his guests. + +For some years after, Mr. Mac Carthy had always to fetch the wine for +his table himself, as the little Cluricaune Naggeneen seemed to feel a +personal respect towards him. Notwithstanding the labour of these +journeys, the worthy lord of Ballinacarthy lived in his paternal +mansion to a good round age, and was famous to the last for the +excellence of his wine, and the conviviality of his company; but at +the time of his death, that same conviviality had nearly emptied his +wine-cellar; and as it was never so well filled again, nor so often +visited, the revels of Master Naggeneen became less celebrated, and +are now only spoken of amongst the legendary lore of the country. It +is even said that the poor little fellow took the declension of the +cellar so to heart, that he became negligent and careless of himself, +and that he has been sometimes seen going about with hardly a skreed +to cover him. + +Some, however, believe that he turned brogue-maker, and assert that +they have seen him at his work, and heard him whistling as merry as a +blackbird on a May morning, under the shadow of a brown jug of foaming +ale, bigger—ay bigger than himself; decently dressed enough, they +say;—only looking mighty old. But still ’tis clear he has his wits +about him, since no one ever had the luck to catch him, or to get hold +of the purse he has with him, which they call _spré-na-skillinagh_, +and ’tis said is never without a shilling in it. + + + + +MASTER AND MAN. + +X. + + +Billy Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his +brogue at a patron, emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh: fearing +for nothing but the want of drink; caring for nothing but who should +pay for it; and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it: drunk +or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy Mac Daniel; +and a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or ending a +dispute. More is the pity, that through the means of his drinking, and +fearing and caring for nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into +bad company; for surely the good people are the worst of all company +any one could come across. + +It so happened that Billy was going home one clear frosty night not +long after Christmas; the moon was round and bright; but although it +was as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt pinched with the +cold. “By my word,” chattered Billy, “a drop of good liquor would be +no bad thing to keep a man’s soul from freezing in him; and I wish I +had a full measure of the best.” + +“Never wish it twice, Billy,” said a little man in a three-cornered +hat, bound all about with gold lace, and with great silver buckles in +his shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them, and he +held out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever +eye looked on or lip tasted. + +“Success, my little fellow,” said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted, +though well he knew the little man to belong to the _good people_; +“here’s your health, any way, and thank you kindly; no matter who pays +for the drink;” and he took the glass and drained it to the very +bottom, without ever taking a second breath to it. + +“Success,” said the little man; “and you’re heartily welcome, Billy; +but don’t think to cheat me as you have done others,—out with your +purse and pay me like a gentleman.” + +“Is it I pay you?” said Billy: “could I not just take you up and put +you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?” + +“Billy Mac Daniel,” said the little man, getting very angry, “you +shall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way I +will be paid; so make ready to follow me.” + +When Billy heard this, he began to be very sorry for having used such +bold words towards the little man; and he felt himself, yet could not +tell how, obliged to follow the little man the live-long night about +the country, up and down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog +and brake, without any rest. + +When morning began to dawn, the little man turned round to him and +said, “You may now go home, Billy, but on your peril don’t fail to +meet me in the Fort-field to-night; or if you do, it may be the worse +for you in the long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find +me an indulgent master.” + +Home went Billy Mac Daniel; and though he was tired and weary enough, +never a wink of sleep could he get for thinking of the little man; +but he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening, +and away he went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the +little man came towards him and said, “Billy, I want to go a long +journey to-night; so saddle one of my horses, and you may saddle +another for yourself, as you are to go along with me, and may be tired +after your walk last night.” + +Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him +accordingly: “But,” said he, “if I may be so bold, sir, I would ask +which is the way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but the +fort here, and the old thorn tree in the corner of the field, and the +stream running at the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over +against us.” + +“Ask no questions, Billy,” said the little man, “but go over to that +bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.” + +Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at; and +he picked out two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with a little +bunch of brown blossom stuck at the side of each, and brought them +back to his master. “Get up, Billy,” said the little man, taking one +of the rushes from him and striding across it. + +“Where will I get up, please your honour?” said Billy. + +“Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure,” said the little man. + +“Is it after making a fool of me you’d be,” said Billy, “bidding me +get a horseback upon that bit of a rush? May be you want to persuade +me that the rush I pulled but awhile ago out of the bog over there is +a horse?” + +“Up! up! and no words,” said the little man, looking very vexed; “the +best horse you ever rode was but a fool to it.” So Billy, thinking all +this was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, straddled across the +rush: “Borram! Borram! Borram!” cried the little man three times +(which in English, means to become great), and Billy did the same +after him: presently the rushes swelled up into fine horses, and away +they went full speed; but Billy, who had put the rush between his +legs, without much minding how he did it, found himself sitting on +horseback the wrong way, which was rather awkward, with his face to +the horse’s tail; and so quickly had his steed started off with him, +that he had no power to turn round, and there was therefore nothing +for it but to hold on by the tail. + +At last they came to their journey’s end, and stopped at the gate of a +fine house: “Now, Billy,” said the little man, “do as you see me do, +and follow me close; but as you did not know your horse’s head from +his tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until you can’t +tell whether you are standing on it or on your heels: for remember +that old liquor, though able to make a cat speak, can make a man +dumb.” + +The little man then said some queer kind of words, out of which Billy +could make no meaning; but he contrived to say them after him for all +that; and in they both went through the key-hole of the door, and +through one key-hole after another, until they got into the +wine-cellar, which was well stored with all kinds of wine. + +The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and Billy, noway +disliking the example, did the same. “The best of masters are you +surely,” said Billy to him; “no matter who is the next; and well +pleased will I be with your service if you continue to give me plenty +to drink.” + +“I have made no bargain with you,” said the little man, “and will make +none; but up and follow me.” Away they went, through key-hole after +key-hole; and each mounting upon the rush which he had left at the +hall door, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like +snowballs, as soon as the words, “Borram, Borram, Borram,” had passed +their lips. + +When they came back to the Fort-field, the little man dismissed Billy, +bidding him to be there the next night at the same hour. Thus did they +go on, night after night, shaping their course one night here, and +another night there—sometimes north, and sometimes east, and +sometimes south, until there was not a gentleman’s wine-cellar in all +Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the flavour of every wine +in it as well—ay, better than the butler himself. + +One night, when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as usual in the +Fort-field, and was going to the bog to fetch the horses for their +journey, his master said to him, “Billy, I shall want another horse +to-night, for may be we may bring back more company with us than we +take.” So Billy, who now knew better than to question any order given +to him by his master, brought a third rush, much wondering who it +might be that should travel back in their company, and whether he was +about to have a fellow-servant. “If I have,” thought Billy, “he shall +go and fetch the horses from the bog every night; for I don’t see why +I am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my master.” + +Well, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, and never stopped +until they came to a snug farmer’s house in the county Limerick, close +under the old castle of Carrigogunnel, that was built, they say, by +the great Brian Boru. Within the house there was great carousing going +forward, and the little man stopped outside for some time to listen; +then turning round all of a sudden, said, “Billy, I will be a thousand +years old to-morrow!” + +“God bless us, sir,” said Billy, “will you?” + +“Don’t say these words again, Billy,” said the little man, “or you +will be my ruin for ever. Now, Billy, as I will be a thousand years in +the world to-morrow, I think it is full time for me to get married.” + +“I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all,” said Billy, “if +ever you mean to marry.” + +“And to that purpose,” said the little man, “have I come all the way +to Carrigogunnel; for in this house, this very night, is young Darby +Riley going to be married to Bridget Rooney; and as she is a tall and +comely girl, and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her +myself, and taking her off with me.” + +“And what will Darby Riley say to that?” said Billy. + +“Silence!” said the little man, putting on a mighty severe look: “I +did not bring you here with me to ask questions;” and without holding +further argument, he began saying the queer words, which had the power +of passing him through the key-hole as free as air, and which Billy +thought himself mighty clever to be able to say after him. + +In they both went; and for the better viewing the company, the little +man perched himself up as nimbly as a cock-sparrow upon one of the big +beams which went across the house over all their heads, and Billy did +the same upon another facing him; but not being much accustomed to +roosting in such a place, his legs hung down as untidy as may be, and +it was quite clear he had not taken pattern after the way in which the +little man had bundled himself up together. If the little man had been +a tailor all his life, he could not have sat more contentedly upon his +haunches. + +There they were, both master and man, looking down upon the fun that +was going forward—and under them were the priest and piper—and the +father of Darby Riley, with Darby’s two brothers and his uncle’s +son—and there were both the father and the mother of Bridget Rooney, +and proud enough the old couple were that night of their daughter, as +good right they had—and her four sisters with bran new ribands in +their caps, and her three brothers all looking as clean and as clever +as any three boys in Munster—and there were uncles and aunts, and +gossips and cousins enough besides to make a full house of it—and +plenty was there to eat and drink on the table for every one of them, +if they had been double the number. + +Now it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had helped his reverence to the +first cut of the pig’s head which was placed before her, beautifully +bolstered up with white savoys, that the bride gave a sneeze which +made every one at table start, but not a soul said “God bless us.” All +thinking that the priest would have done so, as he ought if he had +done his duty, no one wished to take the word out of his mouth, which +unfortunately was pre-occupied with pig’s head and greens. And after a +moment’s pause, the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on +without the pious benediction. + +Of this circumstance both Billy and his master were no inattentive +spectators from their exalted stations. “Ha!” exclaimed the little +man, throwing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, and his +eye twinkled with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated +into the curvature of Gothic arches—“Ha!” said he, leering down at +the bride, and then up at Billy, “I have half of her now, surely. Let +her sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of priest, +mass-book, and Darby Riley.” + +Again the fair Bridget sneezed; but it was so gently, and she blushed +so much, that few except the little man took or seemed to take any +notice: and no one thought of saying “God bless us.” + +Billy all this time regarded the poor girl with a most rueful +expression of countenance; for he could not help thinking what a +terrible thing it was for a nice young girl of nineteen, with large +blue eyes, transparent skin, and dimpled cheeks, suffused with health +and joy, to be obliged to marry an ugly little bit of a man who was a +thousand years old, barring a day. + +At this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and Billy +roared out with all his might, “God save us!” Whether this exclamation +resulted from his soliloquy, or from the mere force of habit, he never +could tell exactly himself; but no sooner was it uttered, than the +little man, his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung from +the beam on which he had perched himself, and shrieking out in the +shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, “I discharge you my service, Billy +Mac Daniel—take _that_ for your wages,” gave poor Billy a most +furious kick in the back, which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling +upon his face and hands right in the middle of the supper table. + +If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one of the company +into which he was thrown with so little ceremony; but when they heard +his story, Father Cooney laid down his knife and fork, and married the +young couple out of hand with all speed; and Billy Mac Daniel danced +the Rinka at their wedding, and plenty did he drink at it too, which +was what he thought more of than dancing. + + + + +THE LITTLE SHOE. + +XI. + + +“Now tell me, Molly,” said Mr. Coote to Molly Cogan, as he met her on +the road one day, close to one of the old gateways of Kilmallock,[14] +“did you ever hear of the Cluricaune?” + + [14] “Kilmallock seemed to me like the court of the Queen of + Silence.”—_O’Keefe’s Recollections._ + +“Is it the Cluricaune? why, then, sure I did, often and often; many’s +the time I heard my father, rest his soul! tell about ’em.” + +“But did you ever see one, Molly, yourself?” + +“Och! no, I never _see_ one in my life; but my grandfather, that’s my +father’s father, you know, he _see_ one, one time, and caught him +too.” + +“Caught him! Oh! Molly, tell me how?” + +“Why, then, I’ll tell you. My grandfather, you see, was out there +above in the bog, drawing home turf, and the poor old mare was tired +after her day’s work, and the old man went out to the stable to look +after her, and to see if she was eating her hay; and when he came to +the stable door there, my dear, he heard something hammering, +hammering, hammering, just for all the world like a shoemaker making a +shoe, and whistling all the time the prettiest tune he ever heard in +his whole life before. Well, my grandfather, he thought it was the +Cluricaune, and he said to himself, says he, ‘I’ll catch you, if I +can, and then, I’ll have money enough always.’ So he opened the door +very quietly, and didn’t make a bit of noise in the world that ever +was heard; and looked all about, but the never a bit of the little man +he could see anywhere, but he heard him hammering and whistling, and +so he looked and looked, till at last he _see_ the little fellow; and +where was he, do you think, but in the girth under the mare; and there +he was with his little bit of an apron on him, and hammer in his +hand, and a little red nightcap on his head, and he making a shoe; and +he was so busy with his work, and he was hammering and whistling so +loud, that he never minded my grandfather till he caught him fast in +his hand. ‘Faith I have you now,’ says he, ‘and I’ll never let you go +till I get your purse—that’s what I won’t; so give it here to me at +once, now.’—‘Stop, stop,’ says the Cluricaune, ‘stop, stop,’ says he, +’till I get it for you.’ So my grandfather, like a fool, you see, +opened his hand a little, and the little fellow jumped away laughing, +and he never saw him any more, and the never the bit of the purse did +he get, only the Cluricaune left his little shoe that he was making; +and my grandfather was mad enough angry with himself for letting him +go; but he had the shoe all his life, and my own mother told me she +often _see_ it, and had it in her hand, and ’twas the prettiest little +shoe she ever saw.” + +“And did you see it yourself, Molly?” + +“Oh! no, my dear, it was lost long afore I was born; but my mother +told me about it often and often enough.” + + The main point of distinction between the Cluricaune and the + Shefro, arises from the sottish and solitary habits of the + former, who are rarely found in troops or communities. + + The Cluricaune of the county of Cork, the Luricaune of Kerry, + and the Lurigadaune of Tipperary, appear to be the same as the + Leprechan or Leprochaune of Leinster, and the Logherry-man of + Ulster; and these words are probably all provincialisms of the + Irish for a pigmy. + + It is possible, and is in some measure borne out by the text of + one of the preceding stories [IX.], that the word _luacharman_ + is merely an Anglo-Irish induction, compounded of (a rush,) and + the English word, _man_.—A rushy man,—that may be, a man of + the height of a rush, or a being who dwelt among rushes, that + is, unfrequented or boggy places. + + The following dialogue is said to have taken place in an Irish + court of justice, upon the witness having used the word + Leprochaune:— + + _Court._—Pray what is a leprochaune? the law knows no such + character or designation. + + _Witness._—My lord, it is a little counsellor man in the + fairies, or an attorney that robs them all, and he always + carries a purse that is full of money, and if you see him and + keep your eyes on him, and that you never turn them aside, he + cannot get away, and if you catch him he gives you the purse to + let him go, and then you’re as rich as a Jew. + + _Court._—Did you ever know of any one that caught a + Leprochaune? I wish I could catch one. + + _Witness._—Yes, my lord, there was one— + + _Court._—That will do. + + With respect to “money matters,” there appears to be a strong + resemblance between the ancient Roman Incubus and the Irish + Cluricaune.—“Sed quomodo dicunt, ego nihil scio, sed audivi, + quomodo incuboni pileum rapuisset et thesaurum invenit,” are + the words of Petronius.—See, for farther arguments in support + of identity of the two spirits, the Brothers Grimm’s Essay on + the Nature of the Elves, prefixed to their translation of this + work, under the head of “Ancient Testimonies.” + + “Old German and Northern poems contain numerous accounts of the + skill of the dwarfs in curious smith’s-work.”—“The Irish + Cluricaune is heard hammering; he is particularly fond of + making shoes, but these were in ancient times made of metal (in + the old Northern language a shoemaker is called a + _shoe-smith_;) and, singularly enough, the wights in a German + tradition manifest the same propensity; for, whatever work the + shoemaker has been able to cut out in the day, they finish + with incredible quickness during the night.” + THE BROTHERS GRIMM. + + + + +LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE. + + “Who sits upon the heath forlorn, + With robe so free and tresses torn? + Anon she pours a harrowing strain, + And then—she sits all mute again! + Now peals the wild funereal cry— + And now—it sinks into a sigh.” + OURAWNS. + + + + +THE BANSHEE. + +XII. + + +The Reverend Charles Bunworth was rector of Buttevant, in the county +of Cork, about the middle of the last century. He was a man of +unaffected piety, and of sound learning; pure in heart, and benevolent +in intention. By the rich he was respected, and by the poor beloved; +nor did a difference of creed prevent their looking up to “_the +minister_” (so was Mr. Bunworth called by them) in matters of +difficulty and in seasons of distress, confident of receiving from him +the advice and assistance that a father would afford to his children. +He was the friend and the benefactor of the surrounding country—to +him, from the neighbouring town of Newmarket, came both Curran and +Yelverton for advice and instruction, previous to their entrance at +Dublin College. Young, indigent and inexperienced, these afterwards +eminent men received from him, in addition to the advice they sought, +pecuniary aid; and the brilliant career which was theirs, justified +the discrimination of the giver. + +But what extended the fame of Mr. Bunworth, far beyond the limits of +the parishes adjacent to his own, was his performance on the Irish +harp, and his hospitable reception and entertainment of the poor +harpers who travelled from house to house about the country. Grateful +to their patron, these itinerant minstrels sang his praises to the +tingling accompaniment of their harps, invoking in return for his +bounty abundant blessings on his white head, and celebrating in their +rude verses the blooming charms of his daughters, Elizabeth and Mary. +It was all these poor fellows could do; but who can doubt that their +gratitude was sincere, when, at the time of Mr. Bunworth’s death, no +less than fifteen harps were deposited in the loft of his granary, +bequeathed to him by the last members of a race which has now ceased +to exist. Trifling, no doubt, in intrinsic value were these relics, +yet there is something in gifts of the heart that merits preservation; +and it is to be regretted that, when he died, these harps were broken +up one after the other, and used as fire-wood by an ignorant follower +of the family, who, on a removal to Cork for a temporary change of +scene, was left in charge of the house. + +The circumstances attending the death of Mr. Bunworth may be doubted +by some; but there are still living credible witnesses who declare +their authenticity, and who can be produced to attest most, if not all +of the following particulars. + +About a week previous to his dissolution, and early in the evening a +noise was heard at the hall door resembling the shearing of sheep; but +at the time no particular attention was paid to it. It was nearly +eleven o’clock the same night, when Kavanagh, the herdsman, returned +from Mallow, whither he had been sent in the afternoon for some +medicine, and was observed by Miss Bunworth, to whom he delivered the +parcel, to be much agitated. At this time, it must be observed, her +father was by no means considered in danger. + +“What is the matter, Kavanagh?” asked Miss Bunworth: but the poor +fellow, with a bewildered look, only uttered, “The master, Miss—the +master—he is going from us;” and, overcome with real grief, he burst +into a flood of tears. + +Miss Bunworth, who was a woman of strong nerve, inquired if any thing +he had learned in Mallow induced him to suppose that her father was +worse. “No, Miss,” said Kavanagh; “it was not in Mallow——” + +“Kavanagh,” said Miss Bunworth, with that stateliness of manner for +which she is said to have been remarkable, “I fear you have been +drinking, which, I must say, I did not expect at such a time as the +present, when it was your duty to have kept yourself sober;—I thought +you might have been trusted:—what should we have done if you had +broken the medicine bottle, or lost it? for the doctor said it was of +the greatest consequence that your master should take the medicine +to-night. But I will speak to you in the morning, when you are in a +fitter state to understand what I say.” + +Kavanagh looked up with a stupidity of aspect which did not serve to +remove the impression of his being drunk, as his eyes appeared heavy +and dull after the flood of tears;—but his voice was not that of an +intoxicated person. + +“Miss,” said he, “as I hope to receive mercy hereafter, neither bit +nor sup has passed my lips since I left this house; but the +master——” + +“Speak softly,” said Miss Bunworth; “he sleeps, and is going on as +well as we could expect.” + +“Praise be to God for that, any way,” replied Kavanagh; “but oh! Miss, +he is going from us surely—we will lose him—the master—we will lose +him, we will lose him!” and he wrung his hands together. + +“What is it you mean, Kavanagh?” asked Miss Bunworth. + +“Is it mean?” said Kavanagh: “the Banshee has come for him, Miss, and +’tis not I alone who have heard her.” + +“’Tis an idle superstition,” said Miss Bunworth. + +“May be so,” replied Kavanagh, as if the words ‘idle superstition’ +only sounded upon his ear without reaching his mind—“May be so,” he +continued; “but as I came through the glen of Ballybeg, she was along +with me, keening, and screeching, and clapping her hands, by my side, +every step of the way, with her long white hair falling about her +shoulders, and I could hear her repeat the master’s name every now and +then, as plain as ever I heard it. When I came to the old abbey, she +parted from me there, and turned into the pigeon-field next the +_berrin_ ground, and folding her cloak about her, down she sat under +the tree that was struck by the lightning, and began keening so +bitterly, that it went through one’s heart to hear it.” + +“Kavanagh,” said Miss Bunworth, who had, however, listened attentively +to this remarkable relation, “my father is, I believe, better; and I +hope will himself soon be up and able to convince you that all this is +but your own fancy; nevertheless, I charge you not to mention what you +have told me, for there is no occasion to frighten your +fellow-servants with the story.” + +Mr. Bunworth gradually declined; but nothing particular occurred until +the night previous to his death: that night both his daughters, +exhausted with continued attendance and watching, were prevailed upon +to seek some repose; and an elderly lady, a near relative and friend +of the family, remained by the bed-side of their father. The old +gentleman then lay in the parlour, where he had been in the morning +removed at his own request, fancying the change would afford him +relief; and the head of his bed was placed close to the window. In a +room adjoining sat some male friends, and, as usual on like occasions +of illness, in the kitchen many of the followers of the family had +assembled. + +The night was serene and moonlit—the sick man slept—and nothing +broke the stillness of their melancholy watch, when the little party +in the room adjoining the parlour, the door of which stood open, was +suddenly roused by a sound at the window near the bed: a rose tree +grew outside the window, so close as to touch the glass; this was +forced aside with some noise, and a low moaning was heard, accompanied +by clapping of hands, as if of a female in deep affliction. It seemed +as if the sound proceeded from a person holding her mouth close to the +window. The lady who sat by the bed-side of Mr. Bunworth went into the +adjoining room, and in a tone of alarm, inquired of the gentlemen +there, if they had heard the Banshee? Skeptical of supernatural +appearances, two of them rose hastily and went out to discover the +cause of these sounds, which they also had distinctly heard. They +walked all around the house, examining every spot of ground, +particularly near the window from whence the voice had proceeded; the +bed of earth beneath, in which the rose tree was planted, had been +recently dug, and the print of a footstep—if the tree had been forced +aside by mortal hand—would have inevitably remained; but they could +perceive no such impression; and an unbroken stillness reigned +without. Hoping to dispel the mystery, they continued their search +anxiously along the road, from the straightness of which and the +lightness of the night, they were enabled to see some distance around +them; but all was silent and deserted, and they returned surprised and +disappointed. How much more then were they astonished at learning that +the whole time of their absence, those who remained within the house +had heard the moaning and clapping of hands even louder and more +distinct than before they had gone out; and no sooner was the door of +the room closed on them, than they again heard the same mournful +sounds! Every succeeding hour the sick man became worse, and as the +first glimpse of the morning appeared, Mr. Bunworth expired. + + + + +LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE. + +XIII. + + +The family of Mac Carthy have for some generations possessed a small +estate in the county of Tipperary. They are the descendants of a race, +once numerous and powerful in the south of Ireland; and though it is +probable that the property they at present hold is no part of the +large possessions of their ancestors, yet the district in which they +live is so connected with the name of Mac Carthy by those associations +which are never forgotten in Ireland, that they have preserved with +all ranks a sort of influence much greater than that which their +fortune or connexions could otherwise give them. They are, like most +of this class, of the Roman Catholic persuasion, to which they adhere +with somewhat of the pride of ancestry, blended with a something, call +it what you will, whether bigotry, or a sense of wrong, arising out of +repeated diminutions of their family possessions, during the more +rigorous periods of the penal laws. Being an old family, and +especially being an old Catholic family, they have of course their +Banshee; and the circumstances under which the appearance, which I +shall relate, of this mysterious harbinger of death, took place, were +told me by an old lady, a near connexion of theirs, who knew many of +the parties concerned, and who, though not deficient in understanding +or education, cannot to this day be brought to give a decisive opinion +as to the truth or authenticity of the story. The plain inference to +be drawn from this is, that she believes it, though she does not own +it; and as she was a contemporary of the persons concerned—as she +heard the account from many persons about the same period, all +concurring in the important particulars—as some of her authorities +were themselves actors in the scene—and as none of the parties were +interested in speaking what was false; I think we have about as good +evidence that the whole is undeniably true as we have of many +narratives of modern history, which I could name, and which many grave +and sober-minded people would deem it very great pyrrhonism to +question. This, however, is a point which it is not my province to +determine. People who deal out stories of this sort must be content to +act like certain young politicians, who tell very freely to their +friends what they hear at a great man’s table; not guilty of the +impertinence of weighing the doctrines, and leaving it to their +hearers to understand them in any sense, or in no sense, just as they +may please. + +Charles Mac Carthy was, in the year 1749, the only surviving son of a +very numerous family. His father died when he was little more than +twenty, leaving him the Mac Carthy estate, not much encumbered, +considering that it was an Irish one. Charles was gay, handsome, +unfettered either by poverty, a father, or guardians, and therefore +was not at the age of one-and-twenty, a pattern of regularity and +virtue. In plain terms, he was an exceedingly dissipated—I fear I may +say debauched young man. His companions were, as may be supposed, of +the higher classes of the youth in his neighbourhood, and, in general, +of those whose fortunes were larger than his own, whose dispositions +to pleasure were therefore under still less restrictions, and in whose +example he found at once an incentive and an apology for his +irregularities. Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not very +remarkable for the coolness and steadiness of its youth, was then one +of the cheapest countries in the world in most of those articles which +money supplies for the indulgence of the passions. The odious +exciseman, with his portentous book in one hand, his unrelenting pen +held in the other, or stuck beneath his hat-band, and the +ink-bottle (‘black emblem of the informer’) dangling from his +waist-coat-button—went not then from ale-house to ale-house, +denouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirit, who preferred +selling whisky, which had nothing to do with English laws (but to +elude them,) to retailing that poisonous liquor, which derived its +name from the British “parliament,” that compelled its circulation +among a reluctant people. Or if the gauger—recording angel of the +law—wrote down the peccadillo of a publican, he dropped a tear upon +the word, and blotted it out for ever! For, welcome to the tables of +their hospitable neighbours, the guardians of the excise, where they +existed at all, scrupled to abridge those luxuries which they freely +shared; and thus the competition in the market between the smuggler, +who incurred little hazard, and the personage ycleped fair trader, who +enjoyed little protection, made Ireland a land flowing, not merely +with milk and honey, but with whisky and wine. In the enjoyments +supplied by these, and in the many kindred pleasures to which frail +youth is but too prone, Charles Mac Carthy indulged to such a degree, +that just about the time when he had completed his four-and-twentieth +year, after a week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent +fever, which, from its malignity, and the weakness of his frame, left +scarcely a hope of his recovery. His mother, who had at first made +many efforts to check his vices, and at last had been obliged to look +on at his rapid progress to ruin in silent despair, watched day and +night at his pillow. The anguish of parental feeling was blended with +that still deeper misery which those only know who have striven hard +to rear in virtue and piety a beloved and favourite child; have found +him grow up all that their hearts could desire, until he reached +manhood; and then, when their pride was highest, and their hopes +almost ended in the fulfilment of their fondest expectations, have +seen this idol of their affections plunge headlong into a course of +reckless profligacy, and, after a rapid career of vice, hang upon the +verge of eternity, without the leisure for, or the power of, +repentance. Fervently she prayed that, if his life could not be +spared, at least the delirium, which continued with increasing +violence from the first few hours of his disorder, might vanish before +death, and leave enough of light and of calm for making his peace with +offended Heaven. After several days, however, nature seemed quite +exhausted, and he sunk into a state to like death to be mistaken for +the repose of sleep. His face had that pale, glossy, marble look, +which is in general so sure a symptom that life has left its tenement +of clay. His eyes were closed and sunk; the lids having that +compressed and stiffened appearance which seemed to indicate that some +friendly hand had done its last office. The lips, half-closed and +perfectly ashy, discovered just so much of the teeth as to give to the +features of death their most ghastly, but most impressive look. He lay +upon his back, with his hands stretched beside, quite motionless; and +his distracted mother, after repeated trials, could discover not the +least symptom of animation. The medical man who attended, having tried +the usual modes for ascertaining the presence of life, declared at +last his opinion that it was flown, and prepared to depart from the +house of mourning. His horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of +people who were collected before the windows, or scattered in groups +on the lawn in front, gathered round when the door opened. These were +tenants, fosterers, and poor relations of the family, with others +attracted by affection, or by that interest which partakes of +curiosity, but is something more, and which collects the lower ranks +round a house where a human being is in his passage to another world. +They saw the professional man come out from the hall door and approach +his horse, and while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to +mount, they clustered round him with inquiring and wishful looks. Not +a word was spoken; but their meaning could not be misunderstood; and +the physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant +was still holding the bridle, as if to delay him, and was looking +anxiously at his face, as if expecting that he would relieve the +general suspense, shook his head, and said in a low voice, “It’s all +over, James;” and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the +women present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which, +having been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a +full, loud, continued and discordant but plaintive wailing, above +which occasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man’s voice, +sometimes in broken sobs, sometimes in more distinct exclamations of +sorrow. This was Charles’s foster-brother, who moved about in the +crowd, now clapping his hands, now rubbing them together in an agony +of grief. The poor fellow had been Charles’s playmate and companion +when a boy, and afterwards his servant; had always been distinguished +by his peculiar regard, and loved his young master, as much, at least, +as he did his own life. + +When Mrs. Mac Carthy became convinced that the blow was indeed struck, +and that her beloved son was sent to his last account, even in the +blossoms of his sin, she remained for some time gazing with fixedness +upon his cold features; then, as if something had suddenly touched the +string of her tenderest affections, tear after tear trickled down her +cheeks, pale with anxiety and watching. Still she continued looking at +her son, apparently unconscious that she was weeping, without once +lifting her handkerchief to her eyes, until reminded of the sad duties +which the custom of the country imposed upon her, by the crowd of +females belonging to the better class of the peasantry, who now, +crying audibly, nearly filled the apartment. She then withdrew, to +give directions for the ceremony of waking, and for supplying the +numerous visiters of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these +melancholy occasions. Though her voice was scarcely heard, and though +no one saw her but the servants and one or two old followers of the +family, who assisted her in the necessary arrangements, every thing +was conducted with the greatest regularity; and though she made no +effort to check her sorrows, they never once suspended her attention, +now more than ever required to preserve order in her household, which, +in this season of calamity, but for her would have been all confusion. + +The night was pretty far advanced; the boisterous lamentations which +had prevailed during part of the day in and about the house had given +place to a solemn and mournful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose +heart, notwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore +for sleep, was kneeling in fervent prayer in a chamber adjoining that +of her son:—suddenly her devotions were disturbed by an unusual +noise, proceeding from the persons who were watching round the body. +First, there was a low murmur—then all was silent, as if the +movements of those in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic—and +then a loud cry of terror burst from all within:—the door of the +chamber was thrown open, and all who were not overturned in the press +rushed wildly into the passage which led to the stairs, and into which +Mrs. Mac Carthy’s room opened. Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through +the crowd into her son’s chamber, where she found him sitting up in +the bed, and looking vacantly around like one risen from the grave. +The glare thrown upon his sunk features and thin lathy frame gave an +unearthly horror to his whole aspect. Mrs. Mac Carthy was a woman of +some firmness; but she was a woman, and not quite free from the +superstitions of her country. She dropped on her knees, and, clasping +her hands, began to pray aloud. The form before her moved only its +lips and barely uttered, “Mother;”—but though the pale lips moved, as +if there was a design to finish the sentence, the tongue refused its +office. Mrs. Mac Carthy sprung forward, and catching the arm of her +son, exclaimed, “Speak! in the name of God and his saints, speak! are +you alive?” + +He turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent +difficulty, “Yes, my mother, alive, and—— But sit down and collect +yourself; I have that to tell, which will astonish you still more than +what you have seen.” He leaned back on his pillow, and while his +mother remained kneeling by the bed-side, holding one of his hands +clasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who +distrusted all her senses, he proceeded:—“do not interrupt me until +I have done. I wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is +upon me, as I know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement +of my illness I have only a confused recollection; but within the last +twelve hours, I have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not +stare incredulously on me—’tis as true as have been my crimes, and, +as I trust, shall be my repentance. I saw the awful Judge arrayed in +all the terrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice. +The dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence, I saw,—I remember. It is +fixed here; printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it +passeth human language. What I _can_ describe I _will_—I may speak it +briefly. It is enough to say, I was weighed in the balance and found +wanting. The irrevocable sentence was upon the point of being +pronounced; the eye of my Almighty Judge, which had already glanced +upon me, half spoke my doom; when I observed the guardian saint, to +whom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child, looking at +me with an expression of benevolence and compassion. I stretched forth +my hands to him, and besought his intercession; I implored that one +year, one month might be given to me on earth, to do penance and +atonement for my transgressions. He threw himself at the feet of my +Judge, and supplicated for mercy. Oh! never—not if I should pass +through ten thousand successive states of being—never, for eternity, +shall I forget the horrors of that moment, when my fate hung +suspended—when an instant was to decide whether torments unutterable +were to be my portion for endless ages? But Justice suspended its +decree, and Mercy spoke in accents of firmness, but mildness, ‘Return +to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him +who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for +repentance; when these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be +saved or lost for ever.’—I heard no more; I saw no more, until I +awoke to life, the moment before you entered.” + +Charles’s strength continued just long enough to finish these last +words, and on uttering them he closed his eyes, and lay quite +exhausted. His mother, though, as was before said, somewhat disposed +to give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or +not she should believe that, although awakened from a swoon, which +might have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the +influence of delirium. Repose, however, was at all events necessary, +and she took immediate measures that he should enjoy it undisturbed. +After some hours’ sleep, he awoke refreshed, and thenceforward +gradually but steadily recovered. + +Still he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at first +related it; and his persuasion of its reality had an obvious and +decided influence on his habits and conduct. He did not altogether +abandon the society of his former associates, for his temper was not +soured by his reformation; but he never joined in their excesses, and +often endeavoured to reclaim them. How his pious exertions succeeded, +I have never learnt; but of himself it is recorded, that he was +religious without ostentation, and temperate without austerity; giving +a practical proof that vice may be exchanged for virtue, without a +loss of respectability, popularity, or happiness. + +Time rolled on, and long before the three years were ended, the story +of his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken of, was usually mentioned +as an instance proving the folly of believing in such things. +Charles’s health from the temperance and regularity of his habits, +became more robust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion +to rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demeanour, +which grew upon him as he approached the completion of his +seven-and-twentieth year, but for the most part his manner exhibited +the same animation and cheerfulness for which he had always been +remarkable. In company he evaded every endeavour to draw from him a +distinct opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction; but among +his own family it was well known that he still firmly believed it. +However, when the day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was, if +at all, to be fulfilled, his whole appearance gave such promise of a +long and healthy life, that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a +large party to an entertainment at Spring House, to celebrate his +birth-day. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances +which attended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the +following letters, which have been carefully preserved by some +relations of his family. The first is from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady, +a very near connexion and valued friend of hers, who lived in the +county of Cork, at about fifty miles’ distance from Spring House. + + _“To Mrs. Barry, Castle Barry._ + + Spring House, Tuesday morning, + October 15th, 1752. + + “MY DEAREST MARY, + + “I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old + friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days’ journey at + this season, over bad roads and through a troubled country, it + will indeed require friendship such as yours to persuade a + sober woman to encounter. But the truth is, I have, or fancy I + have, more than usual cause for wishing you near me. You know + my son’s story. I can’t tell how it is, but as next Sunday + approaches, when the prediction of his dream or his vision will + be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the heart, which + I cannot suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will + soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew, James + Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you know, is my + son’s ward,) and the bridal entertainment will take place here + on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded hard to have it + postponed a day or two longer. Would to God—but no more of + this till we meet. Do prevail upon yourself to leave your good + man for _one_ week, if his farming concerns will not admit of + his accompanying you; and come to us with the girls, as soon + before Sunday as you can. + + “Ever my dear Mary’s attached cousin and friend, + “ANN MAC CARTHY.” + +Although this letter reached Castle Barry early on Wednesday, the +messenger having travelled on foot, over bog and moor, by paths +impassable to horse or carriage, Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on +going, had so many arrangements to make for the regulation of her +domestic affairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the +gentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the family is +away,) that she and her two younger daughters were unable to leave +home until late on the morning of Friday. The eldest daughter +remained, to keep her father company, and superintend the concerns of +the household. As the travellers were to journey in an open one-horse +vehicle, called a jaunting-car (still used in Ireland,) and as the +roads, bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains, +it was their design to make two easy stages; to stop about mid-way the +first night, and reach Spring House early on Saturday evening. This +arrangement was now altered, as they found that from the lateness of +their departure, they could proceed, at the utmost, no further than +twenty miles on the first day; and they therefore purposed sleeping at +the house of a Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat +less than that distance from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke’s +in safety, after rather a disagreeable drive. What befell them on +their journey the next day to the Spring House, and after their +arrival there, is fully related in a letter from the second Miss Barry +to her eldest sister. + + “Spring House, Sunday evening, + 20th October, 1752. + + “DEAR ELLEN, + + “As my mother’s letter, which encloses this, will announce to + you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more + fully, I think it better to go regularly through the recital of + the extraordinary events of the last two days. + + “The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night, that yesterday + was pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and + the day closed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from + this place. The roads were excessively deep, from the heavy + rains of the last week, and we proceeded so slowly, that at + last my mother resolved on passing the night at the house of + Mr. Bourke’s brother (who lives about a quarter of a mile off + the road), and coming here to breakfast in the morning. The day + had been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy, + and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone clear and + bright; at others, it was wholly concealed behind the thick, + black, and rugged masses of clouds, that rolled rapidly along, + and were every moment becoming larger, and collecting together, + as if gathering strength for a coming storm. The wind, which + blew in our faces, whistled bleakly along the low hedges of the + narrow road, on which we proceeded with difficulty from the + number of deep sloughs, and which afforded not the least + shelter, no plantation being within some miles of us. My + mother, therefore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car, how + far we were from Mr. Bourke’s. ‘’Tis about ten spades from this + to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into + the avenue, ma’am.’ ‘Very well, Leary: turn up to Mr. Bourke’s + as soon as you reach the cross roads.’ My mother had scarcely + spoken these words, when a shriek that made us thrill as if our + very hearts were pierced by it, burst from the hedge to the + right of our way. If it resembled any thing earthly, it seemed + the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and + giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring agony. + ‘Heaven defend us!’ exclaimed my mother. ‘Go you over the + hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead, + while we run back to the hut we just passed, and alarm the + village near it.’ ‘Woman!’ said Leary, beating the horse + violently, while his voice trembled—‘that’s no woman: the + sooner we get on, ma’am, the better;’ and he continued his + efforts to quicken the horse’s pace. We saw nothing. The moon + was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some time + expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken, + and had succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we + distinctly heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a + succession of screams, that seemed to denote the last excess of + despair and anguish, and to issue from a person running forward + inside the hedge, to keep pace with our progress. Still we saw + nothing; until, when we were within about ten yards of the + place where an avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke’s to the left, + and the road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon + started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to see, as + plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall thin + woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her + shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose + white cloak, or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on + the corner hedge, where the road on which we were, met that + which leads to Spring House, with her face towards us, her left + hand pointing to this place, and her right arm waving rapidly + and violently, as if to draw us on in that direction. The horse + had stopped, apparently frightened at the sudden presence of + the figure, which stood in the manner I have described, still + uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a minute. It + then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for one + instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a + little way up the avenue, on which we proposed going, still + pointing towards the road to Spring House, but in an attitude + of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage + up the avenue. The figure was now quite silent, and its + garments, which had before flown loosely in the wind, were + closely wrapped around it. ‘Go on, Leary, to Spring House, in + God’s name,’ said my mother; ‘whatever world it belongs to, we + will provoke it no longer.’ ‘’Tis the Banshee, ma’am,’ said + Leary; ‘and I would not, for what my life is worth, go any + where this blessed night but to Spring House. But I’m afraid + there’s something bad going forward, or _she_ would not send us + there.’ So saying, he drove forward; and as we turned on the + road to the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we + saw the apparition no more; but we heard plainly a prolonged + clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it issued from a + person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as the + badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that + drew us would allow, and arrived here about eleven o’clock last + night. The scene which awaited us you have learned from my + mother’s letter. To explain it fully, I must recount to you + some of the transactions which took place here during the last + week. + + “You are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been married this + day to James Ryan, and that they and their friends have been + here for the last week. On Tuesday last, the very day on the + morning of which cousin Mac Carthy despatched the letter + inviting us here, the whole of the company were walking about + the grounds a little before dinner. It seems that an + unfortunate creature, who had been seduced by James Ryan, was + seen prowling in the neighbourhood in a moody melancholy state + for some days previous. He had separated from her for several + months, and, they say, had provided for her rather handsomely; + but she had been seduced by the promise of his marrying her; + and the shame of her unhappy condition, uniting with + disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects. + During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday, she had been walking + in the plantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded + tight around her, the hood nearly covering her face; and she + had avoided conversing with or even meeting any of the family. + + “Charles Mac Carthy, at the time I mentioned, was walking + between James Ryan and another, at a little distance from the + rest, on a gravel path, skirting a shrubbery. The whole party + were thrown into the utmost consternation by the report of a + pistol, fired from a thickly planted part of the shrubbery, + which Charles and his companions had just passed. He fell + instantly, and it was found that he had been wounded in the + leg. One of the party was a medical man; his assistance was + immediately given, and, on examining, he declared that the + injury was very slight, that no bone was broken, that it was + merely a flesh wound, and that it would certainly be well in a + few days. ‘We shall know more by Sunday,’ said Charles, as he + was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately dressed, + and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave, that several + of his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apartment. + + “On inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the + poor girl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that she had + aimed, not at Charles, but at the destroyer of her innocence + and happiness, who was walking beside him. After a fruitless + search for her through the grounds, she walked into the house + of her own accord, laughing, and dancing and singing wildly, + and every moment exclaiming that she had at last killed Mr. + Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles, and not Mr. Ryan, who + was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which, after + working convulsively for some time, she sprung to the door, + escaped from the crowd that pursued her, and could never be + taken until last night, when she was brought here, perfectly + frantic, a little before our arrival. + + “Charles’s wound was thought of such little consequence, that + the preparations went forward, as usual, for the wedding + entertainment on Sunday. But on Friday night he grew restless + and feverish, and on Saturday (yesterday) morning felt so ill, + that it was deemed necessary to obtain additional medical + advice. Two physicians and a surgeon met in consultation about + twelve o’clock in the day, and the dreadful intelligence was + announced, that unless a change, hardly hoped for, took place + before night, death must happen within twenty-four hours after. + The wound it seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and + otherwise injudiciously treated. The physicians were right in + their anticipations. No favourable symptom appeared, and long + before we reached Spring House every ray of hope had vanished. + The scene we witnessed on our arrival would have wrung the + heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the gate that Mr. Charles + was upon his death-bed. When we reached the house, the + information was confirmed by the servant who opened the door. + But just as we entered, we were horrified by the most appalling + screams issuing from the staircase. My mother thought she heard + the voice of poor Mrs. Mac Carthy, and sprung forward. We + followed, and on ascending a few steps of the stairs, we found + a young woman, in a state of frantic passion, struggling + furiously with two men-servants, whose united strength was + hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing up stairs over the + body of Mrs. Mac Carthy, who was lying in strong hysterics upon + the steps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the unhappy girl + I before described, who was attempting to gain access to + Charles’s room, to ‘get his forgiveness,’ as she said, ‘before + he went away to accuse her for having killed him.’ This wild + idea was mingled with another, which seemed to dispute with the + former possession of her mind. In one sentence she called on + Charles to forgive her, in the next she would denounce James + Ryan as the murderer both of Charles and her. At length she was + torn away; and the last words I heard her scream were, ‘James + Ryan, ’twas you killed him, and not I—’twas you killed him, + and not I.’ + + “Mrs. Mac Carthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of my + mother, whose presence seemed a great relief to her. She wept + the first tears, I was told, that she had shed since the fatal + accident. She conducted us to Charles’s room, who she said, had + desired to see us the moment of our arrival, as he found his + end approaching, and wished to devote the last hours of his + existence to uninterrupted prayer and meditation. We found him + perfectly calm, resigned, and even cheerful. He spoke of the + awful event which was at hand with courage and confidence, and + treated it as a doom for which he had been preparing ever since + his former remarkable illness, and which he never once doubted + was truly foretold to him. He bade us farewell with the air of + one who was about to travel a short and easy journey; and we + left him with impressions which, notwithstanding all their + anguish, will, I trust, never entirely forsake us. + + “Poor Mrs. Mac Carthy——but I am just called away. There seems + a slight stir in the family; perhaps——” + +The above letter was never finished. The enclosure to which it more +than once alludes, told the sequel briefly, and it is all that I have +farther learned of this branch of the Mac Carthy family. Before the +sun had gone down upon Charles’s seven-and-twentieth birth-day, his +soul had gone to render its last account to its Creator. + + “BANSHEE, correctly written she-fairies or women fairies, + credulously supposed, by the common people, to be so affected + to certain families, that they are heard to sing mournful + lamentations about their houses at night, whenever any of the + family labours under a sickness which is to end in death. But + no families which are not of an ancient and noble stock are + believed to be honoured with this fairy privilege.”—O’BRIEN’S + _Irish Dictionary_. + + For accounts of the appearance of the Irish Banshee, see + “Personal Sketches, &c. by Sir Jonah Barrington;” Miss Lefanu’s + Memoirs of her Grandmother, Mrs. Frances Sheridan (1824,) p. + 32; “The Memoirs of Lady Fanshaw” (quoted by Sir Walter Scott + in a note on “the Lady of the Lake,”) &c. + + Sir Walter Scott terms the belief in the appearance of the + Banshee “one of the most beautiful” of the leading + superstitions of Europe. In his “Letters on Demonology,” he + says that “several families of the Highlands of Scotland + anciently laid claim to the distinction of an attendant spirit, + who performed the office of the Irish Banshee,” and + particularly refers to the supernatural cries and lamentations + which foreboded the death of the gallant Mac Lean of Lochbuy. + + “The Welsh Gwrâch y Rhibyn (or the hag of the Dribble) bears + some resemblance to the Irish Banshee, being regarded as an + omen of death. She is said to come after dusk and flap her + leathern wings against the window where she warns of death, and + in a broken, howling tone, to call on the one who is to quit + mortality by his or her name several times, as thus, + _A-a-a-n-ni-i-i-i! Anni._”—_MS. Communication from_ DR. OWEN + PUGHE. For some farther particulars, see, in “A Relation of + Apparitions, &c. by the Rev. Edmund Jones,” his account of the + _Kyhirraeth_, “a doleful foreboding noise before death;” and + Howell’s “Cambrian Superstitions,” (Tipton, 1831,) p. 31. + + The reader will probably remember the White Lady of the House + of Brandenburgh, and the fairy Melusine, who usually + prognosticated the recurrence of mortality in some noble family + of Poitou. Prince, in his “Worthies of Devon,” records the + appearance of a white bird performing the same office for the + worshipful lineage of Oxenham. + + “In the Tyrol, too, they believe in a spirit which looks in at + the window of the house in which a person is to die (_Deutsche + Sagen_, No. 266;) the white woman with a veil over her head + (267,) answers to the Banshee; but the tradition of the + _Klage-weib_ (mourning woman,) in the _Lüneburger Heath_ + (_Spiels Archiv._ ii. 297,) resembles it still more closely. On + stormy nights, when the moon shines faintly through the + fleeting clouds, she stalks, of gigantic stature, with + death-like aspect, and black hollow eyes, wrapt in + grave-clothes which float in the wind, and stretches her + immense arm over the solitary hut, uttering lamentable cries in + the tempestuous darkness. Beneath the roof over which the + _Klage-weib_ has leaned, one of the inmates must die in the + course of the month.”—THE BROTHERS GRIMM, _and MS. + Communication from_ DR. WILLIAM GRIMM. + + + + +LEGENDS OF THE PHOOKA. + + “Ne let house-fires, nor lightnings’ helpless harms, + Ne let the _Pouke_, nor other evil spright, + Ne let mischievous witches with their charms, + Ne let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not, + Fray us with things that be not.” + SPENSER. + + + + +THE SPIRIT HORSE. + +XIV. + + +The history of Morty Sullivan ought to be a warning to all young men +to stay at home, and to live decently and soberly if they can, and not +to go roving about the world. Morty, when he had just turned of +fourteen, ran away from his father and mother, who were a mighty +respectable old couple, and many and many a tear they shed on his +account. It is said they both died heart-broken for his loss: all they +ever learned about him was that he went on board of a ship bound to +America. + +Thirty years after the old couple had been laid peacefully in their +graves, there came a stranger to Beerhaven inquiring after them—it +was their son Morty; and, to speak the truth of him, his heart did +seem full of sorrow when he heard that his parents were dead and +gone;—but what else could he expect to hear? Repentance generally +comes when it is too late. + +Morty Sullivan, however, as an atonement for his sins, was recommended +to perform a pilgrimage to the blessed chapel of Saint Gobnate, which +is in a wild place called Ballyvourney. + +This he readily undertook: and willing to lose no time, commenced his +journey the same afternoon. He had not proceeded many miles before the +evening came on: there was no moon, and the star-light was obscured by +a thick fog, which ascended from the valleys. His way was through a +mountainous country, with many cross-paths and by-ways, so that it was +difficult for a stranger like Morty to travel without a guide. He was +anxious to reach his destination, and exerted himself to do so; but +the fog grew thicker and thicker, and at last he became doubtful if +the track he was in led to the blessed chapel of Saint Gobnate. But +seeing a light which he imagined not to be far off, he went towards +it, and when he thought himself close to it, the light suddenly seemed +at a great distance, twinkling dimly through the fog. Though Morty +felt some surprise at this, he was not disheartened, for he thought +that it was a light sent by the holy Saint Gobnate to guide his feet +through the mountains to her chapel. + +And thus did he travel for many a mile, continually, as he believed, +approaching the light, which would suddenly start off to a great +distance. At length he came so close as to perceive that the light +came from a fire: seated beside which he plainly saw an old +woman;—then, indeed, his faith was a little shaken, and much did he +wonder that both the fire and the old woman should travel before him, +so many weary miles, and over such uneven roads. + +“In the holy names of the pious Gobnate, and of her preceptor Saint +Abban,” said Morty, “how can that burning fire move on so fast before +me, and who can that old woman be sitting beside the moving fire?” + +These words had no sooner passed Morty’s lips than he found himself, +without taking another step, close to this wonderful fire, beside +which the old woman was sitting munching her supper. With every wag of +the old woman’s jaw her eyes would roll fiercely upon Morty, as if she +was angry at being disturbed; and he saw with more astonishment than +ever that her eyes were neither black, nor blue, nor gray, nor hazel, +like the human eye, but of a wild red colour, like the eye of a +ferret. If before he wondered at the fire, much greater was his wonder +at the old woman’s appearance; and stout-hearted as he was, he could +not but look upon her with fear—judging, and judging rightly, that it +was for no good purpose her supping in so unfrequented a place, and at +so late an hour, for it was near midnight. She said not one word, +but munched and munched away, while Morty looked at her in +silence.—“What’s your name?” at last demanded the old hag, a +sulphureous puff coming out of her mouth, her nostrils distending, and +her eyes growing redder than ever, when she had finished her question. + +Plucking up all his courage, “Morty Sullivan,” replied he “at your +service;” meaning the latter words only in civility. + +“_Ubbubbo!_” said the old woman, “we’ll soon see that;” and the red +fire of her eyes turned into a pale green colour. Bold and fearless as +Morty was, yet much did he tremble at hearing this dreadful +exclamation: he would have fallen down on his knees and prayed to +Saint Gobnate, or any other saint, for he was not particular; but he +was so petrified with horror, that he could not move in the slightest +way, much less go down on his knees. + +“Take hold of my hand, Morty,” said the old woman: “I’ll give you a +horse to ride that will soon carry you to your journey’s end.” So +saying, she led the way, the fire going before them;—it is beyond +mortal knowledge to say how, but on it went, shooting out bright +tongues of flame, and flickering fiercely. + +Presently they came to a natural cavern in the side of the mountain, +and the old hag called aloud in a most discordant voice for her horse! +In a moment a jet-black steed started from its gloomy stable, the +rocky floor whereof rung with a sepulchral echo to the clanging +hoofs. + +“Mount, Morty, mount!” cried she, seizing him with supernatural +strength, and forcing him upon the back of the horse. Morty finding +human power of no avail, muttered, “O that I had spurs!” and tried to +grasp the horse’s mane; but he caught at a shadow; it nevertheless +bore him up and bounded forward with him, now springing down a fearful +precipice, now clearing the rugged bed of a torrent, and rushing like +the dark midnight storm through the mountains. + +The following morning Morty Sullivan was discovered by some pilgrims +(who came that way after taking their rounds at Gougane Barra) lying +on the flat of his back, under a steep cliff, down which he had been +flung by the Phooka. Morty was severely bruised by the fall, and he is +said to have sworn on the spot, by the hand of O’Sullivan (and that is +no small oath),[15] never again to take a full quart bottle of whisky +with him on a pilgrimage. + + [15] “Nulla manus, + Tam liberalis + Atque generalis + Atque universalis + Quam Sullivanis.” + + + + +DANIEL O’ROURKE. + +XV. + + +People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke, +but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above +and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the +walls of the Phooka’s tower! I knew the man well; he lived at the +bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right hand side of the road as you +go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time that he told me the +story, with gray hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June, +1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe +under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from +the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent +the morning at Glengariff. + +“I am often _axed_ to tell it, sir,” said he, “so that this is not the +first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond foreign +parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before +Bonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner +given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and +low, rich and poor. The _ould_ gentlemen were the gentlemen, after +all, saving your honour’s presence. They’d swear at a body a little, +to be sure, and may be, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we +were no losers by it in the end;—and they were so easy and civil, and +kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes;—and there was +no grinding for rent, and few agents; and there was hardly a tenant on +the estate that did not taste of his landlord’s bounty often and often +in the year;—but now it’s another thing: no matter for that, sir; for +I’d better be telling you my story. + +“Well, we had every thing of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate, +and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token +danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bohereen—a lovely young couple they +were, though they are both low enough now. To make a long story short, +I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost; for I can’t +remember ever at all, no ways, how it was I left the place: only I did +leave it, that’s certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself, +I’d just step to Molly Cronohan’s, the fairy woman, to speak a word +about the bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so as I was crossing +the stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyasheenough, and was looking up +at the stars and blessing myself—for why? it was Lady-day—I missed +my foot, and souse I fell into the water. ‘Death alive!’ thought I, +‘I’ll be drowned now!’ However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming +away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other, +but never the one of me can tell how, upon a _dissolute_ island. + +“I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I +wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as +bright as day, or your fair lady’s eyes, sir, (with your pardon for +mentioning her,) and I looked east and west, and north and south, and +every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog;—I could never +find out how I got into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure +and certain I was that it would be my _berrin_ place. So I sat down +upon a stone which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I +began to scratch my head and sing the _Ullagone_—when all of a sudden +the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the +world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell +what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the +face; and what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from +the kingdom of Kerry. + +“So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ‘Daniel O’Rourke,’ +says he, ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’ says I: ‘I +hope you’re well;’ wondering out of my senses all the time how an +eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘What brings you here, Dan?’ +says he. ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ says I: ‘only I wish I was safe home +again.’ ‘Is it out of the Island you want to go, Dan?’ says he. ‘’Tis, +sir,’ says I: so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much and +fell into the water; how I swam to the Island; and how I got into the +bog, and did not know my way out of it. ‘Dan,’ says he, after a +minute’s thought, ‘though it is very improper for you to get drunk on +Lady-day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who ’tends mass well, and +never flings stones at me nor mine, nor cries out after us in the +fields—my life for yours,’ says he; ‘so get up on my back, and grip +me well for fear you’d fall off, and I’ll fly you out of the bog.’ ‘I +am afraid,’ says I, ‘your honour’s making game of me; for who ever +heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before?’ ‘’Pon the honour of a +gentleman,’ says he, putting his right foot on his breast, ‘I am quite +in earnest; and so now either take my offer or starve in the +bog—besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.’ + +“It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute +going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint +heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance:—‘I thank +your honour,’ says I, ‘for the loan of your civility; and I’ll take +your kind offer.’ I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and +held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a +lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up—up—up—I +know not how far up he flew. + +“‘Why, then,’ said I to him,—thinking he did not know the right road +home—very civilly, because why?—I was in his power entirely;—‘sir,’ +says I, ‘please your honour’s glory, and with humble submission to +your better judgment, if you’d fly down a bit, you’re now just over my +cabin, and I could put down there, and many thanks to your worship.’ + +“‘_Arrah_, Dan,’ said he, ‘do you think me a fool? Look down in the +next field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it would +be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I +picked up off of a _cowld_ stone in a bog.’ ‘Bother you,’ said I to +myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up +he kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, +and all to no use. ‘Where in the world are you going, sir?’ says I to +him. ‘Hold your tongue, Dan,’ says he: ‘mind your own business, and +don’t be interfering with the business of other people.’ ‘Faith, this +is my business, I think,’ says I. ‘Be quiet, Dan,’ says he: so I said +no more. + +“At last, where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you +can’t see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a +reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way, (drawing +the figure thus [in-line illustration] on the ground with the end of +his stick.) + +“‘Dan,’ said the eagle, ‘I’m tired with this long fly; I had no +notion ’twas so far.’ ‘And my lord, sir,’ said I, ‘who in the world +_axed_ you to fly so far—was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and +beseech you to stop half an hour ago?’ ‘There’s no use talking, Dan,’ +said he; ‘I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on +the moon until I rest myself.’ ‘Is it sit down on the moon?’ said I; +‘is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I’d fall +off in a minute, and be _kilt_ and split, and smashed all to bits: you +are a vile deceiver,—so you are.’ ‘Not at all, Dan,’ said he: ‘you +can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that’s sticking out of the +side of the moon, and ’twill keep you up.’ ‘I won’t, then,’ said I. +‘May be not,’ said he, quite quiet. ‘If you don’t, my man, I shall +just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to +the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as +a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.’ ‘Why, then, I’m in a +fine way,’ said I to myself, ‘ever to have come along with the likes +of you;’ and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d know +what I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took a hold of the +reaping hook, and sat down upon the moon; and a mighty cold seat it +was, I can tell you that. + +“When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said, +‘Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he: ‘I think I’ve nicked +you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year,’ (’twas true enough for +him, but how he found it out is hard to say,) ‘and in return you are +freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a +cock-throw.’ + +“‘Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?’ says +I. ‘You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve me at +last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all your +breed, you blackguard.’ ’Twas all to no manner of use: he spread out +his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like +lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and +bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw +him from that day to this—sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I +was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare +grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon, +creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month +before. I suppose they never thought of greasing ’em, and out there +walks—who do you think but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by +his bush. + +“‘Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he: ‘How do you do?’ +‘Very well, thank your honour,’ said I. ‘I hope your honour’s well.’ +‘What brought you here, Dan?’ said he. So I told him how I was a +little overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a +_dissolute_ island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the +thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of +that he had flew me up to the moon. + +“‘Dan,’ said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was +done, ‘you must not stay here.’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ says I, ‘’tis much +against my will I’m here at all; but how am I to go back?’ ‘That’s +your business,’ said he, ‘Dan: mine is to tell you that here you must +not stay; so be off in less than no time.’ ‘I’m doing no harm,’ says +I, ‘only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.’ +‘That’s what you must not do, Dan,’ says he. ‘Pray, sir,’ says I, ‘may +I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor +traveller lodging: I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with +strangers coming to see you, for ’tis a long way.’ ‘I’m by myself, +Dan,’ says he; ‘but you’d better let go the reaping-hook.’ ‘Indeed, +and with your leave,’ says I, ‘I’ll not let go the grip, and the more +you bids me, the more I won’t let go;—so I will.’ ‘You had better, +Dan,’ says he again. ‘Why, then, my little fellow,’ says I, taking the +whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, ‘there are two +words to that bargain, and I’ll not budge, but you may if you like.’ +‘We’ll see how that is to be,’ says he; and back he went, giving the +door such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed), +that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it. + +“Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back +again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without +saying a word, he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook +that was keeping me up, and _whap_! it came in two. ‘Good morning to +you, Dan,’ says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me +cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand: ‘I thank +you for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.’ I had not +time to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and +rolling and rolling at the rate of a fox-hunt. ‘Now help me,’ says I, +‘but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this +time of night; I am now sold fairly.’ The word was not out of my +mouth, when whiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of +wild geese; all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenough, else how +should they know _me_? The _ould_ gander, who was their general, +turning about his head, cried out to me, ‘Is that you, Dan?’ ‘The +same,’ said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by +this time used to all kinds of _bedevilment_, and, besides, I knew him +of _ould_. ‘Good morrow to you,’ says he, ‘Daniel O’Rourke: how are +you in health this morning?’ ‘Very well, sir,’ says I, ‘I thank you +kindly,’ drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. ‘I +hope your honour’s the same.’ ‘I think ’tis falling you are, Daniel,’ +says he. ‘You may say that, sir,’ says I. ‘And where are you going all +the way so fast?’ said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the +drop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, +and how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man +in the moon turned me out. ‘Dan,’ said he, ‘I’ll save you: put out +your hand and catch me by the leg, and I’ll fly you home.’ ‘Sweet is +your hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,’ says I, though all the +time I thought in myself that I don’t much trust you; but there was no +help, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other +geese flew after him as fast as hops. + +“We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide +ocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking +up out of the water. ‘Ah! my lord,’ said I to the goose, for I thought +it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, ‘fly to land if you +please.’ ‘It is impossible, you see, Dan,’ said he, ‘for awhile, +because you see we are going to Arabia.’ ‘To Arabia!’ said I; ‘that’s +surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose: why then +to be sure, I’m a man to be pitied among you.’ ‘Whist, whist, you +fool,’ said he, ‘hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent +sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only +there is a little more sand there.’ + +“Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful +before the wind: ‘Ah! then, sir,’ said I, ‘will you drop me on the +ship, if you please?’ ‘We are not fair over it,’ said he. ‘We are,’ +said I. ‘We are not,’ said he: ‘If I dropped you now you would go +splash into the sea.’ ‘I would not,’ says I: ‘I know better than that, +for it’s just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.’ + +“‘If you must, you must,’ said he. ‘There, take your own way;’ and he +opened his claw, and indeed he was right—sure enough I came down +plump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I +went, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to +me, scratching himself after his night’s sleep, and looked me full in +the face, and never the word did he say, but lifting up his tail, he +splashed me all over again with the cold salt water, till there wasn’t +a dry stitch upon my whole carcass; and I heard somebody saying—’twas +a voice I knew too—‘Get up, you drunken brute, off of that;’ and with +that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she +was splashing all over me;—for, rest her soul! though she was a good +wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand +of her own. + +“‘Get up,’ said she again: ‘and of all places in the parish, would no +place _sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls of +Carrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.’ And sure +enough I had; for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, +and men of the moon, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me +through bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green +ocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I’d +lie down on the same spot again; I know that.” + + + + +THE CROOKENED BACK. + +XVI. + + +Peggy Barrett was once tall, well shaped, and comely. She was in her +youth remarkable for two qualities, not often found together, of being +the most thrifty housewife, and the best dancer in her native village +of Ballyhooley. But she is now upwards of sixty years old; and during +the last ten years of her life, she has never been able to stand +upright. Her back is bent nearly to a level; yet she has the freest +use of all her limbs that can be enjoyed in such a posture; her health +is good, and her mind vigorous; and, in the family of her eldest son, +with whom she has lived since the death of her husband, she performs +all the domestic services which her age, and the infirmity just +mentioned, allow. She washes the potatoes, makes the fire, sweeps the +house (labours in which she good-humouredly says “she finds her +crooked back mighty convenient”), plays with the children, and tells +stories to the family and their neighbouring friends, who often +collect round her son’s fire-side to hear them during the long winter +evenings. Her powers of conversation are highly extolled, both for +humour and in narration; and anecdotes of droll, awkward incidents, +connected with the posture in which she has been so long fixed, as +well as the history of the occurrence to which she owes that +misfortune, are favourite topics of her discourse. Among other +matters, she is fond of relating how, on a certain day at the close of +a bad harvest, when several tenants of the estate on which she lived +concerted in a field a petition for an abatement of rent, they placed +the paper on which they wrote upon her back, which was found no very +inconvenient substitute for a table. + +Peggy, like all experienced story-tellers, suited her tales, both in +length and subject, to the audience and the occasion. She knew that, +in broad daylight, when the sun shines brightly, and the trees are +budding, and the birds singing around us, when men and women, like +ourselves, are moving and speaking, employed variously in business or +amusement; she knew, in short (though certainly without knowing or +much caring wherefore), that when we are engaged about the realities +of life and nature, we want that spirit of credulity, without which +tales of the deepest interest will lose their power. At such times +Peggy was brief, very particular as to facts, and never dealt in the +marvellous. But round the blazing hearth of a Christmas evening, when +infidelity is banished from all companies, at least in low and simple +life, as a quality, to say the least of it, out of season; when the +winds of “dark December” whistled bleakly round the walls, and almost +through the doors of the little mansion, reminding its inmates, that +as the world is vexed by elements superior to human power, so it may +be visited by beings of a superior nature:—at such times would Peggy +Barrett give full scope to her memory, or her imagination, or both; +and upon one of these occasions, she gave the following circumstantial +account of the “crookening of her back.” + +“It was, of all days in the year, the day before May-day, that I went +out to the garden to weed the potatoes. I would not have gone out that +day, but I was dull in myself, and sorrowful, and wanted to be alone; +all the boys and girls were laughing and joking in the house, making +goaling-balls and dressing out ribands for the mummers next day. I +couldn’t bear it. ’Twas only at the Easter that was then past (and +that’s ten years last Easter—I won’t forget the time,) that I buried +my poor man; and I thought how gay and joyful I was, many a long year +before that, at the May-eve before our wedding, when with Robin by my +side, I sat cutting and sewing the ribands for the goaling-ball I was +to give the boys on the next day, proud to be preferred above all the +other girls of the banks of the Blackwater, by the handsomest boy and +the best hurler in the village; so I left the house and went to the +garden. I staid there all the day, and didn’t come home to dinner. I +don’t know how it was, but somehow I continued on, weeding, and +thinking sorrowfully enough, and singing over some of the old songs +that I sung many and many a time in the days that are gone, and for +them that never will come back to me to hear them. The truth is, I +hated to go and sit silent and mournful among the people in the house, +that were merry and young, and had the best of their days before them. +’Twas late before I thought of returning home, and I did not leave the +garden till some time after sunset. The moon was up; but though there +wasn’t a cloud to be seen, and though a star was winking here and +there in the sky, the day wasn’t long enough gone to have it clear +moonlight; still it shone enough to make every thing on one side of +the heavens look pale and silvery-like; and the thin white mist was +just beginning to creep along the fields. On the other side, near +where the sun was set, there was more of daylight, and the sky looked +angry, red, and fiery through the trees, like as if it was lighted up +by a great town burning below. Every thing was as silent as a +churchyard, only now and then one could hear far off a dog barking, or +a cow lowing after being milked. There wasn’t a creature to be seen on +the road or in the fields. I wondered at this first, but then I +remembered it was May-eve, and that many a thing, both good and bad, +would be wandering about that night, and that I ought to shun danger +as well as others. So I walked on as quick as I could, and soon came +to the end of the demesne wall, where the trees rise high and thick at +each side of the road, and almost meet at the top. My heart misgave me +when I got under the shade. There was so much light let down from the +opening above, that I could see about a stone-throw before me. All of +a sudden I heard a rustling among the branches, on the right side of +the road, and saw something like a small black goat, only with long +wide horns turned out instead of being bent backwards, standing upon +its hind legs upon the top of the wall, and looking down on me. My +breath was stopped, and I couldn’t move for near a minute. I couldn’t +help, somehow, keeping my eyes fixed on it; and it never stirred, but +kept looking in the same fixed way down at me. At last I made a rush, +and went on; but I didn’t go ten steps, when I saw the very same +sight, on the wall to the left of me, standing in exactly the same +manner, but three or four times as high, and almost as tall as the +tallest man. The horns looked frightful; it gazed upon me as before; +my legs shook, and my teeth chattered, and I thought I would drop +down dead every moment. At last I felt as if I was obliged to go +on—and on I went; but it was without feeling how I moved, or whether +my legs carried me. Just as I passed the spot where this frightful +thing was standing, I heard a noise as if something sprung from the +wall, and felt like as if a heavy animal plumped down upon me, and +held with the fore feet clinging to my shoulder, and the hind ones +fixed in my gown, that was folded and pinned up behind me. ’Tis the +wonder of my life ever since how I bore the shock; but so it was, I +neither fell, nor even staggered with the weight, but walked on as if +I had the strength of ten men, though I felt as if I couldn’t help +moving, and couldn’t stand still if I wished it. Though I gasped with +fear, I knew as well as I do now what I was doing. I tried to cry out, +but couldn’t; I tried to run, but wasn’t able; I tried to look back, +but my head and neck were as if they were screwed in a vice. I could +barely roll my eyes on each side, and then I could see, as clearly and +plainly as if it was in the broad light of the blessed sun, a black +and cloven foot planted upon each of my shoulders. I heard a low +breathing in my ear; I felt at every step I took, my leg strike back +against the feet of the creature that was on my back. Still I could do +nothing but walk straight on. At last I came within sight of the +house, and a welcome sight it was to me, for I thought I would be +released when I reached it. I soon came close to the door, but it was +shut; I looked at the little window, but it was shut too, for they +were more cautious about May-eve than I was; I saw the light inside, +through the chinks of the door; I heard ’em talking and laughing +within; I felt myself at three yards’ distance from them that would +die to save me;—and may the Lord save me from ever again feeling what +I did that night, when I found myself held by what couldn’t be good +nor friendly, but without the power to help myself, or to call my +friends, or to put out my hand to knock, or even to lift my leg to +strike the door, and let them know that I was outside it! ’Twas as if +my hands grew to my sides, and my feet were glued to the ground, or +had the weight of a rock fixed to them. At last I thought of blessing +myself; and my right hand, that would do nothing else, did that for +me. Still the weight remained on my back, and all was as before. I +blessed myself again: ’twas still all the same. I then gave myself up +for lost: but I blessed myself a third time, and my hand no sooner +finished the sign, than all at once I felt the burden spring off of my +back; the door flew open as if a clap of thunder burst it, and I was +pitched forward on my forehead, in upon the middle of the floor. When +I got up my back was crookened, and I never stood straight from that +night to this blessed hour.” + +There was a pause when Peggy Barrett finished. Those who heard the +story before had listened with a look of half-satisfied interest, +blended, however, with an expression of that serious and solemn +feeling, which always attends a tale of supernatural wonders, how +often soever told. They moved upon their seats out of the posture in +which they had remained fixed during the narrative, and sat in an +attitude which denoted that their curiosity as to the cause of this +strange occurrence had been long since allayed. Those to whom it was +before unknown still retained their look and posture of strained +attention, and anxious but solemn expectation. A grandson of Peggy’s, +about nine years old (not the child of the son with whom she lived,) +had never before heard the story. As it grew in interest, he was +observed to cling closer and closer to the old woman’s side; and at +the close he was gazing steadfastly at her, with his body bent back +across her knees, and his face turned up to hers, with a look, through +which a disposition to weep seemed contending with curiosity. After a +moment’s pause, he could no longer restrain his impatience, and +catching her gray locks in one hand, while a tear of dread and wonder +was just dropping from his eye-lash, he cried, “Granny, what was it?” + +The old woman smiled first at the elder part of her audience, and then +at her grandson, and patting him on the forehead, she said, “It was +the Phooka.” + + The _Pouke_ or _Phooka_, as the word is pronounced, means, in + plain terms, the Evil One. “Playing the puck,” a common + Anglo-Irish phrase, is equivalent to “playing the devil.” Much + learning has been displayed in tracing this word through + various languages, vide Quarterly Review [vol. xxii. &c.] The + commentators on Shakspeare derive the beautiful and frolicksome + Puck of the Midsummer Night’s Dream from the mischievous + Pouke.—Vide Drayton’s Nymphidia. + + “This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt, + Still walking like a ragged colt,” &c. + + In Golding’s translation of Ovid’s Metamorphoses (1587) we + find, + + “—— and the countrie where Chgmæra, that same _Pooke_, + Hath goatish bodie,” &c. + + * * * * * + + The Irish Phooka, in its nature, perfectly resembles the + _Mahr_; and we have only to observe, that there is a particular + German tradition of a spirit, which sits among reeds and alder + bushes; and which, like the Phooka, leaps upon the back of + those who pass by in the night, and does not leave them till + they faint and fall to the earth. + + THE BROTHERS GRIMM. + + + + +THIERNA NA OGE. + + “On Lough-Neagh’s bank, as the fisherman strays, + When the clear cold eve’s declining, + He sees the round towers of other days + In the wave beneath him shining.” + MOORE. + + + + +FIOR USGA. + +XVII. + + +A little way beyond the Gallows Green of Cork, and just outside the +town, there is a great lough of water, where people in the winter go +and skate for the sake of diversion; but the sport above the water is +nothing to what is under it, for at the very bottom of this lough +there are buildings and gardens, far more beautiful than any now to be +seen, and how they came there was in this manner. + +Long before Saxon foot pressed Irish ground, there was a great king +called Core, whose palace stood where the lough now is, in a round +green valley, that was just a mile about. In the middle of the +court-yard was a spring of fair water, so pure, and so clear, that it +was the wonder of all the world. Much did the king rejoice at having +so great a curiosity within his palace; but as people came in crowds +from far and near to draw the precious water of this spring, he was +sorely afraid that in time it might become dry; so he caused a high +wall to be built up round it, and would allow nobody to have the +water, which was a very great loss to the poor people living about the +palace. Whenever he wanted any for himself, he would send his daughter +to get it, not liking to trust his servants with the key of the +well-door, fearing that they might give some away. + +One night the king gave a grand entertainment, and there were many +great princes present, and lords and nobles without end; and there +were wonderful doings throughout the palace: there were bonfires, +whose blaze reached up to the very sky; and dancing was there, to such +sweet music, that it ought to have waked up the dead out of their +graves; and feasting was there in the greatest of plenty for all who +came; nor was any one turned away from the palace gates—but “you’re +welcome—you’re welcome, heartily,” was the porter’s salute for all. + +Now it happened at this grand entertainment there was one young prince +above all the rest mighty comely to behold, and as tall and as +straight as ever eye would wish to look on. Right merrily did he dance +that night with the old king’s daughter, wheeling here, and wheeling +there, as light as a feather, and footing it away to the admiration of +every one. The musicians played the better for seeing their dancing; +and they danced as if their lives depended upon it. After all this +dancing came the supper; and the young prince was seated at table by +the side of his beautiful partner, who smiled upon him as often as he +spoke to her; and that was by no means so often as he wished, for he +had constantly to turn to the company and thank them for the many +compliments passed upon his fair partner and himself. + +In the midst of this banquet, one of the great lords said to King +Core, “May it please your majesty, here is every thing in abundance +that heart can wish for, both to eat and drink, except water.” + +“Water!” said the king, mightily pleased at some one calling for that +of which purposely there was a want: “water shall you have, my lord, +speedily, and that of such a delicious kind, that I challenge all the +world to equal it. Daughter,” said he, “go fetch some in the golden +vessel which I caused to be made for the purpose.” + +The king’s daughter, who was called Fior Usga, (which signifies, in +English, Spring Water,) did not much like to be told to perform so +menial a service before so many people, and though she did not venture +to refuse the commands of her father, yet hesitated to obey him, and +looked down upon the ground. The king, who loved his daughter very +much, seeing this, was sorry for what he had desired her to do, but +having said the word, he was never known to recall it; he therefore +thought of a way to make his daughter go speedily and fetch the water, +and it was by proposing that the young prince her partner should go +along with her. Accordingly, with a loud voice, he said, “Daughter, I +wonder not at your fearing to go alone so late at night; but I doubt +not the young prince at your side will go with you.” The prince was +not displeased at hearing this; and taking the golden vessel in one +hand, with the other led the king’s daughter out of the hall so +gracefully that all present gazed after them with delight. + +When they came to the spring of water, in the court-yard of the palace, +the fair Usga unlocked the door with the greatest care, and stooping +down with the golden vessel to take some of the water out of the well, +found the vessel so heavy that she lost her balance and fell in. The +young prince tried in vain to save her, for the water rose and rose so +fast, that the entire court-yard was speedily covered with it, and he +hastened back almost in a state of distraction to the king. + +The door of the well being left open, the water, which had been so +long confined, rejoiced at obtaining its liberty, rushed forth +incessantly, every moment rising higher and higher, and was in the +hall of the entertainment sooner than the young prince himself, so +that when he attempted to speak to the king he was up to his neck in +water. At length the water rose to such a height, that it filled the +entire of the green valley in which the king’s palace stood, and so +the present lough of Cork was formed. + +Yet the king and his guests were not drowned, as would now happen, if +such an awful inundation were to take place; neither was his daughter, +the fair Usga, who returned to the banquet-hall the very next night +after this dreadful event; and every night since the same +entertainment and dancing goes on in the palace at the bottom of the +lough, and will last until some one has the luck to bring up out of it +the golden vessel which was the cause of all this mischief. + +Nobody can doubt that it was a judgment upon the king for his shutting +up the well in the court-yard from the poor people: and if there are +any who do not credit my story, they may go and see the lough of Cork, +for there it is to be seen to this day; the road to Kinsale passes at +one side of it; and when its waters are low and clear, the tops of +towers and stately buildings may be plainly viewed in the bottom by +those who have good eyesight, without the help of spectacles. + + + + +CORMAC AND MARY. + +XVIII. + + + “She is not dead—she has no grave— + She lives beneath Lough Corrib’s water;[16] + And in the murmur of each wave + Methinks I catch the songs I taught her.” + + Thus many an evening on the shore + Sat Cormac raving wild and lowly; + Still idly muttering o’er and o’er, + “She lives, detain’d by spells unholy. + + “Death claims her not, too fair for earth, + Her spirit lives—alien of heaven; + Nor will it know a second birth + When sinful mortals are forgiven! + + “Cold is this rock—the wind comes chill, + And mists the gloomy waters cover; + But oh! her soul is colder still— + To lose her God—to leave her lover!” + + The lake was in profound repose, + Yet one white wave came gently curling, + And as it reach’d the shore, arose + Dim figures—banners gay unfurling. + + Onward they move, an airy crowd: + Through each thin form a moonlight ray shone; + While spear and helm, in pageant proud, + Appear in liquid undulation. + + Bright barbed steeds curvetting tread + Their trackless way with antic capers; + And curtain clouds hang overhead, + Festoon’d by rainbow-colour’d vapours. + + And when a breath of air would stir + That drapery of Heaven’s own wreathing, + Light wings of prismy gossamer + Just moved and sparkled to the breathing. + + Nor wanting was the choral song, + Swelling in silvery chimes of sweetness; + To sound of which this subtile throng + Advanced in playful grace and fleetness. + + With music’s strain, all came and went + Upon poor Cormac’s doubting vision; + Now rising in wild merriment, + Now softly fading in derision. + + “Christ save her soul,” he boldly cried; + And when that blessed name was spoken, + Fierce yells and fiendish shrieks replied, + And vanished all,—the spell was broken. + + And now on Corrib’s lonely shore, + Freed by his word from power of faëry, + To life, to love, restored once more, + Young Cormac welcomes back his Mary. + + [16] In the county of Galway. + + + + +THE LEGEND OF LOUGH GUR. + +XIX. + + +Larry Cotter had a farm on one side of Lough Gur,[17] and was thriving +in it, for he was an industrious proper sort of man, who would have +lived quietly and soberly to the end of his days, but for the +misfortune that came upon him, and you shall hear how that was. He had +as nice a bit of meadow-land, down by the water-side, as ever a man +would wish for; but its growth was spoiled entirely on him, and no one +could tell how. + + [17] In the county of Limerick. + +One year after the other it was all ruined just in the same way: the +bounds were well made up, and not a stone of them was disturbed; +neither could his neighbours’ cattle have been guilty of the trespass, +for they were spancelled;[18] but however it was done, the grass of +the meadow was destroyed, which was a great loss to Larry. + + [18] Spancelled—fettered. + +“What in the wide world will I do?” said Larry Cotter to his +neighbour, Tom Welsh, who was a very decent sort of man himself: “that +bit of meadow-land, which I am paying the great rent for, is doing +nothing at all to make it for me; and the times are bitter bad, +without the help of that to make them worse.” + +“’Tis true for you, Larry,” replied Welsh: “the times are bitter +bad—no doubt of that; but may be if you were to watch by night, you +might make out all about it: sure there’s Mick and Terry, my two boys, +will watch with you; for ’tis a thousand pities any honest man like +you should be ruined in such a scheming way.” + +Accordingly, the following night, Larry Cotter, with Welsh’s two sons, +took their station in a corner of the meadow. It was just at the full +of the moon, which was shining beautifully down upon the lake, that +was as calm all over as the sky itself; not a cloud was there to be +seen any where, nor a sound to be heard, but the cry of the corn-creaks +answering one another across the water. + +“Boys! boys!” said Larry, “look there! look there! but for your lives +don’t make a bit of noise, nor stir a step till I say the word.” + +They looked, and saw a great fat cow, followed by seven milk-white +heifers, moving on the smooth surface of the lake towards the meadow. + +“’Tis not Tim Dwyer the piper’s cow, any way, that danced all the +flesh off her bones,” whispered Mick to his brother. + +“Now boys!” said Larry Cotter, when he saw the fine cow and her seven +white heifers fairly in the meadow, “get between them and the lake if +you can, and, no matter who they belong to, we’ll just put them into +the pound.” + +But the cow must have overheard Larry speaking, for down she went in a +great hurry to the shore of the lake, and into it with her, before all +their eyes: away made the seven heifers after her, but the boys got +down to the bank before them, and work enough they had to drive them +up from the lake to Larry Cotter. + +Larry drove the seven heifers, and beautiful beasts they were, to the +pound: but after he had them there for three days, and could hear of +no owner, he took them out, and put them up in a field of his own. +There he kept them, and they were thriving mighty well with him, until +one night the gate of the field was left open, and in the morning the +seven heifers were gone. Larry could not get any account of them +after; and, beyond all doubt, it was back into the lake they went. +Wherever they came from, or to whatever world they belonged, Larry +Cotter never had a crop of grass off the meadow through their means. +So he took to drink, fairly out of the grief; and it was the drink +that killed him, they say. + + + + +THE ENCHANTED LAKE. + +XX. + + +In the west of Ireland there was a lake, and no doubt it is there +still, in which many young men had been at various times drowned. What +made the circumstance remarkable was, that the bodies of the drowned +persons were never found. People naturally wondered at this: and at +length the lake came to have a bad repute. Many dreadful stories were +told about that lake; some would affirm, that on a dark night its +waters appeared like fire—others would speak of horrid forms which +were seen to glide over it; and every one agreed that a strange +sulphureous smell issued from out of it. + +There lived, not far distant from this lake a young farmer, named +Roderick Keating, who was about to be married to one of the prettiest +girls in that part of the country. On his return from Limerick, where +he had been to purchase the wedding-ring, he came up with two or three +of his acquaintance, who were standing on the shore, and they began to +joke with him about Peggy Honan. One said that young Delaney, his +rival, had in his absence contrived to win the affection of his +mistress:—but Roderick’s confidence in his intended bride was too +great to be disturbed at this tale, and putting his hand in his +pocket, he produced and held up with a significant look the +wedding-ring. As he was turning it between his fore-finger and thumb, +in token of triumph, somehow or other the ring fell from his hand, and +rolled into the lake: Roderick looked after it with the greatest +sorrow; it was not so much for its value, though it had cost him +half-a-guinea, as for the ill-luck of the thing; and the water was so +deep, that there was little chance of recovering it. His companions +laughed at him, and he in vain endeavoured to tempt any of them by the +offer of a handsome reward to dive after the ring: they were all as +little inclined to venture as Roderick Keating himself; for the tales +which they had heard when children were strongly impressed on their +memories, and a superstitious dread filled the mind of each. + +“Must I then go back to Limerick to buy another ring?” exclaimed the +young farmer. “Will not ten times what the ring cost tempt any one of +you to venture after it?” + +There was within hearing a man who was considered to be a poor, crazy, +half-witted fellow, but he was as harmless as a child, and used to go +wandering up and down through the country from one place to another. +When he heard of so great a reward, Paddeen, for that was his name, +spoke out, and said, that if Roderick Keating would give him +encouragement equal to what he had offered to others, he was ready to +venture after the ring into the lake; and Paddeen, all the while he +spoke, looked as covetous after the sport as the money. + +“I’ll take you at your word,” said Keating. So Paddeen pulled off his +coat, and without a single syllable more, down he plunged, head +foremost, into the lake: what depth he went to, no one can tell +exactly; but he was going, going, going down through the water, until +the water parted from him, and he came upon the dry land; the sky, and +the light, and every thing, was there just as it is here; and he saw +fine pleasure-grounds, with an elegant avenue through them, and a +grand house, with a power of steps going up to the door. When he had +recovered from his wonder at finding the land so dry and comfortable +under the water, he looked about him, and what should he see but all +the young men that were drowned working away in the pleasure-grounds +as if nothing had ever happened to them! Some of them were mowing down +the grass, and more were settling out the gravel walks, and doing all +manner of nice work, as neat and as clever as if they had never been +drowned; and they were singing away with high glee:— + + “She is fair as Cappoquin; + Have you courage her to win? + And her wealth it far outshines + Cullen’s bog and Silvermines. + She exceeds all heart can wish; + Not brawling like the Foherish, + But as the brightly flowing Lee, + Graceful, mild, and pure is she!” + +Well, Paddeen could not but look at the young men, for he knew some of +them before they were lost in the lake; but he said nothing, though he +thought a great deal more for all that, like an oyster:—no, not the +wind of a word passed his lips; so on he went towards the big house, +bold enough, as if he had seen nothing to speak of; yet all the time +mightily wishing to know who the young woman could be that the young +men were singing the song about. + +When he had nearly reached the door of the great house, out walks from +the kitchen a powerful fat woman, moving along like a beer-barrel on +two legs, with teeth as big as horses’ teeth, and up she made towards +him. + +“Good morrow, Paddeen,” said she. + +“Good morrow, Ma’am,” said he. + +“What brought you here?” said she. + +“’Tis after Rory Keating’s gold ring,” said he, “I’m come.” + +“Here it is for you,” said Paddeen’s fat friend, with a smile on her +face that moved like boiling stirabout [gruel.] + +“Thank you, Ma’am,” replied Paddeen, taking it from her:—“I need not +say the Lord increase you, for you’re fat enough already. Will you +tell me, if you please, am I to go back the same way I came?” + +“Then you did not come to marry me?” cried the corpulent woman in a +desperate fury. + +“Just wait till I come back again, my darling,” said Paddeen: “I’m to +be paid for my message, and I must return with the answer, or else +they’ll wonder what has become of me.” + +“Never mind the money,” said the fat woman: “if you marry me, you +shall live for ever and a day in that house, and want for nothing.” + +Paddeen saw clearly that, having got possession of the ring, the fat +woman had no power to detain him; so without minding any thing she +said, he kept moving and moving down the avenue, quite quietly, and +looking about him; for, to tell the truth, he had no particular +inclination to marry a fat fairy. When he came to the gate, without +ever saying good by, out he bolted, and he found the water coming all +about him again. Up he plunged through it, and wonder enough there +was, when Paddeen was seen swimming away at the opposite side of the +lake; but he soon made the shore, and told Roderick Keating, and the +other boys that were standing there looking out for him, all that had +happened. Roderick paid him the five guineas for the ring on the spot; +and Paddeen thought himself so rich with such a sum of money in his +pocket, that he did not go back to marry the fat lady with the fine +house at the bottom of the lake, knowing she had plenty of young men +to choose a husband from, if she pleased to be married. + + + + +THE LEGEND OF O’DONOGHUE. + +XXI. + + +In an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain +named O’Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic +Lough Lean, now called the lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and +justice, distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of +his subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as +renowned for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a +proof that his domestic administration was not the less rigorous +because it was mild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers, +called “O’Donoghue’s Prison,” in which this prince once confined his +own son for some act of disorder and disobedience. + +His end—for it cannot correctly be called his death—was singular and +mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was +celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he +was engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen +in ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now +fired with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as +he faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the +miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions he rose +slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic +tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its +unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre, he paused +for a moment, then turning slowly round, looked towards his friends, +and waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a +short farewell, disappeared from their view. + +The memory of the good O’Donoghue has been cherished by successive +generations with affectionate reverence: and it is believed that at +sunrise, on every May-dew morning, the anniversary of his departure, +he revisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are in general +permitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good +fortune to the beholders: when it is granted to many, it is a sure +token of an abundant harvest,—a blessing, the want of which during +this prince’s reign was never felt by his people. + +Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of O’Donoghue. The +April of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on +May morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air +was hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene +lake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles, +after the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe +that it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled. + +The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit +of Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern shores of the lake became +suddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface +lay smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble; the next moment a +foaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse, +exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake towards Toomies +mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior fully armed, +mounted upon a milk-white steed; his snowy plume waved gracefully from +a helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue +scarf. The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burden, sprang +after the wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth, +while showers of spray that glittered brightly in the morning sun were +dashed up at every bound. + +The warrior was O’Donoghue; he was followed by numberless youths and +maidens who moved lightly and unconstrained over the watery plain, as +the moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air: they were +linked together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they +timed their movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O’Donoghue +had nearly reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned +his steed, and directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of +Glenaa, preceded by the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as +the horse’s neck, whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long +train of attendants followed with playful deviations the track of +their leader, and moved on with unabated fleetness to their celestial +music, till gradually, as they entered the narrow strait between +Glenaa and Dinis, they became involved in the mists which still +partially floated over the lakes, and faded from the view of the +wondering beholders: but the sound of their music still fell upon the +ear, and echo, catching up the harmonious strains, fondly repeated and +prolonged them in soft and softer tones, till the last faint +repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from a dream of bliss. + + _Thierna na Oge_, or the Country of Youth, is the name given to + the foregoing section, from the belief that those who dwell in regions + of enchantment beneath the water are not affected by the + movements of time. + + + + +LEGENDS OF THE MERROW. + + ——“The mysterious depths + And wild and wondrous forms of ocean old.” + MATTIMA’S _Conchologist_. + + + + +THE LADY OF GOLLERUS. + +XXII. + + +On the shore of Smerwick harbour, one fine summer’s morning, just at +day-break, stood Dick Fitzgerald “shoghing the dudeen,” which may be +translated, smoking his pipe. The sun was gradually rising behind the +lofty Brandon, the dark sea was getting green in the light, and the +mists, clearing away out of the valleys, went rolling and curling like +the smoke from the corner of Dick’s mouth. + +“’Tis just the pattern of a pretty morning,” said Dick, taking the +pipe from between his lips, and looking towards the distant ocean, +which lay as still and tranquil as a tomb of polished marble. “Well, +to be sure,” continued he, after a pause, “’tis mighty lonesome to be +talking to one’s self by way of company, and not to have another soul +to answer one—nothing but the child of one’s own voice, the echo! I +know this, that if I had the luck, or may be the misfortune,” said +Dick with a melancholy smile, “to have the woman, it would not be this +way with me!—and what in the wide world is a man without a wife? He’s +no more surely than a bottle without a drop of drink in it, or dancing +without music, or the left leg of a scissors, or a fishing line +without a hook, or any other matter that is no ways complete—Is it +not so?” said Dick Fitzgerald, casting his eyes towards a rock upon +the strand, which though it could not speak, stood up as firm and +looked as bold as ever Kerry witness did. + +But what was his astonishment at beholding, just at the foot of that +rock a beautiful young creature combing her hair, which was of a +sea-green colour; and now the salt water shining on it, appeared in +the morning light, like melted butter upon cabbage. + +Dick guessed at once that she was a Merrow, although he had never seen +one before, for he spied the _cohuleen driuth_, or little enchanted +cap, which the sea people use for diving down into the ocean, lying +upon the strand, near her; and he had heard that if once he could +possess himself of the cap, she would lose the power of going away +into the water: so he seized it with all speed, and she, hearing the +noise, turned her head about as natural as any Christian. + +When the Merrow saw that her little diving-cap was gone, the salt +tears—doubly salt, no doubt, from her—came trickling down her +cheeks, and she began a low mournful cry with just the tender voice of +a new-born infant. Dick, although he knew well enough what she was +crying for, determined to keep the _cohuleen driuth_, let her cry +never so much, to see what luck would come out of it. Yet he could not +help pitying her, and when the dumb thing looked up in his face, and +her cheeks all moist with tears, ’twas enough to make any one feel let +alone Dick, who had ever and always, like most of his countrymen, a +mighty tender heart of his own. + +“Don’t cry, my darling,” said Dick Fitzgerald; but the Merrow, like +any bold child, only cried the more for that. + +Dick sat himself down by her side, and took hold of her hand, by way +of comforting her. ’Twas in no particular an ugly hand, only there was +a small web between the fingers, as there is in a duck’s foot; but +’twas as thin and as white as the skin between egg and shell. + +“What’s your name, my darling?” says Dick, thinking to make her +conversant with him; but he got no answer; and he was certain sure +now, either that she could not speak, or did not understand him: he +therefore squeezed her hand in his, as the only way he had of talking +to her. It’s the universal language; and there’s not a woman in the +world, be she fish or lady, that does not understand it. + +The Merrow did not seem much displeased at this mode of conversation; +and, making an end of her whining all at once—“Man,” says she, +looking up in Dick Fitzgerald’s face, “Man, will you eat me?” + +“By all the red petticoats and check aprons between Dingle and +Tralee,” cried Dick, jumping up in amazement, “I’d as soon eat myself, +my jewel! Is it I eat you, my pet?—Now ’twas some ugly ill-looking +thief of a fish put that notion into your own pretty head, with the +nice green hair down upon it, that is so cleanly combed out this +morning!” + +“Man,” said the Merrow, “what will you do with me, if you won’t eat +me?” + +Dick’s thoughts were running on a wife: he saw, at the first glimpse, +that she was handsome; but since she spoke, and spoke too like any +real woman, he was fairly in love with her. ’Twas the neat way she +called him man, that settled the matter entirely. + +“Fish,” says Dick, trying to speak to her after her own short fashion; +“fish,” says he, “here’s my word, fresh and fasting, for you this +blessed morning, that I’ll make you mistress Fitzgerald before all the +world, and that’s what I’ll do.” + +“Never say the word twice,” says she; “I’m ready and willing to be +yours, mister Fitzgerald; but stop, if you please, ’till I twist up my +hair.” + +It was some time before she had settled it entirely to her liking; for +she guessed, I suppose, that she was going among strangers, where she +would be looked at. When that was done, the Merrow put the comb in her +pocket, and then bent down her head and whispered some words to the +water that was close to the foot of the rock. + +Dick saw the murmur of the words upon the top of the sea, going out +towards the wide ocean, just like a breath of wind rippling along, and +says he in the greatest wonder; “Is it speaking you are, my darling, +to the salt water?” + +“It’s nothing else,” says she quite carelessly, “I’m just sending word +home to my father, not to be waiting breakfast for me; just to keep +him from being uneasy in his mind.” + +“And who’s your father, my duck?” says Dick. + +“What!” said the Merrow, “did you never hear of my father? he’s the +king of the waves, to be sure!” + +“And yourself, then, is a real king’s daughter?” said Dick, opening +his two eyes to take a full and true survey of his wife that was to +be. + +“Oh, I’m nothing else but a made man with you, and a king your +father;—to be sure he has all the money that’s down in the bottom of +the sea!” + +“Money,” repeated the Merrow, “what’s money?” + +“’Tis no bad thing to have when one wants it,” replied Dick; “and may +be now the fishes have the understanding to bring up whatever you bid +them?” + +“Oh! yes,” said the Merrow, “they bring me what I want.” + +“To speak the truth, then,” said Dick, “’tis a straw bed I have at +home before you, and that, I’m thinking, is no ways fitting for a +king’s daughter: so, if ’twould not be displeasing to you, just to +mention, a nice feather-bed, with a pair of new blankets—but what am +I talking about? may be you have not such things as beds down under +the water?” + +“By all means,” said she, “Mr. Fitzgerald—plenty of beds at your +service. I’ve fourteen oyster-beds of my own, not to mention one just +planting for the rearing of young ones.” + +“You have?” says Dick, scratching his head and looking a little +puzzled. “’Tis a feather-bed I was speaking of—but clearly, yours is +the very cut of a decent plan, to have bed and supper so handy to each +other, that a person when they’d have the one, need never ask for the +other.” + +However, bed or no bed, money or no money, Dick Fitzgerald determined +to marry the Merrow, and the Merrow had given her consent. Away they +went, therefore, across the strand, from Gollerus to Ballinrunnig, +where Father Fitzgibbon happened to be that morning. + +“There are two words to this bargain, Dick Fitzgerald,” said his +Reverence, looking mighty glum. “And is it a fishy woman you’d +marry?—the Lord preserve us!—Send the scaly creature home to her own +people, that’s my advice to you, wherever she came from.” + +Dick had the _cohuleen driuth_ in his hand, and was about to give it +back to the Merrow, who looked covetously at it, but he thought for a +moment, and then, says he— + +“Please your Reverence she’s a king’s daughter.” + +“If she was the daughter of fifty kings,” said Father Fitzgibbon, “I +tell you, you can’t marry her, she being a fish.” + +“Please your Reverence,” said Dick again, in an under tone, “she is as +mild and as beautiful as the moon.” + +“If she was as mild and as beautiful as the sun, moon, and stars, all +put together, I tell you, Dick Fitzgerald,” said the Priest stamping +his right foot, “you can’t marry her, she being a fish!” + +“But she has all the gold that’s down in the sea only for the asking, +and I’m a made man if I marry her; and,” said Dick, looking up slily, +“I can make it worth any one’s while to do the job.” + +“Oh! that alters the case entirely,” replied the Priest; “why there’s +some reason now in what you say: why didn’t you tell me this +before?—marry her by all means if she was ten times a fish. Money, +you know, is not to be refused in these bad times, and I may as well +have the hansel of it as another, that may be would not take half the +pains in counselling you as I have done.” + +So Father Fitzgibbon married Dick Fitzgerald to the Merrow, and like +any loving couple, they returned to Gollerus well pleased with each +other. Every thing prospered with Dick—he was at the sunny side of +the world; the Merrow made the best of wives, and they lived together +in the greatest contentment. + +It was wonderful to see, considering where she had been brought up, +how she would busy herself about the house, and how well she nursed +the children; for, at the end of three years, there were as many young +Fitzgeralds—two boys and a girl. + +In short, Dick was a happy man, and so he might have continued to the +end of his days, if he had only the sense to take proper care of what +he had got; many another man, however, beside Dick, has not had wit +enough to do that. + +One day when Dick was obliged to go to Tralee, he left his wife, +minding the children at home after him, and thinking she had plenty to +do without disturbing his fishing tackle. + +Dick was no sooner gone than Mrs. Fitzgerald set about cleaning up the +house, and chancing to pull down a fishing-net, what should she find +behind it in a hole in the wall but her own _cohuleen driuth_. + +She took it out and looked at it, and then she thought of her father +the king, and her mother the queen, and her brothers and sisters, and +she felt a longing to go back to them. + +She sat down on a little stool and thought over the happy days she had +spent under the sea; then she looked at her children, and thought on +the love and affection of poor Dick, and how it would break his heart +to lose her. “But,” says she, “he won’t lose me entirely, for I’ll +come back to him again; and who can blame me for going to see my +father and my mother, after being so long away from them.” + +She got up and went towards the door, but came back again to look once +more at the child that was sleeping in the cradle. She kissed it +gently, and as she kissed it, a tear trembled for an instant in her +eye and then fell on its rosy cheek. She wiped away the tear, and +turning to the eldest little girl, told her to take good care of her +brothers, and to be a good child herself, until she came back. The +Merrow then went down to the strand.—The sea was lying calm and +smooth, just heaving and glittering in the sun, and she thought she +heard a faint sweet singing, inviting her to come down. All her old +ideas and feelings came flooding over her mind, Dick and her children +were at the instant forgotten, and placing the _cohuleen driuth_ on +her head, she plunged in. + +Dick came home in the evening, and missing his wife, he asked +Kathelin, his little girl, what had become of her mother, but she +could not tell him. He then inquired of the neighbours, and he learned +that she was seen going towards the strand with a strange looking +thing like a cocked hat in her hand. He returned to his cabin to +search for the _cohuleen driuth_. It was gone and the truth now +flashed upon him. + +Year after year did Dick Fitzgerald wait, expecting the return of his +wife, but he never saw her more. Dick never married again, always +thinking that the Merrow would sooner or later return to him, and +nothing could ever persuade him but that her father the king kept her +below by main force; “For,” says Dick, “she surely would not of +herself give up her husband and her children.” + +While she was with him, she was so good a wife in every respect, that +to this day she is spoken of in the tradition of the country as the +pattern for one, under the name of THE LADY OF GOLLERUS. + + + + +FLORY CANTILLON’S FUNERAL. + +XXIII. + + +The ancient burial-place of the Cantillon family was on an island in +Ballyheigh Bay. This island was situated at no great distance from the +shore, and at a remote period was overflowed in one of the +encroachments which the Atlantic has made on that part of the coast of +Kerry. The fishermen declare they have often seen the ruined walls of +an old chapel beneath them in the water, as they sailed over the clear +green sea, of a sunny afternoon.[19] However this may be, it is well +known that the Cantillons were, like most other Irish families, +strongly attached to their ancient burial-place; and this attachment +led to the custom, when any of the family died, of carrying the corpse +to the seaside, where the coffin was left on the shore within reach of +the tide. In the morning it had disappeared, being, as was +traditionally believed, conveyed away by the ancestors of the deceased +to their family tomb. + + [19] “The neighbouring inhabitants,” says Dr. Smith, in his + History of Kerry, speaking of Ballyheigh, “show some rocks + visible in this bay only at low tides, which, they say, are the + remains of an island, that was formerly the burial-place of the + family of Cantillon, the ancient proprietors of Ballyheigh.” p. + 210. + +Connor Crowe, a county Clare man, was related to the Cantillons by +marriage. “Connor Mac in Cruagh, of the seven quarters of Breintragh,” +as he was commonly called, and a proud man he was of the name. Connor, +be it known, would drink a quart of salt water, for its medicinal +virtues, before breakfast; and for the same reason, I suppose, double +that quantity of raw whisky between breakfast and night, which last he +did with as little inconvenience to himself as any man in the barony +of Moyferta; and were I to add Clanderalaw and Ibrickan, I don’t think +I should say wrong. + +On the death of Florence Cantillon, Connor Crowe was determined to +satisfy himself about the truth of this story of the old church under +the sea: so when he heard the news of the old fellow’s death, away +with him to Ardfert, where Flory was laid out in high style, and a +beautiful corpse he made. + +Flory had been as jolly and as rollocking a boy in his day as ever was +stretched, and his wake was in every respect worthy of him. There was +all kind of entertainment and all sort of diversion at it, and no less +than three girls got husbands there—more luck to them. Every thing +was as it should be: all that side of the country, from Dingle to +Tarbet, was at the funeral. The Keen was sung long and bitterly; and, +according to the family custom, the coffin was carried to Ballyheigh +strand, where it was laid upon the shore with a prayer for the repose +of the dead. + +The mourners departed, one group after another, and at last Connor +Crowe was left alone: he then pulled out his whisky bottle, his drop +of comfort as he called it, which he required, being in grief; and +down he sat upon a big stone that was sheltered by a projecting rock, +and partly concealed from view, to await with patience the appearance +of the ghostly undertakers. + +The evening came on mild and beautiful; he whistled an old air which +he had heard in his childhood, hoping to keep idle fears out of his +head; but the wild strain of that melody brought a thousand +recollections with it, which only made the twilight appear more +pensive. + +“If ’twas near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own sweet county, I +was,” said Connor Crowe, with a sigh, “one might well believe that the +prisoners, who were murdered long ago, there in the vaults under the +castle, would be the hands to carry off the coffin out of envy, for +never a one of them was buried decently, nor had as much as a coffin +amongst them all. ’Tis often, sure enough, I have heard lamentations +and great mourning coming from the vaults of Dunmore Castle; but,” +continued he, after fondly pressing his lips to the mouth of his +companion and silent comforter, the whisky bottle, “didn’t I know all +the time well enough, ’twas the dismal sounding waves working through +the cliffs and hollows of the rocks, and fretting themselves to foam. +Oh then, Dunmore Castle, it is you that are the gloomy-looking tower +on a gloomy day, with the gloomy hills behind you; when one has gloomy +thoughts on their heart, and sees you like a ghost rising out of the +smoke made by the kelp-burners on the strand, there is, the Lord save +us! as fearful a look about you as about the Blue Man’s Lake at +midnight. Well then, any how,” said Connor, after a pause, “is it not +a blessed night, though surely the moon looks mighty pale in the face? +St. Senan himself between us and all kinds of harm!” + +It was, in truth a lovely moonlight night; nothing was to be seen +around but the dark rocks, and the white pebbly beach, upon which the +sea broke with a hoarse and melancholy murmur. Connor, notwithstanding +his frequent draughts, felt rather queerish, and almost began to +repent his curiosity. It was certainly a solemn sight to behold the +black coffin resting upon the white strand. His imagination gradually +converted the deep moaning of old ocean into a mournful wail for the +dead, and from the shadowy recesses of the rocks he imaged forth +strange and visionary forms. + +As the night advanced, Connor became weary of watching; he caught +himself more than once in the fact of nodding, when suddenly giving +his head a shake, he would look towards the black coffin. But the +narrow house of death remained unmoved before him. + +It was long past midnight, and the moon was sinking into the sea, when +he heard the sound of many voices, which gradually became stronger, +above the heavy and monotonous roll of the sea: he listened, and +presently could distinguish a Keen, of exquisite sweetness, the notes +of which rose and fell with the heaving of the waves, whose deep +murmur mingled with and supported the strain! + +The Keen grew louder and louder, and seemed to approach the beach, and +then fell into a low plaintive wail. As it ended, Connor beheld a +number of strange, and in the dim light, mysterious-looking figures, +emerge from the sea, and surround the coffin, which they prepared to +launch into the water. + +“This comes of marrying with the creatures of earth,” said one of the +figures, in a clear, yet hollow tone. + +“True,” replied another, with a voice still more fearful, “our king +would never have commanded his gnawing white-toothed waves to devour +the rocky roots of the island cemetery, had not his daughter, +Durfulla, been buried there by her mortal husband!” + +“But the time will come,” said a third, bending over the coffin, + + “When mortal eye—our work shall spy, + And mortal ear—our dirge shall hear.” + +“Then,” said a fourth, “our burial of the Cantillons is at an end for +ever!” + +As this was spoken the coffin was borne from the beach by a retiring +wave, and the company of sea people prepared to follow it; but at the +moment one chanced to discover Connor Crowe, as fixed with wonder and +as motionless with fear as the stone on which he sat. + +“The time is come,” cried the unearthly being, “the time is come: a +human eye looks on the forms of ocean, a human ear has heard their +voices; farewell to the Cantillons; the sons of the sea are no longer +doomed to bury the dust of the earth!” + +One after the other turned slowly round, and regarded Connor Crowe, +who still remained as if bound by a spell. Again arose their funeral +song; and on the next wave they followed the coffin. The sound of the +lamentation died away, and at length nothing was heard but the rush of +waters. The coffin and the train of sea people sank over the old +churchyard, and never, since the funeral of old Flory Cantillon, have +any of the family been carried to the strand of Ballyheigh, for +conveyance to their rightful burial-place, beneath the waves of the +Atlantic. + + + + +THE LORD OF DUNKERRON. + +XXIV. + + + The lord of Dunkerron[20]—O’Sullivan More, + Why seeks he at midnight the sea-beaten shore? + His bark lies in haven his hounds are asleep; + No foes are abroad on the land or the deep. + + Yet nightly the lord of Dunkerron is known + On the wild shore to watch and to wander alone; + For a beautiful spirit of ocean, ’tis said, + The lord of Dunkerron would win to his bed. + + When, by moonlight, the waters were hush’d to repose, + That beautiful spirit of ocean arose; + Her hair, full of lustre, just floated and fell + O’er her bosom, that heaved with a billowy swell. + + Long, long had he loved her—long vainly essay’d + To lure from her dwelling the coy ocean maid; + And long had he wander’d and watch’d by the tide, + To claim the fair spirit O’Sullivan’s bride! + + The maiden she gazed on the creature of earth, + Whose voice in her breast to a feeling gave birth; + Then smiled; and, abashed as a maiden might be, + Looking down, gently sank to her home in the sea. + + Though gentle that smile, as the moonlight above, + O’Sullivan felt ’twas the dawning of love, + And hope came on hope, spreading over his mind, + Like the eddy of circles her wake left behind. + + The lord of Dunkerron he plunged in the waves, + And sought through the fierce rush of waters, their caves; + The gloom of whose depth studded over with spars, + Had the glitter of midnight when lit up by stars. + + Who can tell or can fancy the treasures that sleep, + Entombed in the wonderful womb of the deep? + The pearls and the gems, as if valueless, thrown + To lie ‘mid the sea-wrack concealed and unknown. + + Down, down went the maid,—still the chieftain pursued; + Who flies must be followed ere she can be wooed. + Untempted by treasures, unawed by alarms, + The maiden at length he has clasped in his arms! + + They rose from the deep by a smooth-spreading strand, + Whence beauty and verdure stretch’d over the land. + ’Twas an isle of enchantment! and lightly the breeze, + With a musical murmur, just crept through the trees. + + The haze-woven shroud of that newly born isle, + Softly faded away, from a magical pile, + A palace of crystal, whose bright-beaming sheen + Had the tints of the rainbow—red, yellow, and green. + + And grottoes, fantastic in hue and in form, + Were there, as flung up—the wild sport of the storm; + Yet all was so cloudless, so lovely, and calm, + It seemed but a region of sunshine and balm. + + “Here, here shall we dwell in a dream of delight, + Where the glories of earth and of ocean unite! + Yet, loved son of earth! I must from thee away; + There are laws which e’en spirits are bound to obey! + + “Once more must I visit the chief of my race, + His sanction to gain ere I meet thy embrace. + In a moment I dive to the chambers beneath: + One cause can detain me—one only—’tis death!” + + They parted in sorrow, with vows true and fond; + The language of promise had nothing beyond. + His soul all on fire, with anxiety burns: + The moment is gone—but no maiden returns. + + What sounds from the deep meet his terrified ear— + What accents of rage and of grief does he hear? + What sees he? what change has come over the flood— + What tinges its green with a jetty of blood? + + Can he doubt what the gush of warm blood would explain? + That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain! + For see all around him, in white foam and froth, + The waves of the ocean boil up in their wroth! + + The palace of crystal has melted in air, + And the dyes of the rainbow no longer are there; + The grottoes with vapour and clouds are o’ercast, + The sunshine is darkness—the vision has past! + + Loud, loud was the call of his serfs for their chief; + They sought him with accents of wailing and grief: + He heard, and he struggled—a wave to the shore, + Exhausted and faint, bears O’Sullivan More! + + [20] The remains of Dunkerron Castle are distant about a mile + from the village of Kenmare, in the county of Kerry. It is + recorded to have been built in 1596, by Owen O’Sullivan + More.—[_More_, is merely an epithet signifying _the Great_.] + + + + +THE WONDERFUL TUNE. + +XXV. + + +Maurice Connor was the king, and that’s no small word, of all the +pipers in Munster. He could play jig and planxty without end, and +Ollistrum’s March, and the Eagle’s Whistle, and the Hen’s Concert, and +odd tunes of every sort and kind. But he knew one, far more surprising +than the rest, which had in it the power to set every thing dead or +alive dancing. + +In what way he learned it is beyond my knowledge, for he was mighty +cautious about telling how he came by so wonderful a tune. At the very +first note of that tune, the brogues began shaking upon the feet of +all who heard it—old or young it mattered not—just as if their +brogues had the ague; then the feet began going—going—going from +under them, and at last up and away with them, dancing like +mad!—whisking here, there, and every where, like a straw in a +storm—there was no halting while the music lasted! + +Not a fair, nor a wedding, nor a patron in the seven parishes round, +was counted worth the speaking of without “blind Maurice and his +pipes.” His mother, poor woman, used to lead him about from one place +to another, just like a dog. + +Down through Iveragh—a place that ought to be proud of itself, for +’tis Daniel O’Connell’s country—Maurice Connor and his mother were +taking their rounds. Beyond all other places Iveragh is the place for +stormy coast and steep mountains: as proper a spot it is as any in +Ireland to get yourself drowned, or your neck broken on the land, +should you prefer that. But, notwithstanding, in Ballinskellig bay +there is a neat bit of ground, well fitted for diversion, and down +from it towards the water, is a clean smooth piece of strand—the dead +image of a calm summer’s sea on a moonlight night, with just the curl +of the small waves upon it. + +Here it was that Maurice’s music had brought from all parts a great +gathering of the young men and the young women—_O the darlints!_—for +’twas not every day the strand of Trafraska was stirred up by the +voice of a bagpipe. The dance began; and as pretty a rinkafadda it was +as ever was danced. “Brave music,” said every body, “and well done,” +when Maurice stopped. + +“More power to your elbow, Maurice, and a fair wind in the bellows,” +cried Paddy Dorman, a hump-backed dancing-master, who was there to +keep order. “’Tis a pity,” said he, “if we’d let the piper run dry +after such music; ’twould be a disgrace to Iveragh, that didn’t come +on it since the week of the three Sundays.” So, as well became him, +for he was always a decent man, says he: “Did you drink, piper?” + +“I will, sir,” says Maurice, answering the question on the safe side, +for you never yet knew piper or schoolmaster who refused his drink. + +“What will you drink, Maurice?” says Paddy. + +“I’m no ways particular,” says Maurice; “I drink any thing, and give +God thanks, barring _raw_ water; but if ’tis all the same to you, +mister Dorman, may be you wouldn’t lend me the loan of a glass of +whiskey.” + +“I’ve no glass, Maurice,” said Paddy; “I’ve only the bottle.” + +“Let that be no hindrance,” answered Maurice; “my mouth just holds a +glass to the drop; often I’ve tried it, sure.” + +So Paddy Dorman trusted him with the bottle—more fool was he; and, to +his cost, he found that though Maurice’s mouth might not hold more +than the glass at one time, yet, owing to the hole in his throat, it +took many a filling. + +“That was no bad whisky neither,” says Maurice, handing back the empty +bottle. + +“By the holy frost, then!” says Paddy, “’tis but _cowld_ comfort +there’s in that bottle now; and ’tis your word we must take for the +strength of the whisky, for you’ve left us no sample to judge by:” and +to be sure Maurice had not. + +Now I need not tell any gentleman or lady with common understanding, +that if he or she was to drink an honest bottle of whiskey at one +pull, it is not at all the same thing as drinking a bottle of water; +and in the whole course of my life, I never knew more than five men +who could do so without being overtaken by the liquor. Of these +Maurice Connor was not one, though he had a stiff head enough of his +own—he was fairly tipsy. Don’t think I blame him for it; ’tis often a +good man’s case; but true is the word that says, “when liquor’s in, +sense is out;” and puff, at a breath, before you could say “Lord save +us!” out he blasted his wonderful tune. + +’Twas really then beyond all belief or telling the dancing Maurice +himself could not keep quiet; staggering now on one leg, now on the +other, and rolling about like a ship in a cross sea, trying to humour +the tune. There was his mother too, moving her old bones as light as +the youngest girl of them all; but her dancing, no, nor the dancing of +all the rest, is not worthy the speaking about to the work that was +going on down on the strand. Every inch of it covered with all manner +of fish jumping and plunging about to the music, and every moment more +and more would tumble in out of the water, charmed by the wonderful +tune. Crabs of monstrous size spun round and round on one claw with +the nimbleness of a dancing-master, and twirled and tossed their other +claws about like limbs that did not belong to them. It was a sight +surprising to behold. But perhaps you may have heard of father +Florence Conry, a Franciscan Friar, and a great Irish poet; _bolg an +dana_, as they used to call him—a wallet of poems. If you have not he +was as pleasant a man as one would wish to drink with of a hot +summer’s day; and he has rhymed out all about the dancing fishes so +neatly, that it would be a thousand pities not to give you his verses; +so here’s my hand at an upset of them into English: + + The big seals in motion, + Like waves of the ocean, + Or gouty feet prancing, + Came heading the gay fish, + Crabs, lobsters, and cray fish, + Determined on dancing. + + The sweet sounds they follow’d, + The gasping cod swallow’d; + ’Twas wonderful, really! + And turbot and flounder, + ‘Mid fish that were rounder, + Just caper’d as gaily. + + John-dories came tripping; + Dull hake, by their skipping + To frisk it seem’d given; + Bright mackerel went springing, + Like small rainbows winging + Their flight up to heaven. + + The whiting and haddock + Left salt-water paddock, + This dance to be put in: + Where skate with flat faces + Edged out some odd plaices; + But soles kept their footing. + + Sprats and herrings in powers + Of silvery showers + All number out-number’d; + And great ling so lengthy + Were there in such plenty, + The shore was encumber’d. + + The scollop and oyster + Their two shells did roister, + Like castanets fitting; + While limpets moved clearly, + And rocks very nearly + With laughter were splitting. + +Never was such an ullabulloo in this world, before or since; ’twas as +if heaven and earth were coming together; and all out of Maurice +Connor’s wonderful tune! + +In the height of all these doings, what should there be dancing among +the outlandish set of fishes but a beautiful young woman—as beautiful +as the dawn of day! She had a cocked hat upon her head; from under it +her long green hair—just the colour of the sea—fell down behind, +without hindrance to her dancing. Her teeth were like rows of pearl; +her lips for all the world looked like red coral; and she had an +elegant gown, as white as the foam of the wave, with little rows of +purple and red sea-weeds settled out upon it; for you never yet saw a +lady, under the water or over the water, who had not a good notion of +dressing herself out. + +Up she danced at last to Maurice, who was flinging his feet from under +him as fast as hops—for nothing in this world could keep still while +that tune of his was going on—and says she to him, chaunting it out +with a voice as sweet as honey— + + “I’m a lady of honour + Who live in the sea; + Come down, Maurice Connor, + And be married to me. + + “Silver plates and gold dishes + You shall have, and shall be + The king of the fishes, + When you’re married to me.” + +Drink was strong in Maurice’s head, and out he chaunted in return for +her great civility. It is not every lady, may be, that would be after +making such an offer to a blind piper; therefore ’twas only right in +him to give her as good as she gave herself—so says Maurice, + + “I’m obliged to you, madam: + Off a gold dish or plate, + If a king, and I had ’em, + I could dine in great state. + + “With your own father’s daughter + I’d be sure to agree; + But to drink the salt water + Wouldn’t do so with me!” + +The lady looked at him quite amazed, and swinging her head from side +to side like a great scholar, “Well,” says she, “Maurice, if you’re +not a poet, where is poetry to be found?” + +In this way they kept on at it, framing high compliments; one +answering the other, and their feet going with the music as fast as +their tongues. All the fish kept dancing too: Maurice heard the +clatter, and was afraid to stop playing lest it might be displeasing +to the fish, and not knowing what so many of them may take it into +their heads to do to him if they got vexed. + +Well, the lady with the green hair kept on coaxing of Maurice with +soft speeches, till at last she overpersuaded him to promise to marry +her, and be king over the fishes, great and small. Maurice was well +fitted to be their king, if they wanted one that could make them +dance; and he surely would drink, barring the salt water, with any +fish of them all. + +When Maurice’s mother saw him, with that unnatural thing in the form +of a green-haired lady as his guide, and he and she dancing down +together so lovingly to the water’s edge through the thick of the +fishes, she called out after him to stop and come back. “Oh then,” +says she, “as if I was not widow enough before, there he is going away +from me to be married to that scaly woman. And who knows but ’tis +grandmother I may be to a hake or a cod—Lord help and pity me, but +’tis a mighty unnatural thing!—and may be ’tis boiling and eating my +own grandchild I’ll be, with a bit of salt butter, and I not knowing +it!—Oh Maurice, Maurice, if there’s any love or nature left in you, +come back to your own _ould_ mother, who reared you like a decent +Christian!” + +Then the poor woman began to cry and ullagoane so finely that it would +do any one good to hear her. + +Maurice was not long getting to the rim of the water; there he kept +playing and dancing on as if nothing was the matter, and a great +thundering wave coming in towards him ready to swallow him up alive; +but as he could not see it, he did not fear it. His mother it was who +saw it plainly through the big tears that were rolling down her +cheeks; and though she saw it, and her heart was aching as much as +ever mother’s heart ached for a son, she kept dancing, dancing, all +the time for the bare life of her. Certain it was she could not help +it, for Maurice never stopped playing that wonderful tune of his. + +He only turned the bothered ear to the sound of his mother’s voice, +fearing it might put him out in his steps, and all the answer he made +back was— + +“Whisht with you, mother—sure I’m going to be king over the fishes +down in the sea, and for a token of luck, and a sign that I am alive +and well, I’ll send you in, every twelvemonth on this day, a piece of +burned wood to Trafraska.” Maurice had not the power to say a word +more, for the strange lady with the green hair, seeing the wave just +upon them, covered him up with herself in a thing like a cloak with a +big hood to it, and the wave curling over twice as high as their +heads, burst upon the strand, with a rush and a roar that might be +heard as far as Cape Clear. + +That day twelvemonth the piece of burned wood came ashore in +Trafraska. It was a queer thing for Maurice to think of sending all +the way from the bottom of the sea. A gown or a pair of shoes would +have been something like a present for his poor mother; but he had +said it, and he kept his word. The bit of burned wood regularly came +ashore on the appointed day for as good, ay, and better than a hundred +years. The day is now forgotten, and may be that is the reason why +people say how Maurice Connor has stopped sending the luck-token to +his mother. Poor woman, she did not live to get as much as one of +them; for what through the loss of Maurice, and the fear of eating her +own grandchildren, she died in three weeks after the dance—some say +it was the fatigue that killed her, but whichever it was, Mrs. Connor +was decently buried with her own people. + +Seafaring men have often heard off the coast of Kerry, on a still +night, the sound of music coming up from the water; and some, who have +had good ears, could plainly distinguish Maurice Connor’s voice +singing these words to his pipes:— + + Beautiful shore, with thy spreading strand, + Thy crystal water, and diamond sand; + Never would I have parted from thee + But for the sake of my fair ladie.[21] + + [21] This is almost a literal translation of a Rann in the + well-known song of Deardra. + + The Irish _Merrow_ answers exactly to the English Mermaid. It + is also used to express a sea-monster, like the Armorick and + Cornish _Morhuch_, to which it evidently bears analogy. + + The romantic historians of Ireland describe the _Suire_ as + playing round the ships of the Milesians when on their passage + to that Island. + + + + +THE DULLAHAN. + + “Then wonder not at _headless folk_, + Since every day you greet ’em; + Nor treat old stories as a joke, + When fools you daily meet ’em.” + + —_The Legendary._ + + “Says the friar, ’tis strange headless horses should trot.” + + _Old Song._ + + + + +THE GOOD WOMAN. + +XXVI. + + +In a pleasant and not unpicturesque valley of the White Knight’s +country, at the foot of the Galtee mountains, lived Larry Dodd and his +wife Nancy. They rented a cabin and a few acres of land, which they +cultivated with great care, and its crops rewarded their industry. +They were independent and respected by their neighbours; they loved +each other in a marriageable sort of way, and few couples had +altogether more the appearance of comfort about them. + +Larry was a hard working, and, occasionally, a hard drinking, +Dutch-built, little man, with a fiddle head and a round stern; a +steady-going straight-forward fellow, barring when he carried too much +whisky, which, it must be confessed, might occasionally prevent his +walking the chalked line with perfect philomathical accuracy. He had a +moist, ruddy countenance, rather inclined to an expression of gravity, +and particularly so in the morning; but, taken all together he was +generally looked upon as a marvellously proper person, notwithstanding +he had, every day in the year, a sort of unholy dew upon his face, +even in the coldest weather, which gave rise to a supposition (amongst +censorious persons, of course,) that Larry was apt to indulge in +strong and frequent potations. However, all men of talents have their +faults,—indeed, who is without them?—and as Larry, setting aside his +domestic virtues and skill in farming, was decidedly the most +distinguished breaker of horses for forty miles round, he must be in +some degree excused, considering the inducements of “the stirrup cup,” +and the fox-hunting society in which he mixed, if he had also been the +greatest drunkard in the county: but, in truth, this was not the case. + +Larry was a man of mixed habits, as well in his mode of life and his +drink, as in his costume. His dress accorded well with his +character—a sort of half-and-half between farmer and horse-jockey. He +wore a blue coat of coarse cloth, with short skirts, and a stand-up +collar; his waistcoat was red, and his lower habiliments were made of +leather, which in course of time had shrunk so much, that they fitted +like a second skin; and long use had absorbed their moisture to such a +degree, that they made a strange sort of crackling noise as he walked +along. A hat covered with oil-skin; a cutting-whip, all worn and jagged +at the end; a pair of second-hand, or, to speak more correctly +second-footed, greasy top boots, that seemed never to have imbibed a +refreshing draught of Warren’s blacking of matchless lustre!—and one +spur without a rowel, completed the every-day dress of Larry Dodd. + +Thus equipped was Larry returning from Cashel, mounted on a +rough-coated and wall-eyed nag, though, notwithstanding these and a +few other trifling blemishes, a well-built animal; having just +purchased the said nag, with a fancy that he could make his own money +again of his bargain, and, may be, turn an odd penny more by it at the +ensuing Kildorrery fair. Well pleased with himself, he trotted fair +and easy along the road in the delicious and lingering twilight of a +lovely June evening, thinking of nothing at all, only whistling, and +wondering would horses always be so low. “If they go at this rate,” +said he to himself, “for half nothing, and that paid in butter buyer’s +notes, who would be the fool to walk?” This very thought, indeed, was +passing in his mind, when his attention was roused by a woman pacing +quickly by the side of his horse and hurrying on as if endeavouring to +reach her destination before the night closed in. Her figure, +considering the long strides she took, appeared to be under the common +size—rather of the dumpy order; but farther, as to whether the damsel +was young or old, fair or brown, pretty or ugly, Larry could form no +precise notion, from her wearing a large cloak (the usual garb of the +female Irish peasant,) the hood of which was turned up, and completely +concealed every feature. + +Enveloped in this mass of dark and concealing drapery, the strange +woman, without much exertion, contrived to keep up with Larry Dodd’s +steed for some time, when his master very civilly offered her a lift +behind him, as far as he was going her way. “Civility begets +civility,” they say; however he received no answer; and thinking that +the lady’s silence proceeded only from bashfulness, like a man of true +gallantry, not a word more said Larry until he pulled up by the side +of a gap, and then says he, “_Ma colleen beg_,[22] just jump up behind +me, without a word more, though never a one have you spoke, and I’ll +take you safe and sound through the lonesome bit of road that is +before us.” + + [22] My little girl. + +She jumped at the offer, sure enough, and up with her on the back of +the horse as light as a feather. In an instant there she was seated up +behind Larry, with her hand and arm buckled round his waist holding +on. + +“I hope you’re comfortable there, my dear,” said Larry, in his own +good-humoured way; but there was no answer; and on they went—trot, +trot, trot—along the road; and all was so still and so quiet, that +you might have heard the sound of the hoofs on the limestone a mile +off; for that matter there was nothing else to hear except the moaning +of a distant stream, that kept up a continued _cronane_,[23] like a +nurse _hushoing_. Larry, who had a keen ear, did not, however, require +so profound a silence to detect the click of one of the shoes. “’Tis +only loose the shoe is,” said he to his companion, as they were just +entering on the lonesome bit of road of which he had before spoken. +Some old trees, with huge trunks, all covered, and irregular branches +festooned with ivy, grew over a dark pool of water, which had been +formed as a drinking-place for cattle; and in the distance was seen +the majestic head of Gaultee-more. Here the horse, as if in grateful +recognition, made a dead halt; and Larry, not knowing what vicious +tricks his new purchase might have, and unwilling that through any odd +chance the young woman should get _spilt_ in the water, dismounted, +thinking to lead the horse quietly by the pool. + + [23] A monotonous song; a drowsy humming noise. + +“By the piper’s luck, that always found what he wanted,” said Larry, +recollecting himself, “I’ve a nail in my pocket: ’tis not the first +time I’ve put on a shoe, and may be it won’t be the last; for here is +no want of paving-stones to make hammers in plenty.” + +No sooner was Larry off, than off with a spring came the young woman +just at his side. Her feet touched the ground without making the least +noise in life, and away she bounded like an ill-mannered wench, as she +was, without saying, “by your leave,” or no matter what else. She +seemed to glide rather than run, not along the road, but across a +field, up towards the old ivy-covered walls of Kilnaslattery +church—and a pretty church it was. + +“Not so fast, if you please, young woman—not so fast,” cried Larry, +calling after her: but away she ran, and Larry followed, his leathern +garment, already described, crack, crick, crackling at every step he +took. “Where’s my wages?” said Larry: “_Thorum pog, ma colleen +oge_,[24]—sure I’ve earned a kiss from your pair of pretty lips—and +I’ll have it too!” But she went on faster and faster, regardless of +these and other flattering speeches from her pursuer; at last she came +to the churchyard wall, and then over with her in an instant. + + [24] Give me a kiss, my young girl. + +“Well, she’s a mighty smart creature any how. To be sure, how neat she +steps upon her pasterns! Did any one ever see the like of that +before;—but I’ll not be balked by any woman that ever wore a head, or +any ditch either,” exclaimed Larry, as with a desperate bound he +vaulted, scrambled, and tumbled over the wall into the churchyard. Up +he got from the elastic sod of a newly-made grave in which Tade Leary +that morning was buried—rest his soul!—and on went Larry, stumbling +over headstones, and foot-stones, over old graves and new graves, +pieces of coffins, and the skulls and bones of dead men—the Lord save +us!—that were scattered about there as plenty as paving-stones; +floundering amidst great overgrown dock-leaves and brambles that, with +their long prickly arms, tangled round his limbs, and held him back +with a fearful grasp. Mean time the merry wench in the cloak moved +through all these obstructions as evenly and as gaily as if the +churchyard, crowded up as it was with graves and grave-stones (for +people came to be buried there from far and near,) had been the floor +of a dancing-room. Round and round the walls of the old church she +went. “I’ll just wait,” said Larry, seeing this, and thinking it all +nothing but a trick to frighten him; “when she comes round again, if I +don’t take the kiss, I won’t, that’s all,—and here she is!” Larry +Dodd sprang forward with open arms, and clasped in them—a woman, it +is true—but a woman without any lips to kiss, by reason of her having +no head. + +“Murder!” cried he. “Well, that accounts for her not speaking.” Having +uttered these words, Larry himself became dumb with fear and +astonishment; his blood seemed turned to ice, and a dizziness came +over him; and, staggering like a drunken man, he rolled against the +broken window of the ruin, horrified at the conviction that he had +actually held a Dullahan in his embrace! + +When he recovered to something like a feeling of consciousness, he +slowly opened his eyes, and then, indeed, a scene of wonder burst upon +him. In the midst of the ruin stood an old wheel of torture, +ornamented with heads, like Cork gaol, when the heads of Murty +Sullivan and other gentlemen were stuck upon it. This was plainly +visible in the strange light which spread itself around. It was +fearful to behold, but Larry could not choose but look, for his limbs +were powerless through the wonder and the fear. Useless as it was, he +would have called for help, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his +mouth, and not one word could he say. In short, there was Larry, +gazing through a shattered window of the old church, with eyes bleared +and almost starting from their sockets; his breast resting on the +thickness of the wall, over which, on one side, his head and +outstretched neck projected, and on the other, although one toe +touched the ground, it derived no support from thence: terror, as it +were, kept him balanced. Strange noises assailed his ears, until at +last they tingled painfully to the sharp clatter of little bells, +which kept up a continued ding—ding—ding—ding: marrowless bones +rattled and clanked, and the deep and solemn sound of a great bell +came booming on the night wind. + + ’Twas a spectre rung + That bell when it swung— + Swing-swang! + And the chain it squeaked, + And the pulley creaked, + Swing-swang! + + And with every roll + Of the deep death toll + Ding-dong! + The hollow vault rang + As the clapper went bang, + Ding-dong! + +It was strange music to dance by; nevertheless, moving to it, round +and round the wheel set with skulls, were well-dressed ladies and +gentlemen, and soldiers and sailors, and priests and publicans, and +jockeys and jennys, but all without their heads. Some poor skeletons, +whose bleached bones were ill covered by moth-eaten palls, and who +were not admitted into the ring, amused themselves by bowling their +brainless noddles at one another, which seemed to enjoy the sport +beyond measure. + +Larry did not know what to think; his brains were all in a mist; and +losing the balance which he had so long maintained, he fell head +foremost into the midst of the company of Dullahans. + +“I’m done for and lost for ever,” roared Larry, with his heels turned +towards the stars, and souse down he came. + +“Welcome, Larry Dodd, welcome,” cried every head, bobbing up and down +in the air. “A drink for Larry Dodd,” shouted they, as with one voice, +that quavered like a shake on the bagpipes. No sooner said than done, +for a player at heads, catching his own as it was bowled at him, for +fear of its going astray, jumped up, put the head, without a word, +under his left arm, and, with the right stretched out, presented a +brimming cup to Larry, who, to show his manners, drank it off like a +man. + +“’Tis capital stuff,” he would have said, which surely it was, but he +got no farther than cap, when decapitated was he, and his head began +dancing over his shoulders like those of the rest of the party. Larry, +however, was not the first man who lost his head through the +temptation of looking at the bottom of a brimming cup. Nothing more +did he remember clearly,—for it seems body and head being parted is +not very favourable to thought—but a great hurry scurry with the +noise of carriages and the cracking of whips. + +When his senses returned, his first act was to put up his hand to +where his head formerly grew, and to his great joy there he found it +still. He then shook it gently, but his head remained firm enough, and +somewhat assured at this, he proceeded to open his eyes and look +around him. It was broad daylight, and in the old church of +Kilnaslattery he found himself lying, with that head, the loss of +which he had anticipated, quietly resting, poor youth, “upon the lap +of earth.” Could it have been an ugly dream? “Oh no,” said Larry, “a +dream could never have brought me here, stretched on the flat of my +back, with that death’s head and cross marrow bones forenenting me on +the fine old tombstone there that was _faced_ by Pat Kearney[25] of +Kilcrea—but where is the horse?” He got up slowly, every joint aching +with pain from the bruises he had received, and went to the pool of +water, but no horse was there. “’Tis home I must go,” said Larry, with +a rueful countenance; “but how will I face Nancy?—what will I tell +her about the horse, and the seven I. O. U.’s that he cost me?—’Tis +them Dullahans that have made their own of him from me—the +horse-stealing robbers of the world, that have no fear of the +gallows!—but what’s gone is gone, that’s a clear case!”—so saying, +he turned his steps homewards, and arrived at his cabin about noon +without encountering any farther adventures. There he found Nancy, +who, as he expected, looked as black as a thundercloud at him for +being out all night. She listened to the marvellous relation which he +gave with exclamations of astonishment, and, when he had concluded, of +grief, at the loss of the horse that he had paid for like an honest +man with seven I. O. U.’s, three of which she knew to be as good as +gold. + + [25] _Faced_, so written by the Chantrey of Kilcrea, for + “_fecit_.” + +“But what took you up to the old church at all, out of the road, and +at that time of the night, Larry?” inquired his wife. + +Larry looked like a criminal for whom there was no reprieve; he +scratched his head for an excuse, but not one could he muster up, so +he knew not what to say. + +“Oh! Larry, Larry,” muttered Nancy, after waiting some time for his +answer, her jealous fears during the pause rising like barm; “’tis the +very same way with you as with any other man—you are all alike for +that matter—I’ve no pity for you—but, confess the truth.” + +Larry shuddered at the tempest which he perceived was about to break +upon his devoted head. + +“Nancy,” said he, “I do confess:—it was a young woman without any +head that——” + +His wife heard no more. “A woman I knew it was,” cried she; “but a +woman without a head, Larry!—well, it is long before Nancy Gollagher +ever thought it would come to that with her!—that she would be left +dissolute and alone here by her _baste_ of a husband, for a woman +without a head!—O father, father! and O mother, mother! it is well +you are low to-day!—that you don’t see this affliction and disgrace +to your daughter that you reared decent and tender. + +“O Larry, you villain, you’ll be the death of your lawful wife going +after such O—O—O—” + +“Well,” says Larry, putting his hands in his coat-pockets, “least said +is soonest mended. Of the young woman I know no more than I do of Moll +Flanders: but this I know, that a woman without a head may well be +called a Good Woman, because she has no tongue!” + +How this remark operated on the matrimonial dispute history does not +inform us. It is, however, reported that the lady had the last word. + + + + +HANLON’S MILL. + +XXVII. + + +One fine summer’s evening Michael Noonan went over to Jack Brien’s, +the shoemaker, at Ballyduff, for the pair of brogues which Jack was +mending for him. It was a pretty walk the way he took, but very +lonesome; all along by the river-side, down under the oak-wood, till +he came to Hanlon’s mill, that used to be, but that had gone to ruin +many a long year ago. + +Melancholy enough the walls of that same mill looked; the great old +wheel, black with age, all covered over with moss and ferns, and the +bushes all hanging down about it. There it stood silent and +motionless; and a sad contrast it was to its former busy clack, with +the stream which once gave it use rippling idly along. + +Old Hanlon was a man that had great knowledge of all sorts; there was +not an herb that grew in the field but he could tell the name of it +and its use, out of a big book he had written, every word of it in the +real Irish _karacter_. He kept a school once, and could teach the +Latin; that surely is a blessed tongue all over the wide world; and I +hear tell as how “the great Burke” went to school to him. Master +Edmund lived up at the old house there, which was then in the family, +and it was the Nagles that got it afterwards, but they sold it. + +But it was Michael Noonan’s walk I was about speaking of. It was +fairly between lights, the day was clean gone, and the moon was not +yet up, when Mick was walking smartly across the Inch. Well, he heard, +coming down out of the wood, such blowing of horns and hallooing, and +the cry of all the hounds in the world, and he thought they were +coming after him; and the galloping of the horses, and the voice of +the whipper-in, and he shouting out, just like the fine old song, + + “Hallo Piper, Lilly, agus Finder;” + +and the echo over from the gray rock across the river giving back +every word as plainly as it was spoken. But nothing could Mick see, +and the shouting and hallooing following him every step of the way +till he got up to Jack Brien’s door; and he was certain, too, he heard +the clack of old Hanlon’s mill going, through all the clatter. To be +sure, he ran as fast as fear and his legs could carry him, and never +once looked behind him, well knowing that the Duhallow hounds were out +in quite another quarter that day, and that nothing good could come +out of the noise of Hanlon’s mill. + +Well, Michael Noonan got his brogues, and well heeled they were, and +well pleased was he with them; when who should be seated at Jack +Brien’s before him, but a gossip of his, one Darby Haynes, a mighty +decent man, that had a horse and car of his own, and that used to be +travelling with it, taking loads like the royal mail coach between +Cork and Limerick; and when he was at home, Darby was a near neighbour +of Michael Noonan’s. + +“Is it home you’re going with the brogues this blessed night?” said +Darby to him. + +“Where else would it be?” replied Mick: “but, by my word, ’tis not +across the Inch back again I’m going, after all I heard coming here; +’tis to no good that old Hanlon’s mill is busy again.” + +“True, for you,” said Darby; “and may be you’d take the horse and car +home for me, Mick, by way of company, as ’tis along the road you go. +I’m waiting here to see a sister’s son of mine that I expect from +Kilcoleman.” “That same I’ll do,” answered Mick, “with a thousand +welcomes.” So Mick drove the car fair and easy, knowing that the poor +beast had come off a long journey; and Mick—God reward him for +it—was always tender-hearted and good to the dumb creatures. + +The night was a beautiful one; the moon was better than a quarter old; +and Mick, looking up at her, could not help bestowing a blessing on +her beautiful face, shining down so sweetly upon the gentle Awbeg. He +had now got out of the open road, and had come to where the trees grew +on each side of it: he proceeded for some space in the chequered light +which the moon gave through them. At one time, when a big old tree got +between him and the moon, it was so dark, that he could hardly see the +horse’s head; then, as he passed on, the moonbeams would stream +through the open boughs and variegate the road with light and shade. +Mick was lying down in the car at his ease, having got clear of the +plantation, and was watching the bright piece of a moon in a little +pool at the road-side, when he saw it disappear all of a sudden as if +a great cloud came over the sky. He turned round on his elbow to see +if it was so; but how was Mick astonished at finding, close alongside +of the car, a great high black coach drawn by six black horses, with +long black tails reaching almost down to the ground, and a coachman +dressed all in black sitting up on the box. But what surprised Mick +the most was, that he could see no sign of a head either upon coachman +or horses. It swept rapidly by him, and he could perceive the horses +raising their feet as if they were in a fine slinging trot, the +coachman touching them up with his long whip, and the wheels spinning +round like hoddy-doddies; still he could hear no noise, only the +regular step of his gossip Darby’s horse, and the squeaking of the +gudgeons of the car, that were as good as lost entirely for want of a +little grease. + +Poor Mick’s heart almost died within him, but he said nothing, only +looked on; and the black coach swept away and was soon lost among +some distant trees. Mick saw nothing more of it, or, indeed, of any +thing else. He got home just as the moon was going down behind Mount +Hillery—took the tackling off the horse, turned the beast out in the +field for the night, and got to his bed. + +Next morning, early, he was standing at the road-side, thinking of all +that had happened the night before, when he saw Dan Madden, that was +Mr. Wrixon’s huntsman, coming on the master’s best horse down the +hill, as hard as ever he went at the tail of the hounds. Mick’s mind +instantly misgave him that all was not right, so he stood out in the +very middle of the road, and caught hold of Dan’s bridle when he came +up. + +“Mick, dear—for the love of heaven! don’t stop me,” cried Dan. + +“Why, what’s the hurry?” said Mick. + +“Oh, the master!—he’s off,—he’s off—he’ll never cross a horse again +till the day of judgment!” + +“Why, what would ail his honour?” said Mick; “sure it is no later than +yesterday morning that I was talking to him, and he stout and hearty; +and says he to me, Mick, says he—” + +“Stout and hearty was he?” answered Madden; “and was he not out with +me in the kennel last night, when I was feeding the dogs; and didn’t +he come out to the stable, and give a ball to Peg Pullaway with his +own hand, and tell me he’d ride the old General to-day; and sure,” +said Dan, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, “who’d have +thought that the first thing I’d see this morning was the mistress +standing at my bed-side, and bidding me get up and ride off like fire +for Doctor Galway; for the master had got a fit, and”—poor Dan’s +grief choked his voice—“oh, Mick! if you have a heart in you, run +over yourself, or send the gossoon for Kate Finnigan, the midwife; +she’s a cruel skilful woman, and may be she might save the master, +till I get the doctor.” + +Dan struck his spurs into the hunter, and Michael Noonan flung off his +newly-mended brogues, and cut across the fields to Kate Finnigan’s; +but neither the doctor nor Katty was of any avail, and the next +night’s moon saw Ballygibblin—and more’s the pity—a house of +mourning. + + + + +THE DEATH COACH. + +XXVIII. + + + ’Tis midnight!—how gloomy and dark! + By Jupiter there’s not a star!— + ’Tis fearful!—’tis awful!—and hark! + What sound is that comes from afar? + + Still rolling and rumbling, that sound + Makes nearer and nearer approach; + Do I tremble, or is it the ground?— + Lord save us!—what is it?—a coach!— + + A coach!—but that coach has no head; + And the horses are headless as it: + Of the driver the same may be said, + And the passengers inside who sit. + + See the wheels! how they fly o’er the stones! + And whirl, as the whip it goes crack: + Their spokes are of dead men’s thigh bones, + And the pole is the spine of the back! + + The hammer-cloth, shabby display, + Is a pall rather mildew’d by damps; + + And to light this strange coach on its way, + Two hollow skulls hang up for lamps! + + From the gloom of Rathcooney churchyard, + They dash down the hill of Glanmire; + Pass Lota in gallop as hard + As if horses were never to tire! + + With people thus headless ’tis fun + To drive in such furious career; + Since _headlong_ their horses can’t run, + Nor coachman be _heady_ from beer. + + Very steep is the Tivoli lane, + But up-hill to them is as down; + Nor the charms of Woodhill can detain + These Dullahans rushing to town. + + Could they feel as I’ve felt—in a song— + A spell that forbade them depart; + They’d a lingering visit prolong, + And after their head lose their heart! + + No matter!—’tis past twelve o’clock; + Through the streets they sweep on like the wind, + And, taking the road to Blackrock, + Cork city is soon left behind. + + Should they hurry thus reckless along, + To supper instead of to bed, + The landlord will surely be wrong, + If he charge it at so much a head! + + Yet mine host may suppose them too poor + To bring to his wealth an increase; + As till now, all who drove to his door, + Possess’d at least _one crown_ a-piece. + + Up the Deadwoman’s hill they are roll’d; + Boreenmannah is quite out of sight; + Ballintemple they reach, and behold! + At its churchyard they stop and alight. + + “Who’s there?” said a voice from the ground, + “We’ve no room, for the place is quite full.” + “O! room must be speedily found, + For we come from the parish of Skull. + + “Though Murphys and Crowleys appear + On headstones of deep-letter’d pride; + Though Scannels and Murleys lie here, + Fitzgeralds and Toonies beside; + + “Yet here for the night we lie down, + To-morrow we speed on the gale; + For having no heads of our own, + We seek the Old Head of Kinsale.” + + + + +THE HEADLESS HORSEMAN. + +XXIX. + + +“God speed you, and a safe journey this night to you, Charley,” +ejaculated the master of the little sheebeen house at Ballyhooley +after his old friend and good customer, Charley Culnane, who at length +had turned his face homewards, with the prospect of as dreary a ride +and as dark a night as ever fell upon the Blackwater, along the banks +of which he was about to journey. + +Charley Culnane knew the country well, and, moreover, was as bold a +rider as any Mallow-boy that ever _rattled_ a four-year-old upon +Drumrue race-course. He had gone to Fermoy in the morning, as well for +the purpose of purchasing some ingredients required for the Christmas +dinner by his wife, as to gratify his own vanity by having new reins +fitted to his snaffle, in which he intended showing off the old mare +at the approaching St. Stephen’s day hunt. + +Charley did not get out of Fermoy until late; for although he was not +one of your “nasty particular sort of fellows” in any thing that +related to the common occurrences of life, yet in all the appointments +connected with hunting, riding, leaping, in short, in whatever was +connected with the old mare, “Charley,” the saddlers said, “was the +devil to _plase_.” An illustration of this fastidiousness was afforded +by his going such a distance for his snaffle bridle. Mallow was full +twelve miles nearer “Charley’s farm” (which lay just three quarters +of a mile below Carrick) than Fermoy; but Charley had quarrelled with +all the Mallow saddlers, from hard-working and hard-drinking Tim +Clancey, up to Mr. Ryan, who wrote himself “Saddler to the Duhallow +Hunt;” and no one could content him in all particulars but honest +Michael Twomey of Fermoy, who used to assert—and who will doubt +it—that he could stitch a saddle better than the lord-lieutenant, +although they made him all as one as king over Ireland. + +This delay in the arrangement of the snaffle bridle did not allow +Charley Culnane to pay so long a visit as he had at first intended to +his old friend and gossip, Con Buckley, of the “Harp of Erin.” Con, +however, knew the value of time, and insisted upon Charley making good +use of what he had to spare. “I won’t bother you waiting for water, +Charley, because I think you’ll have enough of that same before you +get home; so drink off your liquor, man. It’s as good _parliament_ as +ever a gentleman tasted, ay, and holy church too, for it will bear ‘x +_waters_,’ and carry the bead after that, may be.” + +Charley, it must be confessed, nothing loath, drank success to Con, +and success to the jolly “Harp of Erin,” with its head of beauty and +its strings of the hair of gold, and to their better acquaintance, and +so on, from the bottom of his soul, until the bottom of the bottle +reminded him that Carrick was at the bottom of the hill on the other +side of Castletown Roche, and that he had got no farther on his +journey than his gossip’s at Ballyhooley, close to the big gate of +Convamore. Catching hold of his oil-skin hat, therefore, whilst Con +Buckley went to the cupboard for another bottle of the “real stuff,” +he regularly, as it is termed, bolted from his friend’s hospitality, +darted to the stable, tightened his girths, and put the old mare into +a canter towards home. + +The road from Ballyhooley to Carrick follows pretty nearly the course +of the Blackwater, occasionally diverging from the river and passing +through rather wild scenery, when contrasted with the beautiful seats +that adorn its banks. Charley cantered gaily, regardless of the rain, +which, as his friend Con had anticipated, fell in torrents: the good +woman’s currants and raisins were carefully packed between the folds +of his yeomanry cloak, which Charley, who was proud of showing that he +belonged to the “Royal Mallow Light Horse Volunteers,” always strapped +to the saddle before him, and took care never to destroy the military +effect of by putting it on.—Away he went singing like a thrush— + + “Sporting, belleing, dancing, drinking, + Breaking windows—(_hiccup_!)—sinking, + Ever raking—never thinking, + Live the rakes of Mallow. + + “Spending faster than it comes, + Beating—(_hiccup, hic_,) and duns, + Duhallow’s true-begotten sons, + Live the rakes of Mallow.” + +Notwithstanding that the visit to the jolly “Harp of Erin” had a +little increased the natural complacency of his mind, the drenching of +the new snaffle reins began to disturb him; and then followed a train +of more anxious thoughts than even were occasioned by the dreaded +defeat of the pride of his long-anticipated _turn out_ on St. +Stephen’s day. In an hour of good fellowship, when his heart was warm, +and his head not over cool, Charley had backed the old mare against +Mr. Jephson’s bay filly Desdemona for a neat hundred, and he now felt +sore misgivings as to the prudence of the match. In a less gay tone +he continued— + + “Living short, but merry lives, + Going where the devil drives, + Keeping——” + +“Keeping” he muttered, as the old mare had reduced her canter to a +trot at the bottom of Kilcummer Hill. Charley’s eye fell on the old +walls that belonged, in former times, to the Templars: but the silent +gloom of the ruin was broken only by the heavy rain which splashed and +pattered on the grave-stones. He then looked up at the sky, to see if +there was, among the clouds, any hopes for mercy on his new snaffle +reins; and no sooner were his eyes lowered, than his attention was +arrested by an object so extraordinary as almost led him to doubt the +evidence of his senses. The head, apparently, of a white horse, with +short cropped ears, large open nostrils and immense eyes, seemed +rapidly to follow him. No connexion with body, legs, or rider, could +possibly be traced—the head advanced—Charley’s old mare, too, was +moved at this unnatural sight, and snorting violently, increased her +trot up the hill. The head moved forward, and passed on: Charley, +pursuing it with astonished gaze, and wondering by what means, and for +what purpose, this detached head thus proceeded through the air, did +not perceive the corresponding body until he was suddenly startled by +finding it close at his side. Charley turned to examine what was thus +so sociably jogging on with him, when a most unexampled apparition +presented itself to his view. A figure, whose height (judging as well +as the obscurity of the night would permit him) he computed to be at +least eight feet, was seated on the body and legs of a white horse +full eighteen hands and a half high. In this measurement Charley could +not be mistaken, for his own mare was exactly fifteen hands, and the +body that thus jogged alongside he could at once determine, from his +practice in horseflesh, was at least three hands and a half higher. + +After the first feeling of astonishment, which found vent in the +exclamation “I’m sold now for ever!” was over, the attention of +Charley, being a keen sportsman, was naturally directed to this +extraordinary body; and having examined it with the eye of a +connoisseur, he proceeded to reconnoitre the figure so unusually +mounted, who had hitherto remained perfectly mute. Wishing to see +whether his companion’s silence proceeded from bad temper, want of +conversational powers, or from a distaste to water, and the fear that +the opening of his mouth might subject him to have it filled by the +rain, which was then drifting in violent gusts against them, Charley +endeavoured to catch a sight of his companion’s face, in order to form +an opinion on that point. But his vision failed in carrying him +farther than the top of the collar of the figure’s coat, which was a +scarlet single-breasted hunting frock, having a waist of a very +old-fashioned cut reaching to the saddle, with two huge shining +buttons at about a yard distance behind. “I ought to see farther than +this, too,” thought Charley, “although he is mounted on his high +horse, like my cousin Darby, who was made barony constable last week, +unless ’tis Con’s whiskey that has blinded me entirely.” However, see +farther he could not, and after straining his eyes for a considerable +time to no purpose, he exclaimed, with pure vexation, “By the big +bridge of Mallow, it is no head at all he has!” + +“Look again, Charley Culnane,” said a hoarse voice, that seemed to +proceed from under the right arm of the figure. + +Charley did look again, and now in the proper place, for he clearly +saw, under the aforesaid right arm, that head from which the voice had +proceeded, and such a head no mortal ever saw before. It looked like a +large cream cheese hung round with black puddings; no speck of colour +enlivened the ashy paleness of the depressed features; the skin lay +stretched over the unearthly surface, almost like the parchment head +of a drum. Two fiery eyes of prodigious circumference, with a strange +and irregular motion, flashed like meteors upon Charley, and to +complete all, a mouth reached from either extremity of two ears, which +peeped forth from under a profusion of matted locks of lustreless +blackness. This head, which the figure had evidently hitherto +concealed from Charley’s eyes, now burst upon his view in all its +hideousness. Charley, although a lad of proverbial courage in the +county of Cork, yet could not but feel his nerves a little shaken by +this unexpected visit from the headless horseman, whom he considered +his fellow-traveller must be. The cropped-eared head of the gigantic +horse moved steadily forward, always keeping from six to eight yards +in advance. The horseman, unaided by whip or spur, and disdaining the +use of stirrups, which dangled uselessly from the saddle, followed at +a trot by Charley’s side, his hideous head now lost behind the lappet +of his coat, now starting forth in all its horror, as the motion of +the horse caused his arm to move to and fro. The ground shook under +the weight of its supernatural burden, and the water in the pools +became agitated into waves as he trotted by them. + +On they went—heads without bodies, and bodies without heads.—The +deadly silence of night was broken only by the fearful clattering of +hoofs, and the distant sound of thunder, which rumbled above the +mystic hill of Cecaune a Mona Finnea. Charley, who was naturally a +merry-hearted, and rather a talkative fellow, had hitherto felt +tongue-tied by apprehension, but finding his companion showed no evil +disposition towards him, and having become somewhat more reconciled to +the Patagonian dimensions of the horseman and his headless steed, +plucked up all his courage, and thus addressed the stranger:— + +“Why, then, your honour rides mighty well without the stirrups!” + +“Humph,” growled the head from under the horseman’s right arm. + +“’Tis not an over civil answer,” thought Charley; “but no matter, he +was taught in one of them riding-houses, may be, and thinks nothing at +all about bumping his leather breeches at the rate of ten miles an +hour. I’ll try him on the other track. Ahem!” said Charley, clearing +his throat, and feeling at the same time rather daunted at this second +attempt to establish a conversation. “Ahem! that’s a mighty neat coat +of your honour’s, although ’tis a little too long in the waist for the +present cut.” + +“Humph,” growled again the head. + +This second humph was a terrible thump in the face to poor Charley, +who was fairly bothered to know what subject he could start that would +prove more agreeable. “’Tis a sensible head,” thought Charley, +“although an ugly one, for ’tis plain enough the man does not like +flattery.” A third attempt, however, Charley was determined to make, +and having failed in his observations as to the riding and coat of his +fellow-traveller, thought he would just drop a trifling allusion to +the wonderful headless horse, that was jogging on so sociably beside +his old mare; and as Charley was considered about Carrick to be very +knowing in horses, besides, being a full private in the Royal Mallow +Light Horse Volunteers, which were every one of them mounted like real +Hessians, he felt rather sanguine as to the result of his third +attempt. + +“To be sure, that’s a brave horse your honour rides,” recommenced the +persevering Charley. + +“You may say that, with your own ugly mouth,” growled the head. + +Charley, though not much flattered by the compliment, nevertheless +chuckled at his success in obtaining an answer, and thus continued:— + +“May be your honour wouldn’t be after riding him across the country?” + +“Will you try me, Charley?” said the head, with an inexpressible look +of ghastly delight. + +“Faith, and that’s what I’d do,” responded Charley, “only I’m afraid, +the night being so dark, of laming the old mare, and I’ve every +halfpenny of a hundred pounds on her heels.” + +This was true enough; Charley’s courage was nothing dashed at the +headless horseman’s proposal; and there never was a steeple-chase, nor +a fox-chase, riding or leaping in the country, that Charley Culnane +was not at it, and foremost in it. + +“Will you take my word,” said the man who carried his head so snugly +under his right arm, “for the safety of your mare?” + +“Done,” said Charley; and away they started, helter skelter, over +every thing, ditch and wall, pop, pop, the old mare never went in such +style, even in broad daylight: and Charley had just the start of his +companion, when the hoarse voice called out, “Charley Culnane, +Charley, man, stop for your life, stop!” + +Charley pulled up hard. “Ay,” said he, “you may beat me by the head, +because it always goes so much before you; but if the bet was +neck-and-neck, and that’s the go between the old mare and Desdemona, +I’d win it hollow!” + +It appeared as if the stranger was well aware of what was passing in +Charley’s mind, for he suddenly broke out quite loquacious. + +“Charley Culnane,” says he, “you have a stout soul in you, and are +every inch of you a good rider. I’ve tried you, and I ought to know; +and that’s the sort of man for my money. A hundred years it is since +my horse and I broke our necks at the bottom of Kilcummer hill, and +ever since I have been trying to get a man that dared to ride with me, +and never found one before. Keep, as you have always done, at the tail +of the hounds, never balk a ditch, nor turn away from a stone wall, +and the headless horseman will never desert you nor the old mare.” + +Charley, in amazement, looked towards the stranger’s right arm, for +the purpose of seeing in his face whether or not he was in earnest, +but behold! the head was snugly lodged in the huge pocket of the +horseman’s scarlet hunting-coat. The horse’s head had ascended +perpendicularly above them, and his extraordinary companion, rising +quickly after his avant-coureur, vanished from the astonished gaze of +Charley Culnane. + +Charley, as may be supposed, was lost in wonder, delight, and +perplexity; the pelting rain, the wife’s pudding, the new +snaffle—even the match against squire Jephson—all were forgotten; +nothing could he think of, nothing could he talk of, but the headless +horseman. He told it, directly that he got home, to Judy; he told it +the following morning to all the neighbours; and he told it to the +hunt on St. Stephen’s day: but what provoked him after all the pains +he took in describing the head, the horse, and the man, was that one +and all attributed the creation of the headless horseman to his +friend Con Buckley’s “X water parliament.” This, however, should be +told, that Charley’s old mare beat Mr. Jephson’s bay filly, Desdemona, +by Diamond, and Charley pocketed his cool hundred; and if he didn’t +win by means of the headless horseman, I am sure I don’t know any +other reason for his doing so. + + DULLAHAN or DULACHAN signifies a dark sullen person. The word + _Durrachan_ or _Dullahan_, by which in some places the goblin + is known, has the same signification. It comes from _Dorr_ or + _Durr_, anger, or _Durrach_, malicious, fierce, &c.—_MS. + communication from the late_ MR. EDWARD O’REILLY. + + The correctness of this last etymology may be questioned, as + black is evidently a component part of the word. + + The Death Coach, or Headless Coach and Horses, is called in + Ireland “_Coach a bower_;” and its appearance is generally + regarded as a sign of death, or an omen of some misfortune. + + The belief in the appearance of headless people and horses + appears to be, like most popular superstitions, widely + extended. + + In England, see the Spectator (No. 110) for mention of a spirit + that had appeared in the shape of a black horse without a head. + + In Wales, the apparition of “_Fenyw heb un pen_,” the headless + woman, and “_Ceffyl heb un pen_,” the headless horse, are + generally accredited.—_MS. communication from_ MISS WILLIAMS. + + “The Irish Dullahan puts me in mind of a spectre at Drumlanrig + Castle, of no less a person than the Duchess of + Queensberry,—‘Fair Kitty, blooming, young, and gay,’—who, + instead of setting fire to the world in mamma’s chariot, amuses + herself with wheeling her own head in a wheel-barrow through + the great gallery.”—_MS. communication from_ SIR WALTER SCOTT. + + In Scotland, so recently as January, 1826, that veritable + paper, the Glasgow Chronicle, records, upon the occasion of + some silk-weavers being out of employment at Paisley, that + “Visions have been seen of carts, caravans, and coaches, going + up Gleniffer braes without horses, with horses without heads,” + &c. + + Cervantes mentions tales of the “_Caballo sin cabeça_ among the + _cuentos de viejas con que se entretienen al fuego las + dilatadas noches del invierno_,” &c. + + “The people of Basse Brétagne believe, that when the death of + any person is at hand, a hearse drawn by skeletons (which they + call _carriquet au nankon_,) and covered with a white sheet, + passes by the house where the sick person lies, and the + creaking of the wheels may be plainly heard.”—_Journal des + Sciences_, 1826, _communicated by_ DR. WILLIAM GRIMM. + + See also _Thiele’s Danske Folkesagn_, vol. iv. p. 66, &c. + + + + +THE FIR DARRIG. + + Whene’er such wanderers I meete, + As from their night-sports they trudge home, + With counterfeiting voice I greete, + And call them on with me to roame + Through woods, through lakes, + Through bogs, through brakes; + Or else, unseene, with them I go, + All in the nicke, + To play some tricke, + And frolicke it, with ho, ho, ho! + + —_Old Song._ + + + + +DIARMID BAWN, THE PIPER + +XXX. + + +One stormy night Patrick Burke was seated in the chimney corner +smoking his pipe quite contentedly after his hard day’s work; his two +little boys were roasting potatoes in the ashes, while his rosy +daughter held a splinter[26] to her mother, who, seated on a +siesteen,[27] was mending a rent in Patrick’s old coat; and Judy, the +maid, was singing merrily to the sound of her wheel, that kept up a +beautiful humming noise, just like the sweet drone of a bagpipe. +Indeed they all seemed quite contented and happy; for the storm howled +without, and they were warm and snug within, by the side of a blazing +turf fire. “I was just thinking,” said Patrick, taking the dudeen from +his mouth and giving it a rap on his thumb-nail to shake out the +ashes—“I was just thinking how thankful we ought to be to have a snug +bit of a cabin this pelting night over our heads, for in all my born +days I never heard the like of it.” + + [26] A splinter, or slip of bog-deal, which, being dipped in + tallow, is used as a candle. + + [27] Siesteen is a low block-like seat, made of straw bands + firmly sewed or bound together. + +“And that’s no lie for you, Pat,” said his wife; “but, whisht! what +noise is that I _hard_?” and she dropped her work upon her knees, and +looked fearfully towards the door. “The _Vargin_ herself defend us +all!” cried Judy, at the same time rapidly making a pious sign on her +forehead, “if ’tis not the banshee!” + +“Hold your tongue, you fool,” said Patrick, “it’s only the old gate +swinging in the wind;” and he had scarcely spoken, when the door was +assailed by a violent knocking. Molly began to mumble her prayers, and +Judy proceeded to mutter over the muster-roll of saints; the +youngsters scampered off to hide themselves behind the settle-bed; the +storm howled louder and more fiercely than ever, and the rapping was +renewed with redoubled violence. + +“Whisht, whisht!” said Patrick—“what a noise ye’re all making about +nothing at all. Judy a-roon, can’t you go and see who’s at the door?” +for, notwithstanding his assumed bravery, Pat Burke preferred that the +maid should open the door. + +“Why, then, is it me you’re speaking to?” said Judy in the tone of +astonishment; “and is it cracked mad you are, Mister Burke; or is it, +may be, that you want me to be _rund_ away with, and made a horse of, +like my grandfather was?—the sorrow a step will I stir to open the +door, if you were as great a man again as you are, Pat Burke.” + +“Bother you, then! and hold your tongue, and I’ll go myself.” So +saying, up got Patrick, and made the best of his way to the door. +“Who’s there?” said he, and his voice trembled mightily all the while. +“In the name of Saint Patrick, who’s there?” “’Tis I, Pat,” answered a +voice which he immediately knew to be the young squire’s. In a moment +the door was opened, and in walked a young man, with a gun in his +hand, and a brace of dogs at his heels. “Your honour’s honour is quite +welcome, entirely,” said Patrick; who was a very civil sort of a +fellow, especially to his betters. “Your honour’s honour is quite +welcome; and if ye’ll be so condescending as to demean yourself by +taking off your wet jacket, Molly can give ye a bran new blanket, and +ye can sit forenent the fire while the clothes are drying.” “Thank +you, Pat,” said the squire, as he wrapt himself, like Mr. Weld, in the +proffered blanket.[28] + + [28] See Weld’s Killarney, 8vo ed. p. 228. + +“But what made you keep me so long at the door?” + +“Why then, your honour, ’twas all along of Judy, there, being so much +afraid of the good people; and a good right she has, after what +happened to her grandfather—the Lord rest his soul!” + +“And what was that, Pat?” said the squire. + +“Why, then, your honour must know that Judy had a grandfather; and he +was _ould_ Diarmid Bawn, the piper, as personable a looking man as any +in the five parishes he was; and he could play the pipes so sweetly, +and make them _spake_ to such perfection, that it did one’s heart good +to hear him. We never had any one, for that matter, in this side of +the country like him, before or since, except James Gandsey, that is +own piper to Lord Headley—his honour’s lordship is the real good +gentleman—and ’tis Mr. Gandsey’s music that is the pride of Killarney +lakes. Well, as I was saying, Diarmid was Judy’s grandfather, and he +rented a small mountainy farm; and he was walking about the fields one +moonlight night, quite melancholy-like in himself for want of the +_tobaccy_; because why, the river was flooded, and he could not get +across to buy any, and Diarmid would rather go to bed without his +supper than a whiff of the dudeen. Well, your honour, just as he came +to the old fort in the far field, what should he see?—but a large +army of the good people, ’coutered for all the world just like the +dragoons! ‘Are ye all ready?’ said a little fellow at their head +dressed out like a general. ‘No,’ said a little curmudgeon of a chap +all dressed in red, from the crown of his cocked hat to the sole of +his boot. ‘No, general,’ said he: ‘if you don’t get the Fir darrig a +horse he must stay behind, and ye’ll lose the battle.’” + +“‘There’s Diarmid Bawn,’ said the general, pointing to Judy’s +grandfather, your honour, ‘make a horse of him.’ + +“So with that master Fir darrig comes up to Diarmid, who, you may be +sure, was in a mighty great fright; but he determined, seeing there +was no help for him, to put a bold face on the matter; and so he began +to cross himself, and to say some blessed words, that nothing bad +could stand before. + +“‘Is that what you’d be after, you spalpeen?’ said the little red imp, +at the same time grinning a horrible grin; ‘I’m not the man to care a +straw for either your words or your crossings.’ So, without more to +do, he gives poor Diarmid a rap with the flat side of his sword, and +in a moment he was changed into a horse, with little Fir darrig stuck +fast on his back. + +“Away they all flew over the wide ocean, like so many wild geese, +screaming and chattering all the time, till they came to Jamaica; and +there they had a murdering fight with the good people of that country. +Well, it was all very well with them, and they stuck to it manfully, +and fought it out fairly, till one of the Jamaica men made a cut with +his sword under Diarmid’s left eye. And then, sir, you see, poor +Diarmid lost his temper entirely, and he dashed into the very middle +of them, with Fir darrig mounted upon his back, and he threw out his +heels, and whisked his tail about, and wheeled and turned round and +round at such a rate, that he soon made a fair clearance of them, +horse, foot, and dragoons. At last Diarmid’s faction got the better, +all through his means; and then they had such feasting and rejoicing, +and gave Diarmid, who was the finest horse amongst them all, the best +of every thing. + +“‘Let every man take a hand of _tobaccy_ for Diarmid Bawn,’ said the +general; and so they did; and away they flew, for ’twas getting near +morning, to the old fort back again, and there they vanished like the +mist from the mountain. + +“When Diarmid looked about, the sun was rising, and he thought it was +all a dream, till he saw a big rick of _tobaccy_ in the old fort, and +felt the blood running from his left eye: for sure enough he was +wounded in the battle, and would have been _kilt_ entirely, if it +wasn’t for a gospel composed by father Murphy that hung about his neck +ever since he had the scarlet fever; and for certain, it was enough to +have given him another scarlet fever to have had the little red man +all night on his back, whip and spur for the bare life. However, there +was the _tobaccy_ heaped up in a great heap by his side; and he heard +a voice, although he could see no one, telling him, ‘That ’twas all +his own, for his good behaviour in the battle; and that whenever Fir +darrig would want a horse again he’d know where to find a clever +beast, as he never rode a better than Diarmid Bawn.’ That’s what he +said, sir.” + +“Thank you, Pat,” said the squire; “it certainly is a wonderful story, +and I am not surprised at Judy’s alarm. But now, as the storm is over, +and the moon shining brightly, I’ll make the best of my way home.” So +saying, he disrobed himself of the blanket, put on his coat, and +whistling his dogs, set off across the mountain; while Patrick stood +at the door, bawling after him, “May God and the blessed Virgin +preserve your honour, and keep ye from the good people; for ’twas of a +moonlight night like this that Diarmid Bawn was made a horse of, for +the Fir darrig to ride.” + + + + +TEIGUE OF THE LEE. + +XXXI. + + +“I can’t stop in the house—I won’t stop in it for all the money that +is buried in the old castle of Carrigrohan. If ever there was such a +thing in the world!—to be abused to my face night and day, and nobody +to the fore doing it! and then, if I’m angry, to be laughed at with a +great roaring ho, ho, ho! I won’t stay in the house after to-night, if +there was not another place in the country to put my head under.” This +angry soliloquy was pronounced in the hall of the old manor-house of +Carrigrohan by John Sheehan. John was a new servant: he had been only +three days in the house, which had the character of being haunted, and +in that short space of time he had been abused and laughed at by a +voice which sounded as if a man spoke with his head in a cask; nor +could he discover who was the speaker, or from whence the voice came. +“I’ll not stop here,” said John; “and that ends the matter.” + +“Ho, ho, ho! be quiet, John Sheehan, or else worse will happen to +you.” + +John instantly ran to the hall window, as the words were evidently +spoken by a person immediately outside, but no one was visible. He had +scarcely placed his face at the pane of glass, when he heard another +loud “Ho, ho, ho!” as if behind him in the hall; as quick as lightning +he turned his head, but no living thing was to be seen. + +“Ho, ho, ho, John!” shouted a voice that appeared to come from the +lawn before the house; “do you think you’ll see Teigue?—oh, never! as +long as you live! so leave alone looking after him, and mind your +business; there’s plenty of company to dinner from Cork to be here +to-day, and ’tis time you had the cloth laid.” + +“Lord bless us! there’s more of it!—I’ll never stay another day +here,” repeated John. + +“Hold your tongue, and stay where you are quietly, and play no tricks +on Mr. Pratt, as you did on Mr. Jervois about the spoons.” + +John Sheehan was confounded by this address from his invisible +persecutor, but nevertheless he mustered courage enough to say—“Who +are you?—come here, and let me see you, if you are a man;” but he +received in reply only a laugh of unearthly derision, which was +followed by a “Good-bye—I’ll watch you at dinner, John!” + +“Lord between us and harm! this beats all!—I’ll watch you at +dinner!—may be you will;—’tis the broad daylight, so ’tis no ghost; +but this is a terrible place, and this is the last day I’ll stay in +it. How does he know about the spoons?—if he tells it, I’m a ruined +man!—there was no living soul could tell it to him but Tim Barrett, +and he’s far enough off in the wilds of Botany Bay now, so how could +he know it—I can’t tell for the world! But what’s that I see there at +the corner of the wall?—’tis not a man!—oh, what a fool I am! ’tis +only the old stump of a tree!—But this is a shocking place—I’ll +never stop in it, for I’ll leave the house to-morrow; the very look of +it is enough to frighten any one.” + +The mansion had certainly an air of desolation; it was situated in a +lawn, which had nothing to break its uniform level, safe a few tufts +of narcissuses and a couple of old trees coeval with the building. The +house stood at a short distance from the road; it was upwards of a +century old, and Time was doing his work upon it; its walls were +weather-stained in all colours, its roof showed various white patches, +it had no look of comfort; all was dim and dingy without, and within +there was an air of gloom, of departed and departing greatness, which +harmonized well with the exterior. It required all the exuberance of +youth and of gaiety to remove the impression, almost amounting to awe, +with which you trod the huge square hall, paced along the gallery +which surrounded the hall, or explored the long rambling passages +below stairs. The ball-room, as the large drawing-room was called, and +several other apartments, were in a state of decay: the walls were +stained with damp; and I remember well the sensation of awe which I +felt creeping over me when, boy as I was, and full of boyish life, and +wild and ardent spirits, I descended to the vaults; all without and +within me became chilled beneath their dampness and gloom—their +extent, too, terrified me; nor could the merriment of my two +schoolfellows, whose father, a respectable clergyman, rented the +dwelling for a time, dispel the feelings of a romantic imagination, +until I once again ascended to the upper regions. + +John had pretty well recovered himself as the dinner-hour approached, +and the several guests arrived. They were all seated at table, and had +begun to enjoy the excellent repast, when a voice was heard from the +lawn:— + +“Ho, ho, ho, Mr. Pratt, won’t you give poor Teigue some dinner? ho, +ho, a fine company you have there, and plenty of every thing that’s +good; sure you won’t forget poor Teigue?” + +John dropped the glass he had in his hand. + +“Who is that?” said Mr. Pratt’s brother, an officer of the artillery. + +“That is Teigue,” said Mr. Pratt, laughing, “whom you must often have +heard me mention.” + +“And pray, Mr. Pratt,” inquired another gentleman, “who _is_ Teigue?” + +“That,” he replied, “is more than I can tell. No one has ever been +able to catch even a glimpse of him. I have been on the watch for a +whole evening with three of my sons, yet, although his voice sometimes +sounded almost in my ear, I could not see him. I fancied, indeed, that +I saw a man in a white frieze jacket pass into the door from the +garden to the lawn, but it could be only fancy, for I found the door +locked, while the fellow whoever he is, was laughing at our trouble. +He visits us occasionally, and sometimes a long interval passes +between his visits, as in the present case; it is now nearly two years +since we heard that hollow voice outside the window. He has never done +any injury that we know of, and once when he broke a plate, he brought +one back exactly like it.” + +“It is very extraordinary,” said several of the company. + +“But,” remarked a gentleman to young Mr. Pratt, “your father said he +broke a plate; how did he get it without your seeing him?” + +“When he asks for some dinner, we put it outside the window and go +away; whilst we watch he will not take it, but no sooner have we +withdrawn, than it is gone.” + +“How does he know that you are watching?” + +“That’s more than I can tell, but he either knows or suspects. One day +my brothers Robert and James with myself were in our back parlour, +which has a window into the garden, when he came outside and said, +‘Ho, ho, ho! master James, and Robert, and Henry, give poor Teigue a +glass of whisky.’ James went out of the room, filled a glass with +whisky, vinegar, and salt, and brought it to him. ‘Here Teigue,’ said +he, ‘come for it now.’ ‘Well, put it down, then, on the step outside +the window.’ This was done, and we stood looking at it. ‘There, now, +go away,’ he shouted. We retired, but still watched it. ‘Ho, ho! you +are watching Teigue; go out of the room, now, or I won’t take it.’ We +went outside the door and returned; the glass was gone, and a moment +after we heard him roaring and cursing frightfully. He took away the +glass, but the next day the glass was on the stone step under the +window, and there were crumbs of bread in the inside, as if he had put +it in his pocket; from that time he was not heard till to-day.” + +“Oh,” said the colonel, “I’ll get a sight of him; you are not used to +these things; an old soldier has the best chance; and as I shall +finish my dinner with this wing, I’ll be ready for him when he speaks +next.—Mr. Bell, will you take a glass of wine with me?” + +“Ho, ho! Mr. Bell,” shouted Teigue. “Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you were a +quaker long ago. Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you’re a pretty boy;—a pretty +quaker you were; and now you’re no quaker, nor any thing else:—ho, +ho! Mr. Bell. And there’s Mr. Parkes: to be sure, Mr. Parkes looks +mighty fine to-day, with his powdered head, and his grand silk +stockings, and his bran new rakish-red waistcoat.—And there’s Mr. +Cole,—did you ever see such a fellow? a pretty company you’ve brought +together, Mr. Pratt: kiln-dried quakers, butter-buying buckeens from +Mallow-lane, and a drinking exciseman from the Coal-quay, to meet the +great thundering artillery-general that is come out of the Indies, and +is the biggest dust of them all.” + +“You scoundrel!” exclaimed the colonel: “I’ll make you show yourself;” +and snatching up his sword from a corner of the room, he sprang out of +the window upon the lawn. In a moment a shout of laughter, so hollow, +so unlike any human sound, made him stop, as well as Mr. Bell, who +with a huge oak stick was close at the colonel’s heels; others of the +party followed on the lawn, and the remainder rose and went to the +windows. “Come on, colonel,” said Mr. Bell; “let us catch this +impudent rascal.” + +“Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, here I am—here’s Teigue—why don’t you catch +him?—Ho, ho! Colonel Pratt, what a pretty soldier you are to draw +your sword upon poor Teigue, that never did any body harm.” + +“Let us see your face, you scoundrel,” said the colonel. + +“Ho, ho, ho!—look at me—look at me: do you see the wind, colonel +Pratt?—you’ll see Teigue as soon; so go in and finish your dinner.” + +“If you’re upon the earth I’ll find you, you villain!” said the +colonel, whilst the same unearthly shout of derision seemed to come +from behind an angle of the building. “He’s round that corner,” said +Mr. Bell—“run, run.” + +They followed the sound, which was continued at intervals along the +garden wall, but could discover no human being; at last both stopped +to draw breath, and in an instant, almost at their ears, sounded the +shout. + +“Ho, ho, ho! colonel Pratt, do you see Teigue now?—do you hear +him?—Ho, ho, ho! you’re a fine colonel to follow the wind.” + +“Not that way, Mr. Bell—not that way; come here,” said the colonel. + +“Ho, ho, ho! what a fool you are; do you think Teigue is going to show +himself to you in the field, there? But colonel, follow me if you +can:—you a soldier!—ho, ho, ho!” The colonel was enraged—he +followed the voice over hedge and ditch, alternately laughed at and +taunted by the unseen object of his pursuit—(Mr. Bell, who was heavy, +was soon thrown out,) until at length, after being led a weary chase, +he found himself at the top of the cliff, over that part of the river +Lee, which from its great depth, and the blackness of its water, has +received the name of Hell-hole. Here, on the edge of the cliff, stood +the colonel out of breath, and mopping his forehead with his +handkerchief, while the voice, which seemed close at his feet, +exclaimed—“Now, colonel Pratt—now, if you’re a soldier, here’s a +leap for you;—now look at Teigue—why don’t you look at him?—Ho, +ho, ho! Come along: you’re warm, I’m sure, colonel Pratt, so come in +and cool yourself; Teigue is going to have a swim!” The voice seemed +as descending amongst the trailing ivy and brushwood which clothes +this picturesque cliff nearly from top to bottom, yet it was +impossible that any human being could have found footing. “Now, +colonel, have you courage to take the leap?—Ho, ho, ho! what a pretty +soldier you are. Good-bye—I’ll see you again in ten minutes above, at +the house—look at your watch, colonel:—there’s a dive for you!” and +a heavy plunge into the water was heard. The colonel stood still, but +no sound followed, and he walked slowly back to the house, not quite +half a mile from the Crag. + +“Well, did you see Teigue?” said his brother, whilst his nephews, +scarcely able to smother their laughter, stood by.—“Give me some +wine,” said the colonel. “I never was led such a dance in my life: the +fellow carried me all round and round, till he brought me to the edge +of the cliff, and then down he went into Hell-hole, telling me he’d be +here in ten minutes: ’tis more than that now, but he’s not come.” + +“Ho, ho, ho! colonel, isn’t he here?—Teigue never told a lie in his +life: but, Mr. Pratt, give me a drink and my dinner, and then good +night to you all, for I’m tired; and that’s the colonel’s doing.” A +plate of food was ordered: it was placed by John, with fear and +trembling, on the lawn under the window. Every one kept on the watch, +and the plate remained undisturbed for some time. + +“Ah! Mr. Pratt, will you starve poor Teigue? Make every one go away +from the windows, and master Henry out of the tree, and master Richard +off the garden-wall.” + +The eyes of the company were turned to the tree and the garden-wall; +the two boys’ attention was occupied in getting down: the visiters +were looking at them; and “Ho, ho, ho!—good luck to you, Mr. +Pratt!—’tis a good dinner, and there’s the plate, ladies and +gentlemen—good-bye to you, colonel—good-bye, Mr. Bell!—good-bye to +you all!”—brought their attention back, when they saw the empty plate +lying on the grass; and Teigue’s voice was heard no more for that +evening. Many visits were afterwards paid by Teigue; but never was he +seen, nor was any discovery ever made of his person or character. + + + + +NED SHEEHY’S EXCUSE. + +XXXII. + + +Ned Sheehy was servant-man to Richard Gumbleton, Esquire, of +Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, in the north of the county of Cork; and a +better servant than Ned was not to be found in that honest county, +from Cape Clear to the Kilworth Mountains; for nobody—no, not his +worst enemy—could say a word against him, only that he was rather +given to drinking, idling, lying, and loitering, especially the last; +for send Ned of a five-minute message at nine o’clock in the morning, +and you were a lucky man if you saw him before dinner. If there +happened to be a public-house in the way, or even a little out of it, +Ned was sure to mark it as dead as a pointer; and, knowing every body, +and every body liking him, it is not to be wondered at he had so much +to say and to hear, that the time slipped away as if the sun somehow +or other had knocked two hours into one. + +But when he came home, he never was short of an excuse: he had, for +that matter, five hundred ready upon the tip of his tongue; so much +so, that I doubt if even the very reverend doctor Swift, for many +years Dean of St. Patrick’s, in Dublin, could match him in that +particular, though his reverence had a pretty way of his own of +writing things which brought him into very decent company. In fact, +Ned would fret a saint, but then he was so good-humoured a fellow, and +really so handy about a house,—for, as he said himself, he was as +good as a lady’s maid,—that his master could not find it in his heart +to part with him. + +In your grand houses—not that I am saying that Richard Gumbleton, +esquire of Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, did not keep a good house, but a +plain country gentleman, although he is second-cousin to the last +high-sheriff of the county, cannot have all the army of servants that +the lord-lieutenant has in the castle of Dublin—I say, in your grand +houses, you can have a servant for every kind of thing, but in +Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, Ned was expected to please master and +mistress; or, as counsellor Curran said,—by the same token the +counsellor was a little dark man—one day that he dined there, on his +way to the Clonmel assizes—Ned was minister for the home and foreign +departments. + +But to make a long story short, Ned Sheehy was a good butler, and a +right good one too, and as for a groom, let him alone with a horse: he +could dress it, or ride it, or shoe it, or physic it, or do any thing +with it but make it speak—he was a second whisperer!—there was not +his match in the barony, or the next one neither. A pack of hounds he +could manage well, ay, and ride after them with the boldest man in the +land. It was Ned who leaped the old bounds’ ditch at the turn of the +boreen of the lands of Reenascreena, after the English captain pulled +up on looking at it, and cried out it was “No go.” Ned rode that day +Brian Boro, Mr. Gumbleton’s famous chestnut, and people call it Ned +Sheehy’s Leap to this hour. + +So, you see, it was hard to do without him: however, many a scolding +he got; and although his master often said of an evening, “I’ll turn +off Ned,” he always forgot to do so in the morning. These threats +mended Ned not a bit; indeed, he was mending the other way, like bad +fish in hot weather. + +One cold winter’s day, about three o’clock in the afternoon, Mr. +Gumbleton said to him, + +“Ned,” said he, “go take Modderaroo down to black Falvey, the +horse-doctor, and bid him look at her knees; for Doctor Jenkinson, who +rode her home last night, has hurt her somehow. I suppose he thought a +parson’s horse ought to go upon its knees; but, indeed, it was I was +the fool to give her to him at all, for he sits twenty stone if he +sits a pound, and knows no more of riding, particularly after his +third bottle, than I do of preaching. Now mind and be back in an hour +at farthest, for I want to have the plate cleaned up properly for +dinner, as Sir Augustus O’Toole, you know, is to dine here +to-day.—Don’t loiter, for your life.” + +“Is it I, sir?” says Ned. “Well, that beats any thing; as if I’d stop +out a minute!” So, mounting Modderaroo, off he set. + +Four, five, six o’clock came, and so did Sir Augustus and lady +O’Toole, and the four misses O’Toole, and Mr. O’Toole, and Mr. Edward +O’Toole, and Mr. James O’Toole, which were all the young O’Tooles that +were at home, but no Ned Sheehy appeared to clean the plate, or to lay +the table-cloth, or even to put dinner on. It is needless to say how +Mr. and Mrs. Dick Gumbleton fretted and fumed; but it was all to no +use. They did their best, however, only it was a disgrace to see long +Jem the stableboy, and Bill the gossoon that used to go of errands, +waiting, without any body to direct them, when there was a real +baronet and his lady at table; for Sir Augustus was none of your +knights. But a good bottle of claret makes up for much, and it was not +one only they had that night. However, it is not to be concealed that +Mr. Dick Gumbleton went to bed very cross, and he awoke still crosser. + +He heard that Ned had not made his appearance for the whole night; so +he dressed himself in a great fret, and, taking his horsewhip in his +hand, he said, + +“There is no farther use in tolerating this scoundrel; I’ll go look +for him, and if I find him, I’ll cut the soul out of his vagabond +body! so I will.” + +“Don’t say so, Dick, dear,” said Mrs. Gumbleton (for she was always a +mild woman, being daughter of fighting Tom Crofts, who shot a couple +of gentlemen, friends of his, in the cool of the evening, after the +Mallow races, one after the other,) “don’t swear, Dick, dear,” said +she; “but do, my dear, oblige me by cutting the flesh off his bones, +for he richly deserves it. I was quite ashamed of Lady O’Toole, +yesterday, I was, ’pon honour.” + +Out sallied Mr. Gumbleton; and he had not far to walk, for, not more +than two hundred yards from the house, he found Ned lying fast asleep +under a ditch (a hedge,) and Modderaroo standing by him, poor beast, +shaking every limb. The loud snoring of Ned, who was lying with his +head upon a stone as easy and as comfortable as if it had been a bed +of down or a hop-bag, drew him to the spot, and Mr. Gumbleton at once +perceived, from the disarray of Ned’s face and person, that he had +been engaged in some perilous adventure during the night. Ned appeared +not to have descended in the most regular manner; for one of his shoes +remained sticking in the stirrup, and his hat, having rolled down a +little slope, was imbedded in green mud. Mr. Gumbleton, however, did +not give himself much trouble to make a curious survey, but with a +vigorous application of his thong, soon banished sleep from the eyes +of Ned Sheehy. + +“Ned!” thundered his master in great indignation,—and on this +occasion it was not a word and blow, for with that one word came half +a dozen: “Get up, you scoundrel,” said he. + +Ned roared lustily, and no wonder, for his master’s hand was not one +of the lightest; and he cried out, between sleeping and waking—“O, +sir!—don’t be angry, sir!—don’t be angry, and I’ll roast you +easier—easy as a lamb!” + +“Roast me easier, you vagabond!” said Mr. Gumbleton; “what do you +mean?—I’ll roast you, my lad. Where were you all night?—Modderaroo +will never get over it.—Pack out of my service, you worthless +villain, this moment; and, indeed, you may be thankful that I don’t +get you transported.” + +“Thank God, master dear,” said Ned, who was now perfectly +awakened—“it’s yourself, any how. There never was a gentleman in the +whole country ever did so good a turn to a poor man as your honour +has been after doing to me: the Lord reward you for that same. Oh! but +strike me again, and let me feel that it is yourself, master +dear;—may whisky be my poison—” + +“It will be your poison, you good-for-nothing scoundrel,” said Mr. +Gumbleton. + +“Well, then, _may_ whiskey be my poison,” said Ned, “if ’twas not I +was—in the blackest of misfortunes, and they were before me, +whichever way I turned ’twas no matter. Your honour sent me last +night, sure enough, with Modderaroo to mister Falvey’s—I don’t deny +it—why should I? for reason enough I have to remember what happened.” + +“Ned, my man,” said Mr. Gumbleton, “I’ll listen to none of your +excuses: just take the mare into the stable and yourself off, for I +vow—” + +“Begging your honour’s pardon,” said Ned, earnestly, “for interrupting +your honour; but, master, master! make no vows—they are bad things: I +never made but one in all my life, which was, to drink nothing at all +for a year and a day, and ’tis myself rep_i_nted of it for the clean +twelvemonth after. But if your honour would only listen to reason: +I’ll just take in the poor baste, and if your honour don’t pardon me +this one time may I never see another day’s luck or grace.” + +“I know you, Ned,” said Mr. Gumbleton. “Whatever your luck has been, +you never had any grace to lose: but I don’t intend discussing the +matter with you. Take in the mare, sir.” + +Ned obeyed, and his master saw him to the stables. Here he reiterated +his commands to quit, and Ned Sheehy’s excuse for himself began. That +it was heard uninterruptedly is more than I can affirm; but as +interruptions, like explanations, spoil a story, we must let Ned tell +it his own way. + +“No wonder your honour,” said he, “should be a bit angry—grand +company coming to the house and all, and no regular serving-man to +wait, only long Jem; so I don’t blame your honour the least for being +fretted like; but when all’s heard, you will see that no poor man is +more to be pitied for last night than myself. Fin Mac Coul never went +through more in his born days than I did, though he was a great +_joint_ (giant,) and I only a man. + +“I had not rode half a mile from the house, when it came on, as your +honour must have perceived clearly, mighty dark all of a sudden, for +all the world as if the sun had tumbled down plump out of the fine +clear blue sky. It was not so late, being only four o’clock at the +most, but it was as black as your honour’s hat. Well, I didn’t care +much, seeing I knew the road as well as I knew the way to my mouth, +whether I saw it or not, and I put the mare into a smart canter; but +just as I turned down by the corner of Terence Leahy’s field—sure +your honour ought to know the place well—just at the very spot the +fox was killed when your honour came in first out of a whole field of +a hundred and fifty gentlemen, and may be more, all of them brave +riders.” + +(Mr. Gumbleton smiled.) + +“Just then, there, I heard the low cry of the good people wafting upon +the wind. ‘How early you are at your work, my little fellows!’ says I +to myself; and, dark as it was, having no wish for such company, I +thought it best to get out of their way; so I turned the horse a +little up to the left, thinking to get down by the boreen, that is +that way, and so round to Falvey’s; but there I heard the voice +plainer and plainer close behind, and I could hear these words:— + + ‘Ned! Ned! + By my cap so red! + You’re as good, Ned, + As a man that is dead.’ + +‘A clean pair of spurs is all that’s for it now,’ said I; so off I +set, as hard as I could lick, and in my hurry knew no more where I was +going than I do the road to the hill of Tarah. Away I galloped on for +some time, until I came to the noise of a stream, roaring away by +itself in the darkness. ‘What river is this?’ said I to myself—for +there was nobody else to ask—‘I thought,’ says I, ‘I knew every inch +of ground, and of water too, within twenty miles, and never the river +surely is there in this direction.’ So I stopped to look about; but I +might have spared myself that trouble, for I could not see as much as +my hand. I didn’t know what to do; but I thought in myself, it’s a +queer river, surely, if somebody does not live near it; and I shouted +out as loud as I could, Murder! murder!—fire!—robbery!—any thing +that would be natural in such a place—but not a sound did I hear +except my own voice echoed back to me, like a hundred packs of hounds +in full cry above and below, right and left. This didn’t do at all; so +I dismounted, and guided myself along the stream, directed by the +noise of the water, as cautious as if I was treading upon eggs, +holding poor Modderaroo by the bridle, who shook, the poor brute, all +over in a tremble, like my old grandmother, rest her soul any how! in +the ague. Well, sir, the heart was sinking in me, and I was giving +myself up, when, as good luck would have it, I saw a light. ‘May be,’ +said I, ‘my good fellow, you are only a jacky lantern, and want to bog +me and Modderaroo.’ But I looked at the light hard, and I thought it +was too _study_ (steady) for a jacky lantern. ‘I’ll try you,’ says +I—‘so here goes; and, walking as quick as a thief, I came towards it, +being very near plumping into the river once or twice, and being stuck +up to my middle, as your honour may perceive cleanly the marks of, two +or three times in the _slob_.[29] At last I made the light out, and it +coming from a bit of a house by the road-side; so I went to the door +and gave three kicks at it, as strong as I could. + + [29] Or _slaib_; mire on the sea strand or river’s + bank.—O’BRIEN. + +“‘Open the door for Ned Sheehy,’ said a voice inside. Now, besides +that I could not, for the life of me, make out how any one inside +should know me before I spoke a word at all, I did not like the sound +of that voice, ’twas so hoarse and so hollow, just like a dead +man’s!—so I said nothing immediately. The same voice spoke again, and +said, ‘Why don’t you open the door to Ned Sheehy?’ ‘How pat my name is +to you,’ said I, without speaking out, ‘on tip of your tongue, like +butter;’ and I was between two minds about staying or going, when what +should the door do but open, and out came a man holding a candle in +his hand, and he had upon him a face as white as a sheet. + +“‘Why, then, Ned Sheehy,’ says he, ‘how grand you’re grown, that you +won’t come in and see a friend, as you’re passing by?’ + +“‘Pray, sir,’ says I, looking at him—though that face of his was +enough to dumbfounder any honest man like myself—‘Pray, sir,’ says I, +‘may I make so bold as to ask if you are not Jack Myers that was +drowned seven years ago, next Martinmas, in the ford of +Ah-na-fourish?’ + +“‘Suppose I was,’ says he: ‘has not a man a right to be drowned in the +ford facing his own cabin-door any day of the week that he likes, from +Sunday morning to Saturday night?’ + +“‘I’m not denying that same, Mr. Myers, sir,’ says I, ‘if ’tis +yourself is to the fore speaking to me.’ + +“‘Well,’ says he, ‘no more words about that matter now: sure you and +I, Ned, were friends of old; come in, and take a glass; and here’s a +good fire before you, and nobody shall hurt or harm you, and I to the +fore, and myself able to do it.’ + +“Now, your honour, though ’twas much to drink with a man that was +drowned seven years before, in the ford of Ah-na-fourish, facing his +own door, yet the glass was hard to be withstood—to say nothing of +the fire that was blazing within—for the night was mortal cold. So +tying Modderaroo to the hasp of the door—if I don’t love the creature +as I love my own life—I went in with Jack Myers. + +“Civil enough he was—I’ll never say otherwise to my dying hour—for +he handed me a stool by the fire, and bid me sit down and make myself +comfortable. But his face, as I said before, was as white as the snow +on the hills, and his two eyes fell dead on me, like the eyes of a cod +without any life in them. Just as I was going to put the glass to my +lips, a voice—’twas the same that I heard bidding the door be +opened—spoke out of a cupboard that was convenient to the left-hand +side of the chimney, and said, ‘Have you any news for me, Ned Sheehy?’ + +“‘The never a word, sir,’ says I, making answer before I tasted the +whisky, all out of civility; and, to speak the truth, never the least +could I remember at that moment of what had happened to me, or how I +got there; for I was quite bothered with the fright. + +“‘Have you no news,’ says the voice, ‘Ned, to tell me, from Mountbally +Gumbletonmore; or from the Mill; or about Moll Trantum that was +married last week to Bryan Oge, and you at the wedding?’ + +“‘No, sir,’ says I, ‘never the word.’ + +“‘What brought you in here, Ned, then?’ says the voice. I could say +nothing; for, whatever other people might do, I never could frame an +excuse; and I was loath to say it was on account of the glass and the +fire, for that would be to speak the truth. + +“‘Turn the scoundrel out,’ says the voice; and at the sound of it, who +would I see but Jack Myers making over to me with a lump of a stick in +his hand, and it clenched on the stick so wicked. For certain, I did +not stop to feel the weight of the blow; so, dropping the glass, and +it full of the stuff too, I bolted out of the door, and never rested +from running away, for as good, I believe, as twenty miles, till I +found myself in a big wood. + +“‘The Lord preserve me! what will become of me now!’ says I. ‘Oh, Ned +Sheehy!’ says I, speaking to myself, ‘my man, you’re in a pretty +hobble; and to leave poor Modderaroo after you!’ But the words were +not well out of my mouth, when I heard the dismallest ullagoane in the +world, enough to break any one’s heart that was not broke before, with +the grief entirely; and it was not long till I could plainly see four +men coming towards me, with a great black coffin on their shoulders. +‘I’d better get up in a tree,’ says I, ‘for they say ’tis not lucky to +meet a corpse: I’m in the way of misfortune to-night, if ever man +was.’ + +“I could not help wondering how a _berrin_ (funeral) should come there +in the lone wood at that time of night, seeing it could not be far +from the dead hour. But it was little good for me thinking, for they +soon came under the very tree I was roosting in, and down they put the +coffin, and began to make a fine fire under me. I’ll be smothered +alive now, thinks I, and that will be the end of me; but I was afraid +to stir for the life, or to speak out to bid them just make their fire +under some other tree, if it would be all the same thing to them. +Presently they opened the coffin, and out they dragged as +fine-looking a man as you’d meet with in a day’s walk. + +“‘Where’s the spit?’ says one. + +“‘Here ’tis,’ says another, handing it over; and for certain they +spitted him, and began to turn him before the fire. + +“If they are not going to eat him, thinks I, like the _Hannibals_ +father Quinlan told us about in his _sarmint_ last Sunday. + +“‘Who’ll turn the spit while we go for the other ingredients?’ says +one of them that brought the coffin, and a big ugly-looking blackguard +he was. + +“‘Who’d turn the spit but Ned Sheehy?’ says another. + +“Burn you! thinks I, how should you know that I was here so handy to +you up in the tree? + +“‘Come down, Ned Sheehy, and turn the spit,’ says he. + +“‘I’m not here at all, sir,’ says I, putting my hand over my face that +he might not see me. + +“‘That won’t do for you, my man,’ says he; ‘you’d better come down, or +may be I’d make you.’ + +“‘I’m coming, sir,’ says I; for ’tis always right to make a virtue of +necessity. So down I came, and there they left me turning the spit in +the middle of the wide wood. + +“‘Don’t scorch me, Ned Sheehy, you vagabond,’ says the man on the +spit. + +“‘And my lord, sir, and ar’n’t you dead, sir,’ says I, ‘and your +honour taken out of the coffin and all?’ + +“‘I ar’n’t,’ says he. + +“‘But surely you are, sir,’ says I, ‘for ’tis to no use now for me +denying that I saw your honour, and I up in the tree.’ + +“‘I ar’n’t,’ says he again, speaking quite short and snappish. + +“So I said no more, until presently he called out to me to turn him +easy, or that may be ’twould be the worse turn for myself. + +“‘Will that do, sir?’ says I, turning him as easy as I could. + +“‘That’s too easy,’ says he: so I turned him faster. + +“‘That’s too fast,’ says he; so finding that, turn him which way I +would, I could not please him, I got into a bit of a fret at last, +and desired him to turn himself, for a grumbling spalpeen as he was, +if he liked it better. + +“Away I ran, and away he came hopping, spit and all, after me, and he +but half-roasted. ‘Murder!’ says I, shouting out; ‘I’m done for at +long last—now or never!’—when all of a sudden, and ’twas really +wonderful, not knowing where I was rightly, I found myself at the door +of the very little cabin by the road-side that I had bolted out of +from Jack Myers; and there was Modderaroo standing hard by. + +“‘Open the door for Ned Sheehy,’ says the voice,—for ’twas shut +against me,—and the door flew open in an instant. In I ran without +stop or stay, thinking it better to be beat by Jack Myers, he being an +old friend of mine, than to be spitted like a Michaelmas goose by a +man that I knew nothing about, either of him or his family, one or the +other. + +“‘Have you any news for me?’ says the voice, putting just the same +question to me that it did before. + +“‘Yes, sir,’ says I, ‘and plenty.’ So I mentioned all that had +happened to me in the big wood, and how I got up in the tree, and how +I was made come down again, and put to turning the spit, roasting the +gentleman, and how I could not please him, turn him fast or easy, +although I tried my best, and how he ran after me at last, spit and +all. + +“‘If you had told me this before, you would not have been turned out +in the cold,’ said the voice. + +“‘And how could I tell it to you, sir,’ says I, ‘before it happened?’ + +“‘No matter,’ says he, ‘you may sleep now till morning on that bundle +of hay in the corner there, and only I was your friend, you’d have +been _kilt_ entirely.’ So down I lay, but I was dreaming, dreaming all +the rest of the night; and when you, master dear, woke me with that +blessed blow, I thought ’twas the man on the spit had hold of me, and +could hardly believe my eyes, when I found myself in your honour’s +presence, and poor Modderaroo safe and sound by my side; but how I +came there is more than I can say, if ’twas not Jack Myers, although +he did make the offer to strike me, or some one among the good people +that befriended me.” + +“It is all a drunken dream, you scoundrel,” said Mr. Gumbleton; “have +I not had fifty such excuses from you?” + +“But never one, your honour, that really happened before,” said Ned, +with unblushing front. “Howsomever, since your honour fancies ’tis +drinking I was, I’d rather never drink again to the world’s end, than +lose so good a master as yourself, and if I’m forgiven this once, and +get another trial——” + +“Well,” said Mr. Gumbleton, “you may, for this once, go into +Mountbally Gumbletonmore again; let me see that you keep your promise +as to not drinking, or mind the consequences; and, above all, let me +hear no more of the good people, for I don’t believe a single word +about them, whatever I may do of bad ones.” + +So saying, Mr. Gumbleton turned on his heel, and Ned’s countenance +relaxed into its usual expression. + +“Now I would not be after saying about the good people what the master +said last,” exclaimed Peggy, the maid, who was within hearing, and +who, by the way, had an eye after Ned: “I would not be after saying +such a thing; the good people, may be, will make him feel the _differ_ +(difference) to his cost.” + +Nor was Peggy wrong; for whether Ned Sheehy dreamt of the Fir Darrig +or not, within a fortnight after, two of Mr. Gumbleton’s cows, the +best milkers in the parish, ran dry, and before the week was out, +Modderaroo was lying dead in the stone quarry. + + + + +THE LUCKY GUEST. + +XXXIII. + + +The kitchen of some country houses in Ireland presents in no ways a +bad modern translation of the ancient feudal hall. Traces of clanship +still linger round its hearth in the numerous dependants on “the +master’s” bounty. Nurses, foster-brothers, and other hangers-on, are +there as matter of right, while the strolling piper, full of mirth and +music, the benighted traveller, even the passing beggar, are received +with a hearty welcome, and each contributes planxty, song, or +superstitious tale, towards the evening’s amusement. + +An assembly, such as has been described, had collected round the +kitchen fire of Ballyrahenhouse, at the foot of the Galtee mountains, +when, as is ever the case, one tale of wonder called forth another; +and with the advance of the evening each succeeding story was received +with deep and deeper attention. The history of Cough na Looba’s dance +with the black friar at Rahill, and the fearful tradition of _Coum an +‘ir morriv_ (the dead man’s hollow,) were listened to in breathless +silence. A pause followed the last relation, and all eyes rested on +the narrator, an old nurse who occupied the post of honour, that next +the fire-side. She was seated in that peculiar position which the +Irish name “_currigguib_,” a position generally assumed by a veteran +and determined story-teller. Her haunches resting upon the ground, and +her feet bundled under the body; her arms folded across and supported +by her knees, and the outstretched chin of her hooded head pressing on +the upper arm; which compact arrangement nearly reduced the whole +figure into a perfect triangle. + +Unmoved by the general gaze, Bridget Doyle made no change of attitude, +while she gravely asserted the truth of the marvellous tale concerning +the Dead Man’s Hollow; her strongly marked countenance at the time +receiving what painters term a fine chiaro-obscuro effect from the +fire-light. + +“I have told you,” she said, “what happened to my own people, the +Butlers and the Doyles, in the old times; but here is little Ellen +Connell from the county Cork, who can speak to what happened under her +own father and mother’s roof.” + +Ellen, a young and blooming girl of about sixteen, was employed in the +dairy at Ballyrahen. She was the picture of health and rustic beauty; +and at this hint from nurse Doyle, a deep blush mantled over her +countenance; yet, although “unaccustomed to public speaking,” she, +without farther hesitation or excuse, proceeded as follows:— + +“It was one May-eve, about thirteen years ago, and that is, as every +body knows, the airiest day in all the twelve months. It is the day +above all other days,” said Ellen, with her large dark eyes cast down +on the ground, and drawing a deep sigh, “when the young boys and the +young girls go looking after the _Drutheen_, to learn from it rightly +the name of their sweethearts. + +“My father, and my mother, and my two brothers, with two or three of +the neighbours, were sitting round the turf fire, and were talking of +one thing or another. My mother was hushoing my little sister, +striving to quieten her, for she was cutting her teeth at the time, +and was mighty uneasy through the means of them. The day, which was +threatening all along, now that it was coming on to dusk, began to +rain, and the rain increased and fell fast and faster, as if it was +pouring through a sieve out of the wide heavens; and when the rain +stopped for a bit there was a wind which kept up such a whistling and +racket, that you would have thought the sky and the earth were coming +together. It blew and it blew, as if it had a mind to blow the roof +off the cabin, and that would not have been very hard for it to do, as +the thatch was quite loose in two or three places. Then the rain began +again, and you could hear it spitting and hissing in the fire, as it +came down through the big _chimbley_. + +“‘God bless us,’ says my mother, ‘but ’tis a dreadful night to be at +sea,’ says she, ‘and God be praised that we have a roof, bad as it is, +to shelter us.’ + +“I don’t, to be sure, recollect all this, mistress Doyle, but only as +my brothers told it to me, and other people, and often have I heard +it; for I was so little then, that they say I could just go under the +table without tipping my head. Any way, it was in the very height of +the pelting and whistling that we heard something speak outside the +door. My father and all of us listened, but there was no more noise at +that time. We waited a little longer, and then we plainly heard a +sound like an old man’s voice, asking to be let in, but mighty feeble +and weak. Tim bounced up, without a word, to ask us whether we’d like +to let the old man, or whoever he was, in—having always a heart as +soft as a mealy potato before the voice of sorrow. When Tim pulled +back the bolt that did the door, in marched a little bit of a +shrivelled, weather-beaten creature, about two feet and a half high. + +“We were all watching to see who’d come in, for there was a wall +between us and the door; but when the sound of the undoing of the bolt +stopped, we heard Tim give a sort of a screech, and instantly he +bolted in to us. He had hardly time to say a word, or we either, when +the little gentleman shuffled in after him, without a God save all +here, or by your leave, or any other sort of thing that any decent +body might say. We all, of one accord, scrambled over to the farthest +end of the room, where we were, old and young, every one trying who’d +get nearest the wall, and farthest from him. All the eyes of our body +were stuck upon him, but he didn’t mind us no more than that +frying-pan there does now. He walked over to the fire, and squatting +himself down like a frog, took the pipe that my father dropped from +his mouth in the hurry, put it into his own, and then began to smoke +so hearty, that he soon filled the room of it. + +“We had plenty of time to observe him, and my brothers say that he +wore a sugar-loaf hat that was as red as blood: he had a face as +yellow as a kite’s claw, and as long as to-day and to-morrow put +together, with a mouth all screwed and puckered up like a +washerwoman’s hand, little blue eyes, and rather a highish nose; his +hair was quite gray and lengthy, appearing under his hat, and flowing +over the cape of a long scarlet coat, which almost trailed the ground +behind him, and the ends of which he took up and planked on his knees +to dry, as he sat facing the fire. He had smart corduroy breeches, and +woollen stockings drawn up over the knees, so as to hide the +kneebuckles, if he had the pride to have them; but, at any rate, if he +hadn’t them in his knees he had buckles in his shoes, out before his +spindle legs. When we came to ourselves a little we thought to escape +from the room, but no one would go first, nor no one would stay last; +so we huddled ourselves together and made a dart out of the room. My +little gentleman never minded any thing of the scrambling, nor hardly +stirred himself, sitting quite at his ease before the fire. The +neighbours, the very instant minute they got to the door, although it +still continued pelting rain, cut gutter as if Oliver Cromwell himself +was at their heels; and no blame to them for that, any how. It was my +father, and my mother, and my brothers, and myself, a little +hop-of-my-thumb midge as I was then, that were left to see what would +come out of this strange visit; so we all went quietly to the +_labbig_,[30] scarcely daring to throw an eye at him as we passed the +door. Never the wink of sleep could they sleep that live-long night, +though, to be sure, I slept like a top, not knowing better, while they +were talking and thinking of the little man. + + [30] _Labbig_—bed, from _Leaba_.—Vide O’BRIEN and O’REILLY. + +“When they got up in the morning, every thing was as quiet and as tidy +about the place as if nothing had happened, for all that the chairs +and stools were tumbled here there, and every where, when we saw the +lad enter. Now, indeed, I forget whether he came next night or not, +but any way, that was the first time we ever laid eye upon him. This I +know for certain, that, about a month after that he came regularly +every night, and used to give us a signal to be on the move, for ’twas +plain he did not like to be observed. This sign was always made about +eleven o’clock; and then, if we’d look towards the door, there was a +little hairy arm thrust in through the key-hole, which would not have +been big enough, only there was a fresh hole made near the first one, +and the bit of stick between them had been broken away, and so ’twas +just fitting for the little arm. + +“The Fir Darrig continued his visits, never missing a night, as long +as we attended to the signal; smoking always out of the pipe he made +his own of, and warming himself till day dawned before the fire, and +then going no one living knows where: but there was not the least mark +of him to be found in the morning; and ’tis as true, nurse Doyle, and +honest people, as you are all here sitting before me and by the side +of me, that the family continued thriving, and my father and brothers +rising in the world while ever he came to us. When we observed this, +we used always look for the very moment to see when the arm would +come, and then we’d instantly fly off with ourselves to our rest. But +before we found the luck, we used sometimes sit still and not mind the +arm, especially when a neighbour would be with my father, or that two +or three or four of them would have a drop among them, and then they +did not care for all the arms, hairy or not, that ever were seen. No +one, however, dared to speak to it or of it insolently, except, +indeed, one night that Davy Kennane—but he was drunk—walked over and +hit it a rap on the back of the wrist: the hand was snatched off like +lightning; but every one knows that Davy did not live a month after +this happened, though he was only about ten days sick. The like of +such tricks are ticklish things to do. + +“As sure as the red man would put in his arm for a sign through the +hole in the door, and that we did not go and open it to him, so sure, +some mishap befell the cattle: the cows were elf-stoned, or +overlooked, or something or another went wrong with them. One night my +brother Dan refused to go at the signal, and the next day, as he was +cutting turf in Crogh-na-drimina bog, within a mile and a half of the +house, a stone was thrown at him which broke fairly, with the force, +into two halves. Now, if that had happened to hit him he’d be at this +hour as dead as my great great grandfather. It came whack slap against +the spade he had in his hand, and split at once in two pieces. He took +them up and fitted them together, and they made a perfect heart. Some +way or the other he lost it since, but he still has the one which was +shot at the spotted milch cow, before the little man came near us. +Many and many a time I saw that same; ’tis just the shape of the ace +of hearts on the cards, only it is of a dark red colour, and polished +up like the grate that is in the grand parlour within. When this did +not kill the cow on the spot, she swelled up; but if you took and put +the elf-stone under her udder, and milked her upon it to the last +stroking, and then made her drink the milk, it would cure her, and she +would thrive with you ever after. + +“But, as I said, we were getting on well enough as long as we minded +the door and watched for the hairy arm, which we did sharp enough when +we found it was bringing luck to us, and we were now as glad to see +the little red gentleman, and as ready to open the door to him, as we +used to dread his coming at first and be frightened of him. But at +long last we throve so well that the landlord—God forgive him—took +notice of us, and envied us, and asked my father how he came by the +penny he had, and wanted him to take more ground at a rack-rent that +was more than any Christian ought to pay to another, seeing there was +no making it. When my father—and small blame to him for +that—refused to lease the ground, he turned us off the bit of land we +had, and out of the house and all, and left us in a wide and wicked +world, where my father, for he was a soft innocent man, was not up to +the roguery and trickery that was practised upon him. He was taken +this way by one and that way by another, and he treating them that +were working his downfall. And he used to take bite and sup with them, +and they with him, free enough as long as the money lasted; but when +that was gone, and he had not as much ground, that he could call his +own, as would sod a lark, they soon shabbed him off. The landlord died +not long after; and he now knows whether he acted right or wrong in +taking the house from over our heads. + +“It is a bad thing for the heart to be cast down, so we took another +cabin, and looked out with great desire for the Fir Darrig to come to +us. But ten o’clock came and no arm, although we cut a hole in the +door just the _moral_ (model) of the other. Eleven o’clock!—twelve +o’clock!—no, not a sign of him: and every night we watched, but all +would not do. We then travelled to the other house, and we rooted up +the hearth, for the landlord asked so great a rent for it from the +poor people that no one could take it; and we carried away the very +door off the hinges, and we brought every thing with us that we +thought the little man was in any respect partial to, but he did not +come, and we never saw him again. + +“My father and my mother, and my young sister, are since dead, and my +two brothers, who could tell all about this better than myself, are +both of them gone out with Ingram in his last voyage to the Cape of +Good Hope, leaving me behind without kith or kin.” + +Here young Ellen’s voice became choked with sorrow, and bursting into +tears, she hid her face in her apron. + + FIR DARRIG means the red man, and is a member of the fairy + community of Ireland, who bears a strong resemblance to the + Shakspearian Puck, or Robin Goodfellow. Like that merry goblin + his delight is in mischief and mockery; and this Irish spirit + is doubtless the same as the Scottish _Red Cap_; which a writer + in the Quarterly Review (No. XLIV. p. 358,) tracing national + analogies, asserts, is the Robin Hood of England, and the Saxon + spirit Hudkin or Hodekin, so called from the hoodakin or little + hood wherein he appeared, a spirit similar to the Spanish + Duende. The Fir Darrig has also some traits of resemblance in + common with the Scotch Brownie, the German Kobold (particularly + the celebrated one, Hinzelman,) the English Hobgoblin (Milton’s + “Lubber Fiend”) and the Follet of Gervase of Tilbury, who says + of the Folletos, “Verba utique humano more audiunter et + effigies non comparent. De istis pleraque miracula memini me in + vita abbreviata et miraculis beatissimi Antonii + reperisse.”—_Otia Imperialia._ + + The red dress and strange flexibility of voice possessed by the + Fir Darrig form his peculiar characteristics; the latter, + according to Irish tale-tellers, is like the sound of the + waves; and again it is compared to the music of angels; the + warbling of birds, &c.; and the usual address to this fairy is, + Do not mock us. His entire dress, when he is seen, is + invariably described as crimson: whereas, Irish fairies + generally appear in a black hat, a green suit, white stockings, + and red shoes. + + + + +TREASURE LEGENDS. + + “Bell, book, and candle, shall not drive me back + When gold and silver becks me to come on.” + + _King John._ + + “This is fairy gold, boy, and ’twill prove so.” + + _Winter’s Tale._ + + + + +DREAMING TIM JARVIS. + +XXXIV. + + +Timothy Jarvis was a decent, honest, quiet, hard-working man, as every +body knows that knows Balledehob. + +Now Balledehob is a small place, about forty miles west of Cork. It is +situated on the summit of a hill, and yet it is in a deep valley; for +on all sides there are lofty mountains that rise one above another in +barren grandeur, and seem to look down with scorn upon the little busy +village which they surround with their idle and unproductive +magnificence. Man and beast have alike deserted them to the dominion +of the eagle, who soars majestically over them. On the highest of +those mountains there is a small, and as is commonly believed, +unfathomable lake, the only inhabitant of which is a huge serpent, +who has been sometimes seen to stretch its enormous head above the +waters, and frequently is heard to utter a noise which shakes the very +rocks to their foundation. + +But, as I was saying, every body knew Tim Jarvis to be a decent, +honest, quiet, hard-working man, who was thriving enough to be able to +give his daughter Nelly a fortune of ten pounds; and Tim himself would +have been snug enough besides, but that he loved the drop sometimes. +However, he was seldom backward on rent-day. His ground was never +distrained but twice, and both times through a small bit of a mistake; +and his landlord had never but once to say to him—“Tim Jarvis, you’re +all behind, Tim, like the cow’s tail.” Now it so happened that, being +heavy in himself, through the drink, Tim took to sleeping, and the +sleep set Tim dreaming, and he dreamed all night, and night after +night, about crocks full of gold and other precious stones; so much +so, that Norah Jarvis his wife could get no good of him by day, and +have little comfort with him by night. The gray dawn of the morning +would see Tim digging away in a bog-hole, may be, or rooting under +some old stone walls like a pig. At last he dreamt that he found a +mighty great crock of gold and silver—and where do you think? Every +step of the way upon London-bridge, itself! Twice Tim dreamt it, and +three times Tim dreamt the same thing; and at last he made up his mind +to transport himself, and go over to London, in Pat Mahoney’s +coaster—and so he did! + +Well, he got there, and found the bridge without much difficulty. +Every day he walked up and down looking for the crock of gold, but +never the find did he find it. One day, however, as he was looking +over the bridge into the water, a man, or something like a man, with +great black whiskers, like a Hessian, and a black cloak that reached +down to the ground, taps him on the shoulder, and says he—“Tim +Jarvis, do you see me?” + +“Surely I do, sir,” said Tim; wondering that any body should know him +in that strange place. + +“Tim,” says he, “what is it brings you here in foreign parts, so far +away from your own cabin by the mine of gray copper at Balledehob?” + +“Please your honour,” says Tim, “I’m come to seek my fortune.” + +“You’re a fool for your pains, Tim, if that’s all,” remarked the +stranger in the black cloak; “this is a big place to seek one’s +fortune in, to be sure, but it’s not so easy to find it.” + +Now Tim, after debating a long time with himself, and considering, in +the first place, that it might be the stranger who was to find the +crock of gold for him; and in the next, that the stranger might direct +him where to find it, came to the resolution of telling him all. + +“There’s many a one like me comes here seeking their fortunes,” said +Tim. + +“True,” said the stranger. + +“But,” continued Tim, looking up, “the body and bones of the cause for +myself leaving the woman, and Nelly, and the boys, and travelling so +far, is to look for a crock of gold that I’m told is lying somewhere +hereabouts.” + +“And who told you that, Tim?” + +“Why then, sir, that’s what I can’t tell myself rightly—only I dreamt +it.” + +“Ho, ho! is that all, Tim!” said the stranger, laughing; “I had a +dream myself; and I dreamed that I found a crock of gold, in the Fort +field, on Jerry Driscoll’s ground at Balledehob; and by the same +token, the pit where it lay was close to a large furze bush, all full +of yellow blossom.” + +Tim knew Jerry Driscoll’s ground well; and, moreover, he knew the Fort +field as well as he knew his own potato garden; he was certain, too, +of the very furze bush at the north end of it—so, swearing a bitter +big oath, says he— + +“By all the crosses in a yard of check, I always thought there was +money in that same field!” + +The moment he rapped out the oath, the stranger disappeared, and Tim +Jarvis, wondering at all that had happened to him, made the best of +his way back to Ireland. Norah, as may well be supposed, had no very +warm welcome for her runaway husband—the dreaming blackguard, as she +called him—and so soon as she set eyes upon him, all the blood of her +body in one minute was into her knuckles to be at him; but Tim, after +his long journey, looked so cheerful and so happy-like, that she could +not find it in her heart to give him the first blow! He managed to +pacify his wife by two or three broad hints about a new cloak and a +pair of shoes, that, to speak honestly, were much wanting for her to +go to chapel in; and decent clothes for Nelly to go to the patron with +her sweetheart, and brogues for the boys, and some corduroy for +himself. “It wasn’t for nothing,” says Tim, “I went to foreign parts +all the ways; and you’ll see what’ll come out of it—mind my words.” + +A few days afterwards Tim sold his cabin and his garden, and bought +the Fort-field of Jerry Driscoll, that had nothing in it, but was full +of thistles, and old stones, and blackberry bushes; and all the +neighbours—as well they might—thought he was cracked! + +The first night that Tim could summon courage to begin his work, he +walked off to the field with his spade upon his shoulder; and away he +dug all night by the side of the furze bush, till he came to a big +stone. He struck his spade against it, and he heard a hollow sound; +but as the morning had begun to dawn, and the neighbours would be +going out to their work, Tim, not wishing to have the thing talked +about, went home to the little hovel, where Norah and the children +were huddled together under a heap of straw; for he had sold every +thing he had in the world to purchase Driscoll’s field, though it was +said to be “the back-bone of the world, picked by the devil.” + +It is impossible to describe the epithets and reproaches bestowed by +the poor woman on her unlucky husband for bringing her into such a +way. Epithets and reproaches, which Tim had but one mode of answering, +as thus:—“Norah, did you see e’er a cow you’d like?”—or, “Norah, +dear, hasn’t Poll Deasy a feather-bed to sell?”—or, “Norah honey, +wouldn’t you like your silver buckles as big as Mrs. Doyle’s?” + +As soon as night came Tim stood beside the furze bush, spade in hand. +The moment he jumped down into the pit he heard a strange rumbling +noise under him, and so, putting his ear against the great stone, he +listened, and overheard a discourse that made the hair on his head +stand up like bulrushes, and every limb tremble. + +“How shall we bother Tim?” said one voice. + +“Take him to the mountain, to be sure, and make him a toothful for the +_ould sarpint_; ’tis long since he has had a good meal,” said another +voice. + +Tim shook like a potato-blossom in a storm. + +“No,” said a third voice; “plunge him in the bog, neck and heels.” + +Tim was a dead man, barring the breath.[31] + + [31] “I’non mori, e non rimasi vivo: + Pensa oramai per te, s’hai fior d’ingegno + Qual io divenni d’uno e d’altro privo.” + + Dante, _Inferno_, canto 34. + +“Stop!” said a fourth; but Tim heard no more, for Tim was dead +entirely. In about an hour, however, the life came back into him, and +he crept home to Norah. + +When the next night arrived, the hopes of the crock of gold got the +better of his fears, and taking care to arm himself with a bottle of +potheen, away he went to the field. Jumping into the pit, he took a +little sup from the bottle to keep his heart up—he then took a big +one—and then, with desperate wrench, he wrenched up the stone. All at +once, up rushed a blast of wind, wild and fierce, and down fell +Tim—down, down and down he went—until he thumped upon what seemed to +be, for all the world, like a floor of sharp pins, which made him +bellow out in earnest. Then he heard a whisk and a hurra, and +instantly voices beyond number cried out— + + “Welcome, Tim Jarvis, dear! + Welcome, down here!” + +Though Tim’s teeth chattered like magpies with the fright, he +continued to make answer—“I’m he-he-har-ti-ly ob-ob-liged to-to you +all, gen-gen-tlemen, fo-for your civility to-to a poor stranger like +myself.” But though he had heard all the voices about him, he could +see nothing, the place was so dark and so lonesome in itself for want +of the light. Then something pulled Tim by the hair of his head, and +dragged him, he did not know how far, but he knew he was going faster +than the wind, for he heard it behind him, trying to keep up with him +and it could not. On, on, on, he went, till all at once, and suddenly, +he was stopped, and somebody came up to him, and said, “Well, Tim +Jarvis, and how do you like your ride?” + +“Mighty well! I thank your honour,” said Tim; “and ’twas a good beast +I rode, surely!” + +There was a great laugh at Tim’s answer; and then there was a +whispering, and a great cugger mugger, and coshering; and at last, a +pretty little bit of a voice said, “Shut your eyes, and you’ll see, +Tim.” + +“By my word, then,” said Tim, “that is the queer way of seeing; but +I’m not the man to gainsay you, so I’ll do as you bid me, any how.” +Presently he felt a small warm hand rubbed over his eyes with an +ointment, and in the next minute he saw himself in the middle of +thousands of little men and women, not half so high as his brogue, +that were pelting one another with golden guineas and lily white +thirteens[32], as if they were so much dirt. The finest dressed and +the biggest of them all went up to Tim, and says he, “Tim Jarvis, +because you are a decent, honest, quiet, civil, well-spoken man,” says +he, “and know how to behave yourself in strange company, we’ve altered +our minds about you, and will find a neighbour of yours that will do +just as well to give to the old serpent.” + + [32] An English shilling was thirteen pence, Irish currency. + +“Oh, then, long life to you, sir!” said Tim, “and there’s no doubt of +that.” + +“But what will you say, Tim,” inquired the little fellow, “if we fill +your pockets with these yellow boys? What will you say, Tim, and what +will you do with them?” + +“Your honour’s honour, and your honour’s glory,” answered Tim, “I’ll +not be able to say my prayers for one month with thanking you—and +indeed I’ve enough to do with them. I’d make a grand lady, you see, at +once of Norah—she has been a good wife to me. We’ll have a nice bit +of pork for dinner; and, may be, I’d have a glass, or may be two +glasses; or sometimes, if ’twas with a friend, or acquaintance, or +gossip, you know, three glasses every day; and I’d build a new cabin; +and I’d have a fresh egg every morning, myself, for my breakfast; and +I’d snap my fingers at the ‘squire, and beat his hounds, if they’d +come coursing through my fields; and I’d have a new plough; and Norah, +your honour, would have a new cloak, and the boys would have shoes and +stockings as well as Biddy Leary’s brats—that’s my sister that +was—and Nelly would marry Bill Long of Affadown; and, your honour, +I’d have some corduroy for myself to make breeches, and a cow, and a +beautiful coat with shining buttons, and a horse to ride, or may be +two. I’d have every thing,” said Tim, “in life, good or bad, that is +to be got for love or money—hurra-whoop!—and that’s what I’d do.” + +“Take care, Tim,” said the little fellow, “your money would not go +faster than it came, with your hurra-whoop.” + +But Tim heeded not this speech: heaps of gold were around him, and he +filled and filled away as hard as he could, his coat and his waistcoat +and his breeches pockets; and he thought himself very clever, +moreover, because he stuffed some of the guineas into his brogues. +When the little people perceived this, they cried out—“Go home, Tim +Jarvis, go home, and think yourself a lucky man.” + +“I hope, gentlemen,” said he, “we won’t part for good and all; but may +be ye’ll ask me to see you again, and to give you a fair and square +account of what I’ve done with your money.” + +To this there was no answer, only another shout—“Go home, Tim +Jarvis—go home—fair play is a jewel; but shut your eyes, or ye’ll +never see the light of day again.” + +Tim shut his eyes, knowing now that was the way to see clearly; and +away he was whisked as before—away, away he went till he again +stopped all of a sudden. + +He rubbed his eyes with his two thumbs—and where was he? Where, but +in the very pit in the field that was Jer Driscoll’s, and his wife +Norah above with a big stick ready to beat “her dreaming blackguard.” +Tim roared out to the woman to leave the life in him, and put his +hands in his pockets to show her the gold; but he pulled out nothing +only a handful of small stones mixed with yellow furze blossoms. The +bush was under him, and the great flag-stone that he had wrenched up, +as he thought, was lying, as if it was never stirred, by his side: the +whisky bottle was drained to the last drop; and the pit was just as +his spade had made it. + +Tim Jarvis, vexed, disappointed, and almost heart-broken, followed his +wife home: and, strange to say, from that night he left off drinking, +and dreaming, and delving in bog holes, and rooting in old caves. He +took again to his hard-working habits, and was soon able to buy back +his little cabin and former potato garden, and to get all the +enjoyment he anticipated from the fairy gold. + +Give Tim one, or at most two glasses of whisky punch (and neither +friend, acquaintance, nor gossip can make him take more,) and he will +relate the story to you much better than you have it here. Indeed, it +is worth going to Balledehob to hear him tell it. He always pledges +himself to the truth of every word with his fore-fingers crossed; and +when he comes to speak of the loss of his guineas, he never fails to +console himself by adding—“If they stayed with me I wouldn’t have +luck with them, sir; and father O’Shea told me ’twas as well for me +they were changed, for if they hadn’t, they’d have burned holes in my +pocket, and got out that way.” + +I shall never forget his solemn countenance, and the deep tones of his +warning voice, when he concluded his tale, by telling me, that the +next day after his ride with the fairies, Mick Dowling was missing, +and he believed him to be given to the _sarpint_ in his place, as he +had never been heard of since. “The blessing of the saints be between +all good men and harm,” was the concluding sentence of Tim Jarvis’s +narrative, as he flung the remaining drops from his glass upon the +green sward. + + + + +RENT-DAY. + +XXXV. + + +“Oh ullagone, ullagone! this is a wide world, but what will we do in +it, or where will we go?” muttered Bill Doody, as he sat on a rock by +the Lake of Killarney. “What will we do? to-morrow’s rent-day, and Tim +the Driver swears if we don’t pay up our rent, he’ll cant every +_ha’perth_ we have; and then, sure enough, there’s Judy and myself, +and the poor little _grawls_,[33] will be turned out to starve on the +high road, for the never a halfpenny of rent have I!—Oh hone, that +ever I should live to see this day!” + + [33] Children. + +Thus did Bill Doody bemoan his hard fate, pouring his sorrows to the +reckless waves of the most beautiful of lakes, which seemed to mock +his misery as they rejoiced beneath the cloudless sky of a May +morning. That lake, glittering in sunshine, sprinkled with fairy isles +of rock and verdure, and bounded by giant hills of ever-varying hues, +might, with its magic beauty, charm all sadness but despair; for alas, + + “How ill the scene that offers rest, + And heart that cannot rest, agree!” + +Yet Bill Doody was not so desolate as he supposed; there was one +listening to him he little thought of, and help was at hand from a +quarter he could not have expected. + +“What’s the matter with you, my poor man?” said a tall portly-looking +gentleman, at the same time stepping out of a furze-brake. Now Bill +was seated on a rock that commanded the view of a large field. Nothing +in the field could be concealed from him, except this furze-brake, +which grew in a hollow near the margin of the lake. He was, therefore, +not a little surprised at the gentleman’s sudden appearance, and +began to question whether the personage before him belonged to this +world or not. He, however, soon mustered courage sufficient to tell +him how his crops had failed, how some bad member had charmed away his +butter, and how Tim the Driver threatened to turn him out of the farm +if he didn’t pay up every penny of the rent by twelve o’clock next +day. + +“A sad story indeed,” said the stranger; “but surely, if you +represented the case to your landlord’s agent, he won’t have the heart +to turn you out.” + +“Heart, your honour! where would an agent get a heart!” exclaimed +Bill. “I see your honour does not know him: besides, he has an eye on +the farm this long time for a fosterer of his own; so I expect no +mercy at all at all, only to be turned out.” + +“Take this, my poor fellow, take this,” said the stranger, pouring a +purse-full of gold into Bill’s old hat, which in his grief he had +flung on the ground. “Pay the fellow your rent, but I’ll take care it +shall do him no good. I remember the time when things went otherwise +in this country, when I would have hung up such a fellow in the +twinkling of an eye!” + +These words were lost upon Bill, who was insensible to every thing but +the sight of the gold, and before he could unfix his gaze, and lift up +his head to pour out his hundred thousand blessings, the stranger was +gone. The bewildered peasant looked around in search of his +benefactor, and at last he thought he saw him riding on a white horse +a long way off on the lake. + +“O’Donoghue, O’Donoghue!” shouted Bill; “the good, the blessed +O’Donoghue!” and he ran capering like a madman to show Judy the gold, +and to rejoice her heart with the prospect of wealth and happiness. + +The next day Bill proceeded to the agent’s; not sneakingly, with his +hat in his hand, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his knees bending +under him; but bold and upright, like a man conscious of his +independence. + +“Why don’t you take off your hat, fellow; don’t you know you are +speaking to a magistrate?” said the agent. + +“I know I’m not speaking to the king, sir,” said Bill; “and I never +takes off my hat but to them I can respect and love. The Eye that sees +all knows I’ve no right either to respect or love an agent!” + +“You scoundrel!” retorted the man in office, biting his lips with rage +at such an unusual and unexpected opposition, “I’ll teach you how to +be insolent again—I have the power, remember.” + +“To the cost of the country, I know you have,” said Bill, who still +remained with his head as firmly covered as if he was the lord +Kingsale himself. + +“But come,” said the magistrate; “have you got the money for me?—this +is rent-day. If there’s one penny of it wanting, or the running gale +that’s due, prepare to turn out before night, for you shall not remain +another hour in possession.” + +“There is your rent,” said Bill, with an unmoved expression of tone +and countenance; “you’d better count it, and give me a receipt in full +for the running gale and all.” + +The agent gave a look of amazement at the gold; for it was gold—real +guineas! and not bits of dirty ragged small notes, that are only fit +to light one’s pipe with. However willing the agent may have been to +ruin, as he thought, the unfortunate tenant, he took up the gold, and +handed the receipt to Bill, who strutted off with it as proud as a cat +of her whiskers. + +The agent going to his desk shortly after, was confounded at beholding +a heap of gingerbread cakes instead of the money he had deposited +there. He raved and swore, but all to no purpose; the gold had become +gingerbread cakes, just marked like the guineas, with the king’s head, +and Bill had the receipt in his pocket; so he saw there was no use in +saying any thing about the affair, as he would only get laughed at for +his pains. + +From that hour Bill Doody grew rich; all his undertakings prospered; +and he often blesses the day that he met with O’Donoghue, the great +prince that lives down under the lake of Killarney. + +Like the butterfly, the spirit of O’Donoghue closely hovers over the +perfume of the hills and flowers it loves; while, as the reflection of +a star in the waters of a pure lake, to those who look not above, +that glorious spirit is believed to dwell beneath. + + + + +LINN-NA-PAYSHTHA. + +XXXVI. + + +Travellers go to Leinster to see Dublin and the Dargle; to Ulster, to +see the Giant’s Causeway, and, perhaps, to do penance at Lough Dearg; +to Munster, to see Killarney, the beautiful city of Cork, and half a +dozen other fine things; but who ever thinks of the fourth +province?—who ever thinks of going— + + —“westward, where Dick Martin _ruled_ + The houseless wilds of Cunnemara?” + +The Ulster-man’s ancient denunciation “to hell or to Connaught,” has +possibly led to the supposition that this is a sort of infernal place +above ground—a kind of terrestrial Pandemonium—in short, that +Connaught is little better than hell, or hell little worse than +Connaught; but let any one only go there for a month, and, as the +natives say, “I’ll warrant he’ll soon see the differ, and learn to +understand that it is mighty like the rest o’ green Erin, only +something poorer;” and yet it might be thought that in this particular +“worse would be needless;” but so it is. + +“My gracious me,” said the landlady of the Inn at Sligo, “I wonder a +gentleman of your _teeste_ and _curosity_ would think of leaving +Ireland without making a _tower_ (tour) of Connaught, if it was +nothing more than spending a day at Hazlewood, and up the lake, and on +to the _ould_ abbey at Friarstown, and the castle at Dromahair.” + +Polly M’Bride, my kind hostess, might not in this remonstrance have +been altogether disinterested; but her advice prevailed, and the dawn +of the following morning found me in a boat on the unruffled surface +of Lough Gill. Arrived at the head of that splendid sheet of water, +covered with rich and wooded islands with their ruined buildings, and +bounded by towering mountains, noble plantations, grassy slopes, and +precipitous rocks, which give beauty, and, in some places, sublimity +to its shores, I proceeded at once up the wide river which forms its +principal tributary. The “old abbey” is chiefly remarkable for having +been built at a period nearer to the Reformation than any other +ecclesiastical edifice of the same class. Full within view of it, and +at the distance of half a mile, stands the shattered remnant of +Breffni’s princely hall. I strode forward with the enthusiasm of an +antiquary, and the high-beating heart of a patriotic Irishman. I felt +myself on classic ground, immortalized by the lays of Swift and of +Moore. I pushed my way into the hallowed precincts of the grand and +venerable edifice. I entered its chambers, and, oh my countrymen, I +found them converted into the domicile of pigs, cows, and poultry! But +the exterior of “O’Rourke’s old hall,” gray, frowning, and +ivy-covered, is well enough; it stands on a beetling precipice, round +which a noble river wheels its course. The opposite bank is a very +steep ascent, thickly wooded, and rising to a height of at least +seventy feet; and, for a quarter of a mile, this beautiful copse +follows the course of the river. + +The first individual I encountered was an old cowherd; nor was I +unfortunate in my cicerone, for he assured me there were plenty of old +stories about strange things that used to be in the place; “but,” +continued he, “for my own share, I never met any thing worse nor +myself. If it bees ould stories that your honour’s after, the story +about Linnna-Payshtha and Poul-maw-Gullyawn is the only thing about +this place that’s worth one jack-straw. Does your honour see that +great big black hole in the river yonder below?” He pointed my +attention to a part of the river about fifty yards from the old hall, +where a long island occupied the centre of the wide current, the water +at one side running shallow, and at the other assuming every +appearance of unfathomable depth. The spacious pool, dark and still, +wore a death-like quietude of surface. It looked as if the speckled +trout would shun its murky precincts—as if even the daring pike would +shrink from so gloomy a dwelling-place. “That’s Linn-na-Payshtha, +sir,” resumed my guide, “and Poul-maw-Gullyawn is just the very +_moral_ of it, only that it’s round, and not in a river, but standing +out in the middle of a green field, about a short quarter of a mile +from this. Well, ’tis as good as fourscore years—I often _hard_ my +father, God be merciful to him! tell the story—since Manus O’Rourke, +a great buckeen, a cockfighting, drinking blackguard that was long +ago, went to sleep one night, and had a dream about Linn-na-Payshtha. +This Manus, the dirty spalpeen, there was no ho with him; he thought +to ride rough-shod over his betters through the whole country, though +he was not one of the real stock of the O’Rourkes. Well, this fellow +had a dream that if he dived in Linn-na-Payshtha at twelve o’clock of +a Hollow-eve night, he’d find more gold than would make a man of him +and his wife, while grass grew or water ran. The next night he had the +same dream, and sure enough, if he had it the second night, it came to +him the third in the same form. Manus, well becomes him, never told +mankind or womankind, but swore to himself, by all the books that were +ever shut or open, that, any how, he would go to the bottom of the big +hole. What did he care for the Payshtha-more that was lying there to +keep guard on the gold and silver of the old ancient family that was +buried there in the wars, packed up in the brewing-pan? Sure he was as +good an O’Rourke as the best of them, taking care to forget that his +grandmother’s father was a cow-boy to the earl O’Donnel. At long last +Hollow-eve comes, and sly and silent master Manus creeps to bed early, +and just at midnight steals down to the river-side. When he came to +the bank his mind misgave him, and he wheeled up to Frank +M’Clure’s—the old Frank that was then at that time—and got a bottle +of whisky, and took it with him, and ’tis unknown how much of it he +drank. He walked across to the island, and down he went gallantly to +the bottom like a stone. Sure enough the Payshtha was there afore him, +lying like a great big conger eel, seven yards long, and as thick as a +bull in the body, with a mane upon his neck like a horse. The +Payshtha-more reared himself up; and, looking at the poor man as if +he’d eat him, says he, in good English, + +“‘Arrah, then, Manus,’ says he, ‘what brought you here? It would have +been better for you to have blown your brains out at once with a +pistol, and have made a quiet end of yourself, than to have come down +here for me to deal with you.’ + +“‘Oh, plase your honour,’ says Manus, ‘I beg my life:’ and there he +stood shaking like a dog in a wet sack. + +“‘Well, as you have some blood of the O’Rourkes in you, I forgive you +this once; but, by this and by that, if ever I see you, or any one +belonging to you, coming about this place again, I’ll hang a quarter +of you on every tree in the wood.’ + +“‘Go home,’ says the Payshtha—‘go home, Manus,’ says he; ‘and if you +can’t make better use of your time, get drunk; but don’t come here, +bothering me. Yet, stop! since you are here, and have ventured to +come, I’ll show you something that you’ll remember till you go to your +grave, and ever after, while you live.’ + +“With that, my dear, he opens an iron door in the bed of the river, +and never the drop of water ran into it; and there Manus sees a long +dry cave, or under-ground cellar like, and the Payshtha drags him in, +and shuts the door. It wasn’t long before the baste began to get +smaller, and smaller, and smaller; and at last he grew as little as a +taughn of twelve years old; and there he was a brownish little man, +about four feet high. + +“‘Plase your honour,’ says Manus, ‘if I might make so bold, may be you +are one of the good people?’ + +“‘May be I am, and may be I am not; but, any how, all you have to +understand is this, that I’m bound to look after the Thiernas[34] of +Breffni, and take care of them through every generation; and that my +present business is to watch this cave, and what’s in it, till the +old stock is reigning over this country once more.’ + + [34] _Tighearna_—a lord. Vide O’BRIEN. + +“‘May be you are a sort of a banshee?’ + +“‘I am not, you fool,’ said the little man. ‘The banshee is a woman. +My business is to live in the form you first saw me, in guarding this +spot. And now hold your tongue, and look about you.’ + +“Manus rubbed his eyes and looked right and left, before and behind; +and there were the vessels of gold and the vessels of silver, the +dishes, and the plates, and the cups, and the punch-bowls, and the +tankards: there was the golden mether, too, that every Thierna at his +wedding used to drink out of to the kerne in real usquebaugh. There +was all the money that ever was saved in the family since they got a +grant of this manor, in the days of the Firbolgs, down to the time of +their outer ruination. He then brought Manus on with him to where +there was arms for three hundred men; and the sword set with diamonds, +and the golden helmet of the O’Rourke; and he showed him the staff +made out of an elephant’s tooth, and set with rubies and gold, that +the Thierna used to hold while he sat in his great hall, giving +justice and the laws of the Brehons to all his clan. The first room in +the cave, ye see, had the money and the plate, the second room had the +arms, and the third had the books, papers, parchments, title-deeds, +wills, and every thing else of the sort belonging to the family. + +“‘And now, Manus,’ says the little man, ‘ye seen the whole o’ this, +and go your ways; but never come to this place any more, or allow any +one else. I must keep watch and ward till the Sassanach is druv out of +Ireland, and the Thiernas o’ Breffni in their glory again.’ The little +man then stopped for awhile and looked up in Manus’s face, and says to +him in a great passion, ‘Arrah! bad luck to ye, Manus, why don’t ye go +about your business?’ + +“‘How can I?—sure you must show me the way out,’ says Manus, making +answer. The little man then pointed forward with his finger. + +“‘Can’t we go out the way we came?’ says Manus. + +“‘No, you must go out at the other end—that’s the rule o’ this +place. Ye came in at Linn-na-Payshtha, and you must go out at +Poul-maw-Gullyawn: ye came down like a stone to the bottom of one +hole, and ye must spring up like a cork to the top of the other.’ With +that the little man gave him one _hoise_, and all that Manus remembers +was the roar of the water in his ears; and sure enough he was found +the next morning, high and dry, fast asleep with the empty bottle +beside him, but far enough from the place he thought he landed, for it +was just below yonder on the island that his wife found him. My +father, God be merciful to him! heard Manus swear to every word of the +story.” + + As there are few things which excite human desire throughout + all nations more than wealth, the legends concerning the + concealment, discovery and circulation of money, are, as may be + expected, widely extended; yet in all the circumstances, which + admit of so much fanciful embellishment, there every where + exists a striking similarity. + + Like the golden apples of the Hesperides, treasure is guarded + by a dragon or serpent. Vide Creuzer, Religions de l’Antiquite, + traduction de Guigniaut, i. 248. Paris, 1825. Stories of its + discovery in consequence of dreams or spiritual agency are so + numerous, that, if collected, they would fill many volumes, yet + they vary little in detail beyond the actors and locality. Vide + Grimm’s Deutsche Sagen, i. 290. Thiele’s Danske Folkesagn, i. + 112, ii. 24. Kirke’s Secret Commonwealth, p. 12, &c. + + The circulation of money bestowed by the fairies or + supernatural personages, like that of counterfeit coin, is + seldom extensive. See story, in the Arabian Nights, of the old + rogue whose fine-looking money turned to leaves. When Waldemar, + Holgar, and Grœn Jette in Danish tradition, bestow money upon + the boors whom they meet, their gift sometimes turns to fire, + sometimes to pebbles, and sometimes is so hot, that the + receiver drops it from his hand, when the gold, or what + appeared to be so, sinks into the ground. + + In poor Ireland, the wretched peasant contents himself by + soliloquizing—“Money is the devil, they say; and God is good + that He keeps it from us.” + + + + +ROCKS AND STONES. + + “Forms in silence frown’d, + Shapeless and nameless; and to mine eye + Sometimes they rolled off cloudily, + Wedding themselves with gloom—or grew + Gigantic to my troubled view, + And seem’d to gather round me.” + BANIM’S _Celt’s Paradise_. + + + + +THE LEGEND OF CAIRN THIERNA. + +XXXVII. + + +From the town of Fermoy, famous for the excellence of its bottled ale, +you may plainly see the mountain of Cairn Thierna. It is crowned with +a great heap of stones, which, as the country people remark, never +came there without “a crooked thought and a cross job.” Strange it is, +that any work of the good old times should be considered one of +labour; for round towers then sprung up like mushrooms in one night, +and people played marbles with pieces of rock, that can now no more be +moved than the hills themselves. + +This great pile on the top of Cairn Thierna was caused by the words of +an old woman, whose bed still remains—_Labacally_, the hag’s bed—not +far from the village of Glanworth. She was certainly far wiser than +any woman, either old or young, of my immediate acquaintance. Jove +defend me, however, from making an envious comparison between ladies; +but facts are stubborn things, and the legend will prove my assertion. + +O’Keefe was lord of Fermoy before the Roches came into that part of +the country; and he had an only son—never was there seen a finer +child; his young face filled with innocent joy was enough to make any +heart glad, yet his father looked on his smiles with sorrow, for an +old hag had foretold that this boy should be drowned before he grew up +to manhood. + +Now, although the prophecies of Pastorini were a failure, it is no +reason why prophecies should altogether be despised. The art in modern +times may be lost, as well as that of making beer out of the mountain +heath, which the Danes did to great perfection. But I take it, the +malt of Tom Walker is no bad substitute for the one; and if evil +prophecies were to come to pass, like the old woman’s, in my opinion +we are far more comfortable without such knowledge. + + “Infant heir of proud Fermoy, + Fear not fields of slaughter; + Storm and fire fear not, my boy, + But shun the fatal water.” + +These were the warning words which caused the chief of Fermoy so much +unhappiness. His infant son was carefully prevented all approach to +the river, and anxious watch was kept over every playful movement. The +child grew up in strength and in beauty, and every day became more +dear to his father, who, hoping to avert the doom, which, however, was +inevitable, prepared to build a castle far removed from the dreaded +element. + +The top of Cairn Thierna was the place chosen; and the lord’s vassals +were assembled, and employed in collecting materials for the purpose. +Hither came the fated boy; with delight he viewed the laborious work +of raising mighty stones from the base to the summit of the mountain, +until the vast heap which now forms its rugged crest was accumulated. +The workmen were about to commence the building, and the boy, who was +considered in safety when on the mountain, was allowed to rove about +at will. In his case how true are the words of the great dramatist: + + ——“Put but a little water in a spoon, + And it shall be, as all the ocean, + Enough to stifle such a _being_ up.” + +A vessel which contained a small supply of water, brought there for +the use of the workmen, attracted the attention of the child. He saw, +with wonder, the glitter of the sunbeams within it; he approached more +near to gaze, when a form resembling his own arose before him. He gave +a cry of joy and astonishment and drew back; the image drew back also, +and vanished. Again he approached; again the form appeared, expressing +in every feature delight corresponding with his own. Eager to welcome +the young stranger, he bent over the vessel to press his lips; and, +losing his balance, the fatal prophecy was accomplished. + +The father in despair abandoned the commenced building; and the +materials remain a proof of the folly of attempting to avert the +course of fate. + + + + +THE ROCK OF THE CANDLE. + +XXXVIII. + + +A few miles west of Limerick stands the once formidable castle of +Carrigogunnel. Its riven tower and broken archway remain in mournful +evidence of the sieges sustained by that city. Time, however, the +great soother of all things, has destroyed the painful effect which +the view of recent violence produces on the mind. The ivy creeps +around the riven tower, concealing its injuries, and upholding it by a +tough swathing of stalks. The archway is again united by the +long-armed brier which grows across the rent, and the shattered +buttresses are decorated with wild flowers, which gaily spring from +their crevices and broken places. + +Boldly situated on a rock, the ruined walls of Carrigogunnel now form +only a romantic feature in the peaceful landscape. Beneath them, on +one side, lies the flat marshy ground called Corcass land, which +borders the noble river Shannon; on the other side is seen the neat +parish church of Kilkeedy, with its glebe-house and surrounding +improvements; and at a short distance appear the irregular mud cabins +of the little village of Ballybrown, with the venerable trees of +Tervoo. + +On the rock of Carrigogunnel, before the castle was built, or Brian +Boro born to build it, dwelt a hag named Grana, who made desolate the +surrounding country. She was gigantic in size, and frightful in +appearance. Her eyebrows grew into each other with a grim curve, and +beneath their matted bristles, deeply sunk in her head, two small gray +eyes darted forth baneful looks of evil. From her deeply-wrinkled +forehead issued forth a hooked beak, dividing two shrivelled cheeks. +Her skinny lips curled with a cruel and malignant expression, and her +prominent chin was studded with bunches of grisly hair. + +Death was her sport. Like the angler with his rod, the hag Grana would +toil, and watch, nor think it labour, so that the death of a victim +rewarded her vigils. Every evening did she light an enchanted candle +upon the rock, and whoever looked upon it died before the next +morning’s sun arose. Numberless were the victims over whom Grana +rejoiced; one after the other had seen the light, and their death was +the consequence. Hence came the country round to be desolate, and +Carrigogunnel, the Rock of the Candle, by its dreaded name. + +These were fearful times to live in. But the Finnii of Erin were the +avengers of the oppressed. Their fame had gone forth to distant +shores, and their deeds were sung by a hundred bards. To them the name +of danger was an invitation to a rich banquet. The web of enchantment +stopped their course as little as the swords of an enemy. Many a +mother of a son—many a wife of a husband—many a sister of a brother, +had the valour of the Finnian heroes bereft. Dismembered limbs +quivered, and heads bounded on the ground before their progress in +battle. They rushed forward with the strength of the furious wind, +tearing up the trees of the forest by their roots. Loud was their +warcry as the thunder, raging was their impetuosity above that of +common men, and fierce was their anger as the stormy waves of the +ocean! + +It was the mighty Finn himself who lifted up his voice, and commanded +the fatal candle of the hag Grana to be extinguished. “Thine, Regan, +be the task,” he said, and to him he gave a cap thrice charmed by the +magician Luno of Lochlin. + +With the star of the same evening the candle of death burned on the +rock, and Regan stood beneath it. Had he beheld the slightest glimmer +of its blaze, he, too, would have perished, and the hag Grana, with +the morning’s dawn, rejoiced over his corse. When Regan looked towards +the light, the charmed cap fell over his eyes and prevented his +seeing. The rock was steep, but he climbed up its craggy side with +such caution and dexterity, that, before the hag was aware, the +warrior, with averted head, had seized the candle, and flung it with +prodigious force into the river Shannon; the hissing waters of which +quenched its light for ever! + +Then flew the charmed cap from the eyes of Regan, and he beheld the +enraged hag, with outstretched arms, prepared to seize and whirl him +after her candle. Regan instantly bounded westward from the rock just +two miles, with a wild and wondrous spring. Grana looked for a moment +at the leap, and then tearing up a huge fragment of the rock, flung it +after Regan with such tremendous force, that her crooked hands +trembled and her broad chest heaved with heavy puffs, like a smith’s +labouring bellows, from the exertion. + +The ponderous stone fell harmless to the ground, for the leap of Regan +far exceeded the strength of the furious hag. In triumph he returned +to Fin; + + “The hero valiant, renowned, and learned; + White-tooth’d, graceful, magnanimous, and active.” + +The hag Grana was never heard of more; but the stone remains, and +deeply imprinted in it, is still to be seen the mark of the hag’s +fingers. That stone is far taller than the tallest man, and the power +of forty men would fail to move it from the spot where it fell. + +The grass may wither around it, the spade and plough destroy dull +heaps of earth, the walls of castles fall and perish, but the fame of +the Finnii of Erin endures with the rocks themselves, and +_Clough-a-Regaun_ is a monument fitting to preserve the memory of the +deed! + + + + +CLOUGH NA CUDDY. + +XXXIX. + + +Above all the islands in the lakes of Killarney give me +Innisfallen—“sweet Innisfallen,” as the melodious Moore calls it. It +is, in truth, a fairy isle, although I have no fairy story to tell you +about it; and if I had, these are such unbelieving times, and people +of late have grown so skeptical, that they only smile at my stories, +and doubt them. + +However, none will doubt that a monastery once stood upon Innisfallen +island, for its ruins may still be seen; neither, that within its +walls dwelt certain pious and learned persons called Monks. A very +pleasant set of fellows they were, I make not the smallest doubt; and +I am sure of this, that they had a very pleasant spot to enjoy +themselves in after dinner—the proper time, believe me, and I am no +bad judge of such matters, for the enjoyment of a fine prospect. + +Out of all the monks you could not pick a better fellow nor a merrier +soul than Father Cuddy; he sung a good song, he told a good story, and +had a jolly, comfortable-looking paunch of his own, that was a credit +to any refectory table. He was distinguished above all the rest by the +name of “the fat father.” Now there are many that will take huff at a +name; but Father Cuddy had no nonsense of that kind about him; he +laughed at it—and well able he was to laugh, for his mouth nearly +reached from one ear to the other: his might, in truth, be called an +open countenance. As his paunch was no disgrace to his food, neither +was his nose to his drink. ’Tis a doubt to me if there were not more +carbuncles upon it than ever were seen at the bottom of the lake, +which is said to be full of them. His eyes had a right merry twinkle +in them, like moonshine dancing on the water; and his cheeks had the +roundness and crimson glow of ripe arbutus berries. + + “He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept.—What then? + He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept again!” + +Such was the tenor of his simple life: but when he prayed a certain +drowsiness would come upon him, which, it must be confessed, never +occurred when a well-filled “blackjack” stood before him. Hence his +prayers were short and his draughts were long. The world loved him, +and he saw no good reason why he should not in return love its venison +and usquebaugh. But, as times went, he must have been a pious man, or +else what befell him never would have happened. + +Spiritual affairs—for it was respecting the importation of a tun of +wine into the island monastery—demanded the presence of one of the +brotherhood of Innisfallen at the abbey of Irelagh, now called +Mucruss. The superintendence of this important matter was committed to +Father Cuddy, who felt too deeply interested in the future welfare of +any community of which he was a member, to neglect or delay such +mission. With the morning’s light he was seen guiding his shallop +across the crimson waters of the lake towards the peninsula of +Mucruss; and having moored his little bark in safety beneath the +shelter of a wave-worn rock, he advanced with becoming dignity towards +the abbey. + +The stillness of the bright and balmy hour was broken by the heavy +footsteps of the zealous father. At the sound the startled deer, +shaking the dew from their sides, sprung up from their lair, and as +they bounded off—“Hah!” exclaimed Cuddy, “what a noble haunch goes +there!—how delicious it would look smoking upon a goodly platter!” + +As he proceeded, the mountain-bee hummed his tune of gladness around +the holy man, save when he buried in the foxglove bell, or revelling +upon a fragrant bunch of thyme; and even then the little voice +murmured out happiness in low and broken tones of voluptuous delight. +Father Cuddy derived no small comfort from the sound, for it presaged +a good metheglin season, and metheglin he regarded, if well +manufactured, to be no bad liquor, particularly when there was no +stint of usquebaugh in the brewing. + +Arrived within the abbey garth, he was received with due respect by +the brethren of Irelagh, and arrangements for the embarkation of the +wine were completed to his entire satisfaction. “Welcome, Father +Cuddy,” said the prior: “grace be on you.” + +“Grace before meat, then,” said Cuddy, “for a long walk always makes +me hungry, and I am certain I have not walked less than half a mile +this morning, to say nothing of crossing the water.” + +A pasty of choice flavour felt the truth of this assertion, as +regarded Father Cuddy’s appetite. After such consoling repast, it +would have been a reflection on monastic hospitality to depart without +partaking of the grace-cup; moreover, Father Cuddy had a particular +respect for the antiquity of that custom. He liked the taste of the +grace-cup well:—he tried another,—it was no less excellent; and when +he had swallowed the third he found his heart expand, and put forth +its fibres, willing to embrace all mankind. Surely, then, there is +Christian love and charity in wine! + +I said he sung a good song. Now though psalms are good songs, and in +accordance with his vocation, I did not mean to imply that he was a +mere psalm-singer. It was well known to the brethren, that wherever +Father Cuddy was, mirth and melody were with him; mirth in his eye and +melody on his tongue; and these, from experience, are equally well +known to be thirsty commodities; but he took good care never to let +them run dry. To please the brotherhood, whose excellent wine pleased +him, he sung, and as “_in vino veritas_” his song will well become +this veritable history. + + CANTAT MONACHUS. + + I. + Hoc erat in votis, + Et bene sufficerit totis + Si dum porto sacculum + Bonum esset ubique jentaculum! + Et si parvis + In arvis + Nullam + Invenero pullam, + Ovum gentiliter preæbebit recens + Puella decens. + Manu nec dabis invitâ + Flos vallium harum, + Decus puellarum, + Candida Marguerita! + +THE FRIAR’S SONG. + + I. + + My vows I can never fulfil, + Until + I have breakfasted, one way or other; + And I freely protest, + That I never can rest + ‘Till I borrow or beg + An egg, + Unless I can come at the ould hen, its mother. + But Maggy, my dear, + While you’re here, + I don’t fear + To want eggs that have just been laid newly; + For och! you’re a pearl + Of a girl, + And you’re called so in _Latin_ most truly. + + II. + + Me hora jucunda cœnæ + Dilectat bene, + Et rerum sine dubio grandium + Maxima est prandium: + Sed mihi crede, + In hâc æde, + Multo magis gaudeo, + Cum gallicantum audio, + In sinu tuo + Videns ova duo. + Oh semper me tractes ita! + Panibus de hordeo factis, + Et copiâ lactis, + Candida Margarita! + + III. + + There is most to my mind something that is still upper + Than supper, + Though it must be admitted I feel no way thinner + After dinner: + But soon as I hear the cock crow + In the morning, + That eggs you are bringing full surely I know, + By that warning, + While your buttermilk helps me to float + Down my throat + Those sweet cakes made of oat. + I don’t envy an earl, + Sweet girl, + Och, ’tis you are a beautiful pearl. + +Such was his song. Father Cuddy smacked his lips at the recollection +of Margery’s delicious fried eggs, which always imparted a peculiar +relish to his liquor. The very idea provoked Cuddy to raise the cup to +his mouth, and with one hearty pull thereat he finished its contents. + +This is, and ever was a censorious world, often construing what is +only a fair allowance into an excess: but I scorn to reckon up any +man’s drink, like an unrelenting host; therefore, I cannot tell how +many brimming draughts of wine, bedecked with _the venerable Bead_, +Father Cuddy emptied into his “soul-case,” so he figuratively termed +the body. + +His respect for the goodly company of the monks of Irelagh detained +him until their adjournment to vespers, when he set forward on his +return to Innisfallen. Whether his mind was occupied in philosophic +contemplation or wrapped in pious musings, I cannot declare, but the +honest father wandered on in a different direction from that in which +his shallop lay. Far be it from me to insinuate that the good liquor, +which he had so commended caused him to forget his road, or that his +track was irregular and unsteady. Oh no!—he carried his drink +bravely, as became a decent man and a good Christian; yet somehow, he +thought he could distinguish two moons. “Bless my eyes,” said Father +Cuddy, “every thing is changing now-a-days!—the very stars are not in +the same places they used to be; I think _Camceachta_ (the Plough) is +driving on at a rate I never saw it before to-night; but I suppose the +driver is drunk, for there are blackguards every where.” + +Cuddy had scarcely uttered these words, when he saw, or fancied he +saw, the form of a young woman, who, holding up a bottle, beckoned him +towards her. The night was extremely beautiful, and the white dress of +the girl floated gracefully in the moonlight, as with gay step she +tripped on before the worthy father, archly looking back upon him over +her shoulder. + +“Ah, Margery, merry Margery!” cried Cuddy, “you tempting little rogue! + + ‘Flos vallium harum, + Decus puellarum, + Candida Margarita.’ + +“I see you, I see you and the bottle! let me but catch you, Candida +Margarita!” and on he followed, panting and smiling, after this +alluring apparition. + +At length his feet grew weary, and his breath failed, which obliged +him to give up the chase; yet such was his piety, that unwilling to +rest in any attitude but that of prayer, down dropped Father Cuddy on +his knees. Sleep, as usual, stole upon his devotions; and the morning +was far advanced, when he awoke from dreams, in which tables groaned +beneath their load of viands, and wine poured itself free and +sparkling as the mountain spring. + +Rubbing his eyes, he looked about him, and the more he looked the more +he wondered at the alteration which appeared in the face of the +country. “Bless my soul and body!” said the good father, “I saw the +stars changing last night, but here is a change!” Doubting his senses, +he looked again. The hills bore the same majestic outline as on the +preceding day, and the lake spread itself beneath his view in the same +tranquil beauty, and studded with the same number of islands; but +every smaller feature in the landscape was strangely altered. What had +been naked rocks were now clothed with holly and arbutus. Whole woods +had disappeared, and waste places had become cultivated fields; and, +to complete the work of enchantment, the very season itself seemed +changed. In the rosy dawn of a summer’s morning he had left the +monastery of Innisfallen, and he now felt in every sight and sound the +dreariness of winter. The hard ground was covered with withered +leaves; icicles depended from leafless branches; he heard the sweet +low note of the robin, who familiarly approached him; and he felt his +fingers numbed from the nipping frost. Father Cuddy found it rather +difficult to account for such sudden transformations, and to convince +himself it was not the illusion of a dream, he was about to rise, when +lo! he discovered that both his knees were buried at least six inches +in the solid stone; for, notwithstanding all these changes, he had +never altered his devout position. + +Cuddy was now wide awake, and felt, when he got up, his joints sadly +cramped, which it was only natural they should be, considering the +hard texture of the stone, and the depth his knees had sunk into it. +But the great difficulty was to explain how, in one night, summer had +become winter, whole woods had been cut down, and well-grown trees had +sprouted up. The miracle, nothing else could he conclude it to be, +urged him to hasten his return to Innisfallen, where he might learn +some explanation of these marvellous events. + +Seeing a boat moored within reach of the shore, he delayed not, in the +midst of such wonders, to seek his own bark, but, seizing the oars, +pulled stoutly towards the island; and here new wonders awaited him. + +Father Cuddy waddled, as fast as cramped limbs could carry his rotund +corporation, to the gate of the monastery, where he loudly demanded +admittance. + +“Holloa! whence come you, master monk, and what’s your business?” +demanded a stranger who occupied the porter’s place. + +“Business!—my business!” repeated the confounded Cuddy,—“why, do you +not know me? Has the wine arrived safely?” + +“Hence, fellow!” said the porter’s representative, in a surly tone; +“nor think to impose on me with your monkish tales.” + +“Fellow!” exclaimed the father: “mercy upon us, that I should be so +spoken to at the gate of my own house!—Scoundrel!” cried Cuddy, +raising his voice, “do you not see my garb—my holy garb?” + +“Ay, fellow,” replied he of the keys—“the garb of laziness and filthy +debauchery, which has been expelled from out these walls. Know you +not, idle knave, of the suppression of this nest of superstition, and +that the abbey lands and possessions were granted in August last to +Master Robert Collam, by our Lady Elizabeth, sovereign queen of +England, and paragon of all beauty—whom God preserve!” + +“Queen of England!” said Cuddy; “there never was a sovereign queen of +England—this is but a piece with the rest. I saw how it was going +with the stars last night—the world’s turned upside down. But surely +this is Innisfallen island, and I am the Father Cuddy who yesterday +morning went over to the abbey of Irelagh, respecting the tun of wine. +Do you not know me now?” + +“Know you!—how should I know you?” said the keeper of the abbey. +“Yet, true it is, that I have heard my grandmother, whose mother +remembered the man, often speak of the fat Father Cuddy of +Innisfallen, who made a profane and godless ballad in praise of fresh +eggs, of which he and his vile crew knew more than they did of the +word of God; and who, being drunk, it is said, tumbled into the lake +one night, and was drowned; but that must have been a hundred, ay, +more than a hundred years since.” + +“’Twas I who composed that song in praise of Margery’s fresh eggs, +which is no profane and godless ballad—no other Father Cuddy than +myself ever belonged to Innisfallen,” earnestly exclaimed the holy +man. “A hundred years!—what was your great-grandmother’s name?” + +“She was a Mahony of Dunlow—Margaret ni Mahony; and my grandmother—” + +“What! merry Margery of Dunlow your great-grandmother!” shouted Cuddy. +“St. Brandon help me!—the wicked wench, with that tempting +bottle!—why, ’twas only last night—a hundred years!—your +great-grandmother, said you?—There has, indeed, been a strange torpor +over me; I must have slept all this time!” + +That Father Cuddy had done so, I think is sufficiently proved by the +changes which occurred during his nap. A reformation, and a serious +one it was for him, had taken place. Pretty Margery’s fresh eggs were +no longer to be had in Innisfallen; and with a heart as heavy as his +footsteps, the worthy man directed his course towards Dingle, where he +embarked in a vessel on the point of sailing for Malaga. The rich wine +of that place had of old impressed him with a high respect for its +monastic establishments, in one of which he quietly wore out the +remainder of his days. + +The stone impressed with the mark of Father Cuddy’s knees may be seen +to this day. Should any incredulous persons doubt my story, I request +them to go to Killarney, where Clough na Cuddy—so is the stone +called—remains in Lord Kenmare’s park, an indisputable evidence of +the fact. Spillane, the bugle-man, will be able to point it out to +them, as he did so to me; and here is my sketch by which they may +identify it. + + + + +THE GIANT’S STAIRS. + +XL. + + +On the road between Passage and Cork there is an old mansion called +Ronayne’s Court. It may be easily known from the stack of chimneys and +the gable ends, which are to be seen, look at it which way you will. +Here it was that Maurice Ronayne and his wife Margaret Gould kept +house, as may be learned to this day from the great old chimney-piece, +on which is carved their arms. They were a mighty worthy couple, and +had but one son, who was called Philip, after no less a person than +the king of Spain. + +Immediately on his smelling the cold air of this world the child +sneezed; and it was naturally taken to be a good sign of having a +clear head; but the subsequent rapidity of his learning was truly +amazing; for on the very first day a primer was put into his hand, he +tore out the A, B, C page and destroyed it, as a thing quite beneath +his notice. No wonder then that both father and mother were proud of +their heir, who gave such indisputable proofs of genius, or, as they +call it in that part of the world, “_genus_.” + +One morning, however, Master Phil, who was then just seven years old, +was missing, and no one could tell what had become of him: servants +were sent in all directions to seek him, on horseback and on foot; but +they returned without any tidings of the boy, whose disappearance +altogether was most unaccountable. A large reward was offered, but it +produced them no intelligence, and years rolled away without Mr. and +Mrs. Ronayne having obtained any satisfactory account of the fate of +their lost child. + +There lived, at this time, near Carigaline, one Robert Kelly, a +blacksmith by trade. He was what is termed a handy man, and his +abilities were held in much estimation by the lads and the lasses of +the neighbourhood: for, independent of shoeing horses which he did to +great perfection, and making plough-irons, he interpreted dreams for +the young women, sung Arthur O’Bradley at their weddings, and was so +good-natured a fellow at a christening, that he was gossip to half the +country round. + +Now it happened that Robin had a dream himself, and young Philip +Ronayne appeared to him in it at the dead hour of the night. Robin +thought he saw the boy mounted upon a beautiful white horse, and that +he told him how he was made a page to the giant Mahon Mac Mahon, who +had carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of the +rock. “The seven years—my time of service,—are clean out, Robin,” +said he, “and if you release me this night, I will be the making of +you for ever after.” + +“And how will I know,” said Robin—cunning enough, even in his +sleep—“but this is all a dream?” + +“Take that,” said the boy, “for a token”—and at the word the white +horse struck out with one of his hind legs, and gave poor Robin such a +kick in the forehead, that thinking he was a dead man, he roared as +loud as he could after his brains, and woke up calling a thousand +murders. He found himself in bed, but he had the mark of the blow, the +regular print of a horse-shoe upon his forehead as red as blood; and +Robin Kelly, who never before found himself puzzled at the dream of +any other person, did not know what to think of his own. + +Robin was well acquainted with the Giant’s Stairs, as, indeed, who is +not that knows the harbour? They consist of great masses of rock, +which, piled one above another, rise like a flight of steps, from very +deep water, against the bold cliff of Carrigmahon. Nor are they badly +suited for stairs to those who have legs of sufficient length to +stride over a moderate-sized house, or to enable them to clear the +space of a mile in a hop, step, and jump. Both these feats the giant +Mac Mahon was said to have performed in the days of Finnian glory; and +the common tradition of the country placed his dwelling within the +cliff up whose side the stairs led. + +Such was the impression which the dream made on Robin, that he +determined to put its truth to the test. It occurred to him, however, +before setting out on this adventure, that a plough-iron may be no bad +companion, as, from experience, he knew it was an excellent knock-down +argument, having, on more occasions than one, settled a little +disagreement very quietly: so, putting one on his shoulder, off he +marched in the cool of the evening through Glaun a Thowk (the Hawk’s +Glen) to Monkstown. Here an old gossip of his (Tom Clancey by name) +lived, who, on hearing Robin’s dream, promised him the use of his +skiff, and moreover offered to assist in rowing it to the Giant’s +Stairs. + +After a supper which was of the best, they embarked. It was a +beautiful still night, and the little boat glided swiftly along. The +regular dip of the oars, the distant song of the sailor, and sometimes +the voice of a belated traveller at the ferry of Carrigaloe, alone +broke the quietness of the land and sea and sky. The tide was in their +favour, and in a few minutes Robin and his gossip rested on their oars +in the dark shadow of the Giant’s Stairs. Robin looked anxiously for +the entrance to the Giant’s Palace, which, it was said, may be found +by any one seeking it at midnight; but no such entrance could he see. +His impatience had hurried him there before that time, and after +waiting a considerable space in a state of suspense not to be +described, Robin, with pure vexation, could not help exclaiming to his +companion, “’Tis a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancey, for coming here +at all on the strength of a dream.” + +“And whose doing is it,” said Tom, “but your own?” + +At the moment he spoke they perceived a faint glimmering light to +proceed from the cliff, which gradually increased until a porch big +enough for a king’s palace unfolded itself almost on a level with the +water. They pulled the skiff directly towards the opening, and Robin +Kelly, seizing his plough-iron, boldly entered with a strong hand and +a stout heart. Wild and strange was that entrance; the whole of which +appeared formed of grim and grotesque faces, blending so strangely +each with the other that it was impossible to define any: the chin of +one formed the nose of another: what appeared to be a fixed and stern +eye, if dwelt upon, changed to a gaping mouth; and the lines of the +lofty forehead grew into a majestic and flowing beard. The more Robin +allowed himself to contemplate the forms around him, the more terrific +they became; and the stony expression of this crowd of faces assumed a +savage ferocity as his imagination converted feature after feature +into a different shape and character. Losing the twilight in which +these indefinite forms were visible, he advanced through a dark and +devious passage, whilst a deep and rumbling noise sounded as if the +rock was about to close upon him and swallow him up alive for ever. +Now, indeed, poor Robin felt afraid. + +“Robin, Robin,” said he, “if you were a fool for coming here, what in +the name of fortune are you now?” But, as before, he had scarcely +spoken, when he saw a small light twinkling through the darkness of +the distance, like a star in the midnight sky. To retreat was out of +the question; for so many turnings and windings were in the passage, +that he considered he had but little chance of making his way back. He +therefore proceeded towards the bit of light, and came at last into a +spacious chamber, from the roof of which hung the solitary lamp that +had guided him. Emerging from such profound gloom, the single lamp +afforded Robin abundant light to discover several gigantic figures +seated round a massive stone table as if in serious deliberation, but +no word disturbed the breathless silence which prevailed. At the head +of this table sat Mahon Mac Mahon himself, whose majestic beard had +taken root, and in the course of ages grown into the stone slab. He +was the first who perceived Robin; and instantly starting up, drew his +long beard from out the huge lump of rock in such haste and with so +sudden a jerk, that it was shattered into a thousand pieces. + +“What seek you?” he demanded in a voice of thunder. + +“I come,” answered Robin, with as much boldness as he could put +on—for his heart was almost fainting within him—“I come,” said he, +“to claim Philip Ronayne, whose time of service is out this night.” + +“And who sent you here?” said the giant. + +“’Twas of my own accord I came,” said Robin. + +“Then you must single him out from among my pages,” said the giant; +“and if you fix on the wrong one your life is the forfeit. Follow me.” +He led Robin into a hall of vast extent and filled with lights; along +either side of which were rows of beautiful children all apparently +seven years old, and none beyond that age, dressed in green, and every +one exactly dressed alike. + +“Here,” said Mahon, “you are free to take Philip Ronayne, if you will; +but, remember, I give but one choice.” + +Robin was sadly perplexed; for there were hundreds upon hundreds of +children; and he had no very clear recollection of the boy he sought. +But he walked along the hall, by the side of Mahon, as if nothing was +the matter, although his great iron dress clanked fearfully at every +step, sounding louder than Robin’s own sledge battering on his anvil. + +They had nearly reached the end of the hall without speaking, when +Robin, seeing that the only means he had was to make friends with the +giant, determined to try what effect a few soft words might have upon +him. + +“’Tis a fine wholesome appearance the poor children carry,” remarked +Robin, “although they have been here so long shut out from the fresh +air and the blessed light of heaven. ’Tis tenderly your honour must +have reared them!” + +“Ay,” said the giant, “that is true for you; so give me your hand; for +you are, I believe, a very honest fellow for a blacksmith.” + +Robin at the first look did not much like the huge size of the hand, +and therefore presented his plough-iron, which the giant seizing, +twisted in his grasp round and round again as if it had been a +potato-stalk; on seeing this all the children set up a shout of +laughter. In the midst of their mirth Robin thought he heard his name +called; and, all ear and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he +fancied had spoken, crying out at the same time, “Let me live or die +for it, but this is young Phil Ronayne.” + +“It is Philip Ronayne—happy Philip Ronayne,” said his young +companions; and in an instant the hall became dark. Crashing noises +were heard, and all was in strange confusion: but Robin held fast his +prize, and found himself lying in the gray dawn of the morning at the +head of the Giant’s Stairs, with the boy clasped in his arms. + +Robin had plenty of gossips to spread the story of his wonderful +adventure—Passage, Monkstown, Ringaskiddy, Seamount, Carrigaline—the +whole barony of Kerricurrihy rung with it. + +“Are you quite sure, Robin, it is young Phil Ronayne, you have brought +back with you?” was the regular question; for although the boy had +been seven years away, his appearance now was just the same as on the +day he was missed. He had neither grown taller nor older in look, and +he spoke of things which had happened before he was carried off as one +awakened from sleep, or as if they had occurred yesterday. + +“Am I sure? Well, that’s a queer question,” was Robin’s reply; “seeing +the boy has the blue eyes of the mother, with the foxy hair of the +father, to say nothing of the _purly_ wart on the right side of his +little nose.” + +However Robin Kelly may have been questioned, the worthy couple of +Ronayne’s court doubted not that he was the deliverer of their child +from the power of the giant Mac Mahon; and the reward they bestowed +upon him equalled their gratitude. + +Philip Ronayne lived to be an old man; and he was remarkable to the +day of his death for his skill in working brass and iron, which it was +believed he had learned during his seven years’ apprenticeship to the +giant Mahon Mac Mahon. + + And now, farewell! the fairy dream is o’er; + The tales my infancy had loved to hear, + Like blissful visions fade and disappear. + Such tales Momonia’s peasant tells no more! + Vanish’d are MERMAIDS from the sea beat shore; + Check’d is the HEADLESS HORSEMAN’S strange career; + FIR DARRIG’S voice no longer mocks the ear, + Nor ROCKS bear wondrous imprints as of yore! + Such is “the march of mind.” But did the fays + (Creatures of whim—the gossamers of will) + In Ireland work such sorrow and such ill + As stormier spirits of our modern days? + Oh land beloved! no angry voice I raise: + My constant prayer—“may peace be with thee still!” + + + + +APPENDIX. + + +LETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO THE AUTHOR OF THE IRISH FAIRY LEGENDS. + +Sir, + +I have been obliged by the courtesy which sent me your very +interesting work on Irish superstitions, and no less by the amusement +which it has afforded me, both from the interest of the stories, and +the lively manner in which they are told. You are to consider this, +Sir, as a high compliment from one, who holds him on the subject of +elves, ghosts, visions, &c. nearly as strong as William Churne of +Staffordshire— + + “Who every year can mend your cheer + With tales both old and new.” + +The extreme similarity of your fictions to ours in Scotland, is very +striking. The Cluricaune (which is an admirable subject for a +pantomime) is not known here. I suppose the Scottish cheer was not +sufficient to tempt to the hearth either him, or that singular demon +called by Heywood the Buttery Spirit, which diminished the profits of +an unjust landlord by eating up all that he cribbed for his guests. + +The beautiful superstition of the banshee seems in a great measure +peculiar to Ireland, though in some Highland families there is such a +spectre, particularly in that of Mac Lean of Lochbuy; but I think I +could match all your other tales with something similar. + +I can assure you, however, that the progress of philosophy has not +even yet entirely “pulled the old woman out of our hearts,” as Addison +expresses it. Witches are still held in reasonable detestation, +although we no longer burn or even _score above the breath_. As for +the water bull, they live who will take their oaths to having seen him +emerge from a small lake on the boundary of my property here, scarce +large enough to have held him, I should think. Some traits in his +description seem to answer the hippopotamus, and these are always +mentioned both in highland and lowland story: strange if we could +conceive there existed, under a tradition so universal, some shadowy +reference to those fossil bones of animals which are so often found in +the lakes and bogs. + +But to leave antediluvian stories for the freshest news from fairy +land, I cannot resist the temptation to send you an account of King +Oberon’s court, which was verified before me as a magistrate, with all +the solemnities of a court of justice, within this fortnight past. A +young shepherd, a lad of about eighteen years of age, well brought up, +and of good capacity, and, that I may be perfectly accurate, in the +service of a friend, a most respectable farmer, at Oakwood, on the +estate of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden, made oath and said, that going +to look after some sheep which his master had directed to be put upon +turnips, and passing in the gray of the morning a small copse-wood +adjacent to the river Etterick, he was surprised at the sight of four +or five little personages, about two feet or thirty inches in height, +who were seated under the trees, apparently in deep conversation. At +this singular appearance he paused till he had refreshed his noble +courage with a prayer and a few recollections of last Sunday’s sermon, +and then advanced to the little party. But observing that, instead of +disappearing, they seemed to become yet more magnificently distinct +than before, and now doubting nothing, from their foreign dresses and +splendid decorations, that they were the choice ornaments of the fairy +court, he fairly turned tail and went “to raise the water,” as if the +South’ron had made a raid. Others came to the rescue, and yet the +fairy _cortege_ awaited their arrival in still and silent dignity. I +wish I could stop here, for the devil take all explanations, they stop +duels and destroy the credit of apparitions, neither allow ghosts to +be made in an honourable way, or to be believed in (poor souls!) when +they revisit the glimpses of the moon. + +I must however explain, like other honourable gentlemen, elsewhere. +You must know, that, like our neighbours, we have a school of arts for +our mechanics at G——, a small manufacturing town in this country, +and that the tree of knowledge there as elsewhere produces its usual +crop of good and evil. The day before this avatar of Oberon was a +fair day at Selkirk, and amongst other popular divertisements, was one +which, in former days, I would have called a puppet-show, and its +master a puppet-showman. He has put me right, however, by informing +me, that he writes himself _artist from Vauxhall_, and that he +exhibits _fantoccini_; call them what you will, it seems they gave +great delight to the unwashed artificers of G——. Formerly they would +have been contented to wonder and applaud, but not so were they +satisfied in our modern days of investigation, for they broke into +Punch’s sanctuary forcibly, after he had been laid aside for the +evening, made violent seizure of his person, and carried off him, his +spouse, and heaven knows what captives besides, in their plaid nooks, +to be examined at leisure. All this they literally did (forcing a +door to accomplish their purpose) in the spirit of science alone, or +but slightly stimulated by that of malt whisky, with which last we +have been of late deluged. Cool reflection came as they retreated by +the banks of the Etterick; they made the discovery that they could no +more make Punch move than Lord —— could make him speak; and +recollecting, I believe, that there was such a person as the Sheriff +in the world, they abandoned their prisoners, in hopes, as they +pretended, that they would be found and restored in safety to their +proper owner. + +It is only necessary to add that the artist had his losses made good +by a subscription, and the scientific inquirers escaped with a small +fine, as a warning not to indulge such an irregular spirit of research +in future. + +As this somewhat tedious story contains the very last news from fairy +land, I hope you will give it acceptance, and beg you to believe me +very much + + Your obliged and thankful servant, + WALTER SCOTT. + +27th April, 1825. + + ABBOTSFORD, MELROSE. + +THE END. + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAIRY LEGENDS OF SOUTH OF IRELAND *** + +***** This file should be named 39752-0.txt or 39752-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/9/7/5/39752/ + +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. + +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the +United States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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