{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_19486/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_19486","id":"gutenberg_19486","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19486","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Folk literature, Irish","Folklore -- Ireland","Legends -- Ireland","Mythology, Celtic -- Ireland","Tales -- Ireland"],"text":"[Illustration: \"GOD SAVE YER HOLINESS.\" Frontispiece.]\n\n                  \"GOD SAVE YER HOLINESS.\" Frontispiece.\n\n\n\n\n\nIrish Wonders\n\n\nby D. R. McAnally, Jr.\n\n\n\n\nEdition 1, (October 7, 2006)\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE GHOSTS, GIANTS, POOKAS, DEMONS, LEPRECHAWNS, BANSHEES, FAIRIES,\nWITCHES, WIDOWS, OLD MAIDS, AND OTHER MARVELS OF THE EMERALD ISLE\n\nPopular Tales as told by the People\n\nWEATHERVANE BOOKS - NEW YORK\n\n                              [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n\nCopyright \u00a9 MDCCCLXXXVIII\n\nLibrary of Congress Catalog Card Number: 77-72113\n\nAll rights reserved.\n\nThis edition is published by Weathervane Books\n\na division of Imprint Society, Inc., distributed by Crown Publishers, Inc.\n\na b c d e f g h\n\n\n\n\n\n                    IN MEMORY OF YEARS OF FRIENDSHIP,\n\n                               This Volume\n\n                             IS INSCRIBED TO\n\n                         MR. JOSEPH B. McCULLAGH,\n\n                          AS A MODEST TRIBUTE OF\n\n                            PERSONAL RESPECT.\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe wonderful imaginative power of the Celtic mind is never more\nstrikingly displayed than in the legends and fanciful tales which people\nof the humbler walks of life seldom tire of telling. Go where you will in\nIreland, the story-teller is there, and on slight provocation will repeat\nhis narrative; amplifying, explaining, embellishing, till from a single\nfact a connected history is evolved, giving motives, particulars, action,\nand result, the whole surrounded by a rosy wealth of rustic imagery and\ntold with dramatic force an actor might envy. The following chapters\ncomprise an effort to present this phase of unwritten Celtic literature,\nthe material having been collected during a recent lengthy visit, in the\ncourse of which every county in the island was traversed from end to end,\nand constant association had with the peasant tenantry. As, however, in\nperusing a drama each reader for himself supplies stage-action, so, in the\nfollowing pages, he is requested to imagine the charms of gesticulation\nand intonation, for no pen can do justice to a story told by Irish lips\namid Irish surroundings.\n\n\n\n\n\n                [Illustration: \"She 'll get all me Turf\"]\n\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\nPREFACE.\nTHE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY.\nTAMING THE POOKA.\nTHE SEXTON OF CASHEL.\nSATAN'S CLOVEN HOOF.\nTHE ENCHANTED ISLAND.\nHOW THE LAKES WERE MADE.\nABOUT THE FAIRIES.\nTHE BANSHEE.\nTHE ROUND TOWERS.\nTHE POLICE.\nTHE LEPRECHAWN.\nTHE HENPECKED GIANT.\nSATAN AS A SCULPTOR.\nTHE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS.\n\n\n\n\n\n                 [Illustration: \"Divil roast ye wid it\"]\n\n\n\n\n\n              [Illustration: \"Is it spilin' me wall he is?\"]\n\n\n\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n\n\"GOD SAVE YER HOLINESS.\" Frontispiece.\nVignette\n\"She 'll get all me Turf\"\n\"Divil roast ye wid it\"\n\"Is it spilin' me wall he is?\"\n\"Howld on, we 'll argy the matther\"\nInitial: \"The Seven Kinds of Athenry\"\nA Modern Irish Village\n\"All a-makin' love to the Young Princess\"\n\"DIVIL A WAN O' ME KNOWS,\" SAYS HE.\n\"The Princess had disayved thim all complately\"\n\"All disconsarted entirely\"\nInitial: \"Taming the Pooka\"\nDennis and the Pooka\n\"He'd a sight of larnin', had the King\"\n\"The Quane a-gosterin'\"\n\"IF IT'S AGGRAYBLE TO YE, I'LL LOOK IN YER MOUTH.\"\nThe Pooka Spirits\nInitial: \"The Sexton of Casbel\"\nTHE ROCK OF CASHEL.\n\"Be aff wid yer nonsinse\"\n\"Where is me dawther?\"\n\"The Owld Man walkin' in Cormae's Chapel\"\nInitial: \"Satan's Cloven Hoof\"\nGlendalough\nSaint Kevin and the Devil\n\"An' so he's lame, an' must show his cloven fut\"\nInitial: \"The Enchanted Island\"\n\"Howld yer pace, ye palaverin' shtrap\"\n\"Howlin' wid rage\"\nInitial: \"How the Lakes were made\"\nLough Conn\nThe Church by the Bog\nInitial: \"About the Fairies\"\n\"Owld Meg\"\nEva calling the Cattle\nInitial: \"The Banshee\"\nThe \"Hateful Banshee\"\nThe \"Friendly Banshee\"\nInitial: \"The Round Towers\"\n\"Crackin' their Haythen Shkulls\"\nInitial: \"The Police\"\nThe Police and the Tenants\n\"Thither goes the poor old women every day\"\nInitial: \"The Leprechawn\"\nReturning the next morning with the spade\n\"Playing his pranks\"\nInitial: \"The Henpecked Giant\"\n\"AN' WHO ARE YOU, ME DEAR?\" SAYS FINN, LOOKIN' UP.\nIllustration: Music: When I Was Single.\n\"Finn gave in an' wint to work wid a pick an' sphade\"\nInitial: \"Satan as a Sculptor\"\nA Barren Cliff\nTHE DEVIL'S FACE.\n\"Her masther stood be her side\"\n\"So the three av thim mounted the wan horse\"\n\"'Kape from me,' says the divil\"\nInitial: \"The Defeat of the Widows\"\nAN' PHAT DOES THIM LETTERS SHPELL?\nThe Widdy Mulligan\nThe Widdy O'Donnell\nMissis McMurthry\n\"OULD ROONEY AN' PADDY BLAGGARDIN' THE CONSTHABLE IVERY FUT O' THE WAY.\"\n\"A good bargain they made av it\"\n\n\n\n\n\n           [Illustration: \"Howld on, we 'll argy the matther\"]\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIRISH WONDERS\n\n\n\n\n\nIRISH WONDERS.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEVEN KINGS OF ATHENRY.\n\n\n        [Illustration: Initial: \"The Seven Kinds of Athenry\"]\n\nIt was a characteristic Irish ruin. Standing on a slight elevation, in the\nmidst of a flat country, the castle lifted its turreted walls as proudly\nas when its ramparts were fringed with banners and glittered with helmets\nand shields. In olden times it was the citadel of the town, and although\nAthenry was fortified by a strong wall, protecting it alike from predatory\nassault and organized attack, the citadel, occupying the highest ground\nwithin the city, was itself surrounded by stronger walls, a fort within a\nfort, making assurance of security doubly sure. Only by treachery,\nsurprise, or regular and long-continued siege could the castle have been\ntaken.\n\nThe central portion was a large, square structure; except in size, not\ndiffering greatly from the isolated castles found in all parts of Ireland,\nand always in pairs, as if, when one Irish chieftain built a castle, his\nrival at once erected another a mile or so away, for the purpose of\nholding him in check. This central fort was connected by double walls, the\nremains of covered passages, with smaller fortresses, little castles built\ninto the wall surrounding the citadel; and over these connecting walls,\nover the little castles, and over the piles of loose stones where once the\nstrong outer walls had stood, the ivy grew in luxuriant profusion,\nthrowing its dark green curtain on the unsightly masses, rounding the\nsharp edge of the masonry, hiding the rough corners as though ashamed of\ntheir roughness, and climbing the battlements of the central castle to\nspread nature's mantle of charity over the remains of a barbarous age, and\nforever conceal from human view the stony reminders of battle and blood.\n\nThe success of the ivy was not complete. Here and there the corner of a\nbattlement stood out in sharp relief, as though it had pushed back the\nstruggling plant, and, by main force, had risen above the leaves, while on\none side a round tower lifted itself as if to show that a stone tower\ncould stand for six hundred years without permitting itself to become\nivy-grown; that there could be individuality in towers as among men. The\ngreat arched gateway too was not entirely subjugated, though the climbing\ntendrils and velvety leaves dressed the pillars and encroached on the\narch. The keystone bore a rudely carved, crowned head, and ivy vines,\ncoming up underneath the arch, to take the old king by surprise, climbed\nthe bearded chin, crossed the lips, and were playing before the nose as if\nto give it a sportive tweak, while the stern brow frowned in anger at the\nplant's presumption.\n\nBut only a few surly crags of the citadel refused to go gracefully into\nthe retirement furnished by the ivy, and the loving plant softened every\noutline, filled up every crevice, bridged the gaps in the walls, toned\ndown the rudeness of projecting stones, and did everything that an\nivy-plant could do to make the rugged old castle as presentable as were\nthe high rounded mounds without the city, cast up by the besiegers when\nthe enemy last encamped against it.\n\n                  [Illustration: A Modern Irish Village]\n\nThe old castle had fallen on evil days, for around the walls of the\ncitadel clustered the miserable huts of the modern Irish village. The\nimposing castle gate faced a lane, muddy and foul with the refuse thrown\nfrom the houses. The ivy-mantled towers looked down upon earth and stone\nhuts, with thatched roofs, low chimneys, and doors seeming as if the\nbuilder designed them for windows and changed his mind without altering\ntheir size, but simply continued them to the ground and made them answer\nthe purpose. A population, notable chiefly for its numerousness and lack\nof cleanliness, presented itself at every door, but little merriment was\nheard in the alleys of Athenry.\n\n\"Sure it's mighty little they have to laugh at,\" said the car-man.\n\"Indade, the times has changed fur the counthry, Sorr. Wanst Ireland was\nas full o' payple as a Dublin sthrate, an' they was all as happy as a\ngrazin' colt, an' as paceful as a basket av puppies, barrin' a bit o' fun\nat a marryin' or a wake, but thim times is all gone. Wid the landlords,\nan' the guver'mint, an' the sojers, an' the polis, lettin' in the rich an'\nturnin' out the poor, Irishmin is shtarvin' to death. See that bit av a\ncabin there, Sorr? Sure there's foorteen o' thim in it, an' two pigs, an'\ntin fowls; they all shlape togather on a pile av wet shtraw in the corner,\nan' sorra a wan o' thim knows where the bit in the mornin' is to come\nfrom. Phat do they ate? They're not in the laste purtickler. Spakin'\nginerally, whatever they can get. They've pitaties an' milk, an' sometimes\npitaties an' no milk, an' av a Sunday a bit o' mate that's a herrin', an'\nnot a boot to the fut o' thim, an' they paddlin' in the wather on the\nflure. Sure the town's full o' thim an' the likes av thim. Begorra, the\ntimes has changed since the siven Kings held coort in the castle beyant\nyon.\n\n\"Niver heard o' the Siven Kings av Athenroy? Why ivery babby knows the\nwhole shtory be heart, an' all about thim. Faith I'll tell it, fur it's\nnot desayvin' ye I am, fur the ould castle was wan o' the greatest places\nin the counthry.\n\n\"Wanst upon a time, there was an ould King in Athenroy, that, be all\naccounts, was the besht ould King that iver set fut upon a throne. He was\na tall ould King, an' the hairs av him an' the beard av him was as white\nas a shnow-flake, an' he had a long, grane dressin' gown, wid shamrocks av\ngoold all over it, an' a goold crown as high as a gintleman's hat, wid a\ndimund as big as yer fisht on the front av it, an' silver shlippers on the\nfeet av him. An' he had grane c\u00e2rpets on the groun' in the hall o' the\nould castle, an' begob, they do say that everything about the coort was\ngoold, but av that I'm not rightly sartain, barrin' the pipe. That was av\ngoold, bekase there's a picture av him hangin' in Michael Flaherty's\nshebeen, an' the pipe is just the look av goold an' so it must have been.\n\n\"An' he was the besht King in Ireland, an' sorra a beggar 'ud come an the\ndure, but the King 'ud come out in his gown an' shlippers an' ax him how\nhe come to be poor, an' sind him 'round to the kitchen to be warrumed wid\na dhrop av whishkey an' fed wid all the cold pitaties that was in the\npanthry. All the people riz up whin he was a-walkin' down the shtrate wid\na big goold-top shtick in his hand, an' the crown a-shinin' on his head,\nan' they said, 'God save yer Holiness,' an' he said, 'God save ye kindly,'\nmighty perlite, bekase he was a dacent mannered ould King, an' 'ud shpake\nto a poor divil that hadn't a coat on his back as quick as to wan av his\nginerals wid a goold watch an' a shiny hat. An' whin he wint into a shop,\nsure they niver axed him to show the color av his money at all, but the\nman 'ud say, 'God save ye! Sure ye can pay whin ye plaze, an' I'll sind it\nbe the postman whin he goes by.' An' the ould King 'ud say, 'Oh, I wont\nthrouble ye. Bedad, I'll carry it,' an' aff the blessed ould King 'ud go,\nwid his bundles undher his arm, an' the crown on his head, as happy as a\nwiddy wid a new husband.\n\n\"An' there was six other ould Kings, that was frinds to him, an' they was\nall as like him as six paze. Foor times a year they'd all come to Athenroy\nfur a bit av a shpree like, bekase the King av Athenroy was the ouldest av\nthim, an' they thought the worruld an' all av him. Faix, it was mighty\nimprovin' to see thim all a-goin' to chapel in the mornin', an' singin'\nan' drinkin' an' playin' whisht in the avenin'. Sure thim was the blessed\ndays fur the counthry.\n\n\"Well me dear, in coorse av time, the six ould Kings all died, God rest\ntheir sowls, but as aitch wan had a son to come afther him, the differ was\nmighty shmall, for the young Kings was dacent shpoken lads an' kept on\ncomin' to Athenroy just like the ould Kings.\n\n\"Oh, bedad, I forgot to tell yez that the ould King had a dawther, that\nwas the light av his eyes. She was as tall as a sargent an' as shtrate as\na gun, an' her eyes was as blue as the shky an' shone like the shtars. An'\nher hairs was t'reads av goold, an' she was the beautifulest woman iver\nseen in Athenroy. An' shmall love there was for her, fur she was as cowld\nas a wet Christmas. She didn't shpake often, bekase she wasn't wan o' thim\nthat 'ud deefen a smith, but whin she did, the tongue that was in the head\nav her was like a sting-nettle, an' 'ud lash around like a throut on land.\nAn' ivery woman in the shtrate watched her like kites whin she set fut out\no' the dure, bekase she dressed as fine as a fiddle, wid a grane silk\ngown, an' a blue bonnet wid yellow ribbins, an' a shtring av goold baids\nthe size av plums 'round her neck.\n\n\"Musha, thin, it's a quare thing entirely, that min like wan woman betther\nthan another. Begob, it's my belafe, savin' yer prisence, that there's not\nthe differ av a cowld pitaty bechune thim all whin it's a queshtion av\nmarryin' wan o' thim, an' if the whole worruld knewn that same, its few\nhurted heads there'd be along o' the wimmin. Well, it was the divil's own\njob, axin' yer pardon, but ivery wan o' thim young Kings tuk into his head\nto fall in love wid the Princess Bridget, fur that was her name, an' a\ngood name it is; an' wan afther another, they'd shlip in whin they'd be\npassin', to pay their respicts. Whin wan o' thim found out that another\nwan was comin', he'd come the aftener himself to make up fur it, an'\nafther a while, they all found out aitch other, an' thin, begob all o'\nthim come to be beforehand wid the rest, an' from foor times in the year,\nit was foor times in the week that the gang o' them 'ud be settin' in the\nkitchen till the cock 'ud crow, all a-makin' love to the young Princess.\n\n        [Illustration: \"All a-makin' love to the Young Princess\"]\n\n\"An' a fine sight it was to see thim, bekase they was all shtrivin' to do\nsomethin' for her. Whin she paled the pitaties fur the ould King's\nbrekquest, sure wan o' thim 'ud be givin' her the pitaties, another wan\n'ud catch the palin' an' the rest lookin' on wid the invy shinin' out o'\ntheir faces. Whin she dropped the thimble, you'd think the last wan 'ud\njump out av his shkin to get it, an' whin she wint to milk the cow, wan\n'ud carry the pail, another wan 'ud fetch the shtool, an' two 'ud feed the\ncow, an' two other wans 'ud hold the calf, an' aitch wan 'ud bless God\nwhin she gev him the laste shmile, bekase she was so cowld, d' ye mind,\nthat divil a wan o' thim all cud say that he'd get her at all.\n\n\"So at firsht, ould King Dennis, that bein' his name, was mighty plazed to\nsee the young chaps all afther his dawther, an' whin he knewn they was in\nthe kitchen, he'd shmoke his pipe an' have his sup be himself in the other\nroom so as to lave thim; an' whin he saw thim hangin' over the wall o' the\ng\u00e2rden beyant, or peepin' through the hedge, he'd let on not to parsave\nthim; an' whin they folly'd the Princess to church, he was as proud as a\npaycock to see thim settin' behind her wid their crowns in a row undher\nthe sate. But whin they kept an a-comin' ivery night in the week an'\ndrinkin' his whishkey an' shmokin' his besht terbakky,--more-betoken, whin\nthey begun' to be oncivil to aitch other, says he to himself, says he,\n'Bedad,' says he, 'there'll be throuble if it kapes on thish-a-way. Sure\nI'll shpake to the gurrul.'\n\n\"So he called to the Princess, 'Biddy,' says he.\n\n\"'What, Father?' says she.\n\n\"'Come here to me,' says he.\n\n\"'Sure how can I? I'm busy,' says she.\n\n\"'Phat's that you're at?' says he.\n\n\"'I'm afther shwapin' the kitchen,' says she.\n\n\"'Lave aff,' says he. 'Come to me at wanst,' says he.\n\n\"The ould King was very starn, bekase he knewn it was only an axcuse she\nwas afther makin,' an' she was lookin' that he'd be sayin' somethin' about\nthe young Kings an' was afther dodgin' as long as she cud. So whin he\nshpoke so crass, she riz up aff the sate, for it was a fib she was\ntellin', an' she didn't shwape the kitchen at all, an' that was done be\nwan av the maids, an' gev a sigh, an' wint in the ould King's room.\n\n\"An' there was the ould King on his throne, his crown on his head,\nshmokin' his goolden dhudeen wid a glass o' grog at his side, as\ndetarmined as he cud be. 'I'm wantin' to know,' says he, 'phat you're\nafther goin' to do,' says he, 'in reg\u00e2rds av the young Kings,' says he.\n\n\"'Phat's that you're sayin', Father?' says she, mighty shly, as lettin' on\nnot to see phat he was drivin' at. The ould King repated his statemint.\n\n\"'Troth, then, I dunno, Father,' says she.\n\n\"'Do you mane to marry thim, at all, at all?' says he.\n\n\"'Not all o' thim,' says she, shmilin'.\n\n\"'Well, which wan o' thim?' says he.\n\n\"'How can I tell?' says she.\n\n\"'Has any o' thim axed ye?' says he.\n\n\"'Hasn't they all?' says she.\n\n\"'An' which wan do ye love besht?' says he.\n\n\"'Sure how do I know?' says she, an' sorra a word more cud he get from her\nbe all the queshtions he cud ax.\n\n\"But he tuk a dale av bother an' thin gev it up an' says to her, 'Go an'\nget the supper,' says he, 'come in the throne-room afther brekquest wid\nyer mind made.' But he was afeard she'd give him throuble fur it was the\ncool face she had, an' afther she was gone he set his crown over wan ear\nan' scrotched his head like a tinant on quarther day widout a pinny in his\npocket, bekase he knewn that whoever the gurrul tuk, the other five Kings\ncud make throuble.\n\n\"So the next mornin', the Princess towld him phat she'd do, an' whin the\nKings come that night, he walks into the kitchen where they were shmokin',\nan' makin' a low bow, he says, 'God save ye,' an' they all riz an' says,\n'God save yer Holiness.' So he says, 'Bridget, go to bed immejitly, I'll\nshpake to the jintlemin.' An' she wint away, lettin' an to shmile an'\nconsale her face, 't was the divil av a sharp gurrul she was, an' the ould\nKing set on the table an' towld thim phat she'd do. He towld thim they\nmust play fair, an' they said they would, an' thin he towld thim the\nPrincess wanted to see which was the besht man, so they must have shports\nin her prisence, an' the next day afther the shports they'd find out who\nshe was goin' to marry. So they all aggrade, an' wint home at wanst to get\nready fur the shports.\n\n\"Faith, it 'ud 'uv done the sowl av ye good the next day to see the whole\nav Ireland at the shports whin the contist bechune the Kings kem.\n\n\"'T was held in the field beyant, an' they made a ring an' the six young\nKings run races an' rassled an' played all the axcitin' games that was\niver knewn, aitch wid wan eye on the shports an' the other on the\nPrincess, that was shmilin' an thim all an' lookin' as plazed as a new\nMimber o' Parlaymint, an' so did they all, bekase, d' ye see, before the\nshports begun, they was brought, wan at a time, in the coort, an' the\nPrincess talked wid aitch be himself, wasn't it the shly purtinder that\nshe was, fur whin they kem out, every wan was shmilin' to himself, as fur\nto say he had a very agrayble saycret.\n\n\"So the shports was ended an' everybody wint home, barrin' thim as\nshtopped at the shebeens. But sorra a wink o' shlape crassed the eyes av\nwan o' the young Kings, fur the joy that was in the heart o' thim, bekase\naitch knewn he'd get the Princess.\n\n\"Whin the mornin' come, the like o' the flusthration that was in Athenroy\nwas niver seen afore, nor sense aither, fur [Illustration: \"DIVIL A WAN O'\n                           ME KNOWS,\" SAYS HE.]\n\n                   \"DIVIL A WAN O' ME KNOWS,\" SAYS HE.\n\n\nwhin the maid wint to call the Princess, sure she wasn't there. So they\nsarched the coort from the garret to the cellar an' peeped in the well an'\nfound she was nowhere entirely.\n\n\"So they towld the ould King, an' says he, 'Baithershin, where is she at\nall,' says he, 'an' phat'ull I be sayin' to the young Kings whin they\ncome.' An' there he was, a-tarin' the long white hair av him, whin the\nyoung Kings all come.\n\n\"'God save yer Holiness,' says they to him.\n\n\"'God save ye kindly,' says he, fur wid all the sorra that was in him,\nsure he didn't forgit to be perlite, bekase he was as cunnin' as a fox,\nan' knewn he'd nade all his good manners to make aminds fur his dawther's\nabsince. So, says he, 'God save ye kindly,' says he, bowin'.\n\n\"'An' where is the Princess?' says they.\n\n\"'Divil a wan o' me knows,' says he.\n\n\"'Sure it's jokin' wid us ye are,' says the Kings.\n\n\"'Faix, I'm not,' says the ould King. 'Bad cess to the thrace av her was\nseen sense she went to bed.'\n\n\"'Sure she didn't go to bed entirely,' says the maid, 'the bed wasn't\ntouched, an' her besht gown's gone.'\n\n\"'An' where has she gone?' says the Kings.\n\n\"'Tare an' 'ounds,' says the ould King, 'am n't I ignerant entirely? Och,\nBiddy, Biddy, how cud ye sarve me so?' a-wringing his hands wid the graif.\n\n\"Well, at firsht the Kings looked at aitch other as if the eyes 'ud lave\nthim, bein' all dazed like an' sarcumvinted intirely. An' thin they got\ntheir wits about thim, an' begun to be angry.\n\n\"'It's desayvin' us ye are, ye outprobious ould villin,' says they to him.\n'Musha, thin, bad cess to ye, bring out the Princess an' let her make her\nchice bechune us, or it'll be the worse fur ye, ye palaverin' ould daddy\nlong-legs,' says they.\n\n\"'God bechune us an' harm,' says the ould King, 'sure d' ye think it's\nmakin' fun av ye I am, an' me spindin' more than tin pounds yestherday fur\nwhishkey an the shports? Faix, she's gone,' says he.\n\n\"'Where to?' says they.\n\n\"'Divil a know I know,' says he, wid the face av him gettin' red, an' wid\nthat word they all wint away in a tarin' rage wid him, fur they consaved,\nan' shmall blame to thim, that he had her consaled in the coort an' was\nshtrivin' to chate thim.\n\n\"An' they wint home an' got their armies, an' come back wid 'em that\nnight, an' while the ould King an' his min were all ashlape they made\nthese piles av airth to take the city whin the day 'ud break.\n\n\"Whin the ould King riz an' tuk a walk an the roof wid his shlippers, sure\nphat 'ud he see but banners a-wavin', soords a-flashin', an' the ears av\nhim was deefened wid the thrumpets. 'Bad scran to the idjits,' says he;\n'phat's that they're afther?' says he. 'Isn't there more nor wan woman in\nthe worruld, that they're makin' a bother afther Bridget?' So wid that he\nordhered his min to get ready wid their waypons, an' before the battle 'ud\nbegin, he wint out to thry an' make a thraty.\n\n\"While they were a-talkin', up comes wan av the King's tinants, wid a\ndonkey an' a load av sayweed fur the King's g\u00e2rden, that he'd been to\nGalway afther. 'God save ye,' says he, a-touchin' his cap; 'where is the\nsix Kings?'\n\n\"'An' phat d'ye want, ye blagg\u00e2rd?' says they, lookin' lofty.\n\n\"'I've a message fur yez,' says he, 'from the young Princess,' an' whin\nthey heard him shpake, they all stopped to listen.\n\n\"'She sent her respicts,' says he, 'an' bid me tell yez that she was\nafther kapin' her word an' lettin' yer Honors know who she was goin' to\nmarry. It's the King av Galway that's in it, if it's plazin' to ye, an'\nshe says she'll sind yez a bit av the cake. I met her lasht night in the\nroad ridin' wid him on a c\u00e2r an' had a bundle undher her arrum. Divil a\ntaste av a lie's in it entirely.'\n\n\"Bad cess to the gurrul, it was thrue fur him, fur she had run away. But,\nmy dear, it was as good as the theayter to see the six young Kings an' the\nould King, a-lookin' at aitch other as stupid as a jackass, all as wan as\nthe castle 'ad 'a' fallen on thim. But they was sinsible young fellys, an'\nseen the Princess had desaved thim all complately.\n\n     [Illustration: \"The Princess had disayved thim all complately\"]\n\n\"'Bad scran to the gurrul,' says they, 'an' it's the blessed fools we was\nfur belavin' her.' Thin they come to talk to aitch other, an' wan says,\n'Sure she thought most av me, fur she towld me she hoped I'd bate yez,'\nsays he. 'Begob, she said to me that same,' says the other wans, an' they\nstud, scrotchin' the heads av thim an' disconsarted intirely.\n\n\"'An' phat's the good av fightin,' says the ould King, 'bein' as we're all\nin the thrap at wanst?'\n\n\"'Thrue fur ye,' says they. 'We'll dispinse widout her. We'll have it out\nwid the King o' Galway,' says they.\n\n\"An' they all wint into the coort an' had the bit an' sup, an' made a\nthraty forninst the King av Galway. It was the great war that was in it,\nthe Siven Kings wid the King av Galway, an' bate him out o' the counthry\nintirely. But it's my consate that they was all fools to be afther\nfightin' consarnin' wan woman whin the worruld is full o' thim, an' any\nwan competint to give a man plenty to think av, bekase whin she gives her\nattinshun to it, any woman can be the divil complately.\"\n\n               [Illustration: \"All disconsarted entirely\"]\n\n\n\n\n\nTAMING THE POOKA.\n\n\n             [Illustration: Initial: \"Taming the Pooka\"]\n\nThe west and northwest coast of Ireland shows many remarkable geological\nformations, but, excepting the Giant's Causeway, no more striking\nspectacle is presented than that to the south of Galway Bay. From the sea,\nthe mountains rise in terraces like gigantic stairs, the layers of stone\nbeing apparently harder and denser on the upper surfaces than beneath, so\nthe lower portion of each layer, disintegrating first, is washed away by\nthe rains and a clearly defined step is formed. These terraces are\ngenerally about twenty feet high, and of a breadth, varying with the\nsituation and exposure, of from ten to fifty feet.\n\nThe highway from Ennis to Ballyvaughn, a fishing village opposite Galway,\nwinds, by a circuitous course, through these freaks of nature, and, on the\nlong descent from the high land to the sea level, passes the most\nconspicuous of the neighboring mountains, the Corkscrew Hill. The general\nshape of the mountain is conical, the terraces composing it are of\nwonderful regularity from the base to the peak, and the strata being\nsharply upturned from the horizontal, the impression given is that of a\nbroad road carved out of the sides of the mountain and winding by an easy\nascent to the summit.\n\n\"'Tis the Pooka's Path they call it,\" said the car-man. \"Phat's the Pooka?\nWell, that's not aisy to say. It's an avil sper't that does be always in\nmischief, but sure it niver does sarious harrum axceptin' to thim that\ndesarves it, or thim that shpakes av it disrespictful. I never seen it,\nGlory be to God, but there's thim that has, and be the same token, they do\nsay that it looks like the finest black horse that iver wore shoes. But it\nisn't a horse at all at all, for no horse 'ud have eyes av fire, or be\nbreathin' flames av blue wid a shmell o' sulfur, savin' yer presince, or a\nshnort like thunder, and no mortial horse 'ud take the lapes it does, or\ngo as fur widout gettin' tired. Sure when it give Tim O'Bryan the ride it\ngive him, it wint from Gort to Athlone wid wan jump, an' the next it tuk\nhe was in Mullingyar, and the next was in Dublin, and back agin be way av\nKilkenny an' Limerick, an' niver turned a hair. How far is that? Faith I\ndunno, but it's a power av distance, an' clane acrost Ireland an' back. He\nknew it was the Pooka bekase it shpake to him like a Christian mortial,\nonly it isn't agrayble in its language an' 'ull niver give ye a dacint\nword afther ye're on its back, an' sometimes not before aither.\n\n\"Sure Dennis O'Rourke was afther comin' home wan night, it was only a boy\nI was, but I mind him tellin' the shtory, an' it was at a fair in Galway\nhe'd been. He'd been havin' a sup, some says more, but whin he come to the\nrath, and jist beyant where the fairies dance and ferninst the wall where\nthe polisman was shot last winther, he fell in the ditch, quite spint and\ntired complately. It wasn't the length as much as the wideness av the road\nwas in it, fur he was goin' from wan side to the other an' it was too much\nfur him entirely. So he laid shtill fur a bit and thin thried fur to get\nup, but his legs wor light and his head was heavy, an' whin he attimpted\nto get his feet an the road 'twas his head that was an it, bekase his legs\ncudn't balance it. Well, he laid there and was bet entirely, an' while he\nwas studyin' how he'd raise, he heard the throttin' av a horse on the\nroad. ''Tis meself 'ull get the lift now,' says he, and laid waitin', and\nup comes the Pooka. Whin Dennis seen him, begob, he kivered his face wid\nhis hands and turned on the breast av him, and roared wid fright like a\nbull.\n\n                   [Illustration: Dennis and the Pooka]\n\n\"'Arrah thin, ye snakin' blagg\u00e2rd,' says the Pooka, mighty short, 'lave\naff yer bawlin' or I'll kick ye to the ind av next week,' says he to him.\n\n\"But Dennis was scairt, an' bellered louder than afore, so the Pooka, wid\nhis hoof, give him a crack on the back that knocked the wind out av him.\n\n\"'Will ye lave aff,' says the Pooka, 'or will I give ye another, ye\nroarin' dough-face?'\n\n\"Dennis left aff blubberin' so the Pooka got his timper back.\n\n\"'Shtand up, ye guzzlin' sarpint,' says the Pooka, 'I'll give ye a ride.'\n\n\"'Plaze yer Honor,' says Dennis, 'I can't. Sure I've not been afther\ndrinkin' at all, but shmokin' too much an' atin', an' it's sick I am, and\nnot ontoxicated.'\n\n\"'Och, ye dhrunken buzzard,' says the Pooka, 'Don't offer fur to desave\nme,' liftin' up his hoof agin, an' givin' his tail a swish that sounded\nlike the noise av a catheract, 'Didn't I thrack ye for two miles be yer\nbreath,' says he, 'An' you shmellin' like a potheen fact'ry,' says he,\n'An' the nose on yer face as red as a turkey-cock's. Get up, or I'll lift\nye,' says he, jumpin' up an' cracking his hind fut like he was doin' a\njig.\n\n\"Dennis did his best, an' the Pooka helped him wid a grip o' the teeth on\nhis collar.\n\n\"'Pick up yer caubeen,' says the Pooka, 'an' climb up. I'll give ye such a\nride as ye niver dhramed av.'\n\n\"'Ef it's plazin' to yer Honor,' says Dennis, 'I'd laver walk. Ridin'\nmakes me dizzy,' says he.\n\n\"''Tis not plazin',' says the Pooka, 'will ye get up or will I kick the\nshtuffin' out av yer cowardly carkidge,' says he, turnin' round an'\nflourishin' his heels in Dennis' face.\n\n\"Poor Dennis thried, but he cudn't, so the Pooka tuk him to the wall an'\ngive him a lift an it, an' whin Dennis was mounted, an' had a tight howld\non the mane, the first lep he give was down the rock there, a thousand\nfeet into the field ye see, thin up agin, an' over the mountain, an' into\nthe say, an' out agin, from the top av the waves to the top av the\nmountain, an' afther the poor soggarth av a ditcher was nigh onto dead,\nthe Pooka come back here wid him an' dhropped him in the ditch where he\nfound him, an' blowed in his face to put him to slape, so lavin' him. An'\nthey found Dennis in the mornin' an' carried him home, no more cud he walk\nfor a fortnight be razon av the wakeness av his bones fur the ride he'd\nhad.\n\n\"But sure, the Pooka's a different baste entirely to phat he was afore\nKing Bryan-Boru tamed him. Niver heard av him? Well, he was the king av\nMunster an' all Ireland an' tamed the Pooka wanst fur all on the\nCorkschrew Hill ferninst ye.\n\n\"Ye see, in the owld days, the counthry was full av avil sper'ts, an'\nfairies an' witches, an' divils entirely, and the harrum they done was\nonsaycin', for they wor always comin' an' goin', like Mulligan's blanket,\nan' widout so much as sayin', by yer lave. The fairies 'ud be dancin' on\nthe grass every night be the light av the moon, an' stalin' away the\nchildhre, an' many's the wan they tuk that niver come back. The owld rath\non the hill beyant was full av the dead, an' afther nightfall they'd come\nfrom their graves an' walk in a long line wan afther another to the owld\nchurch in the valley where they'd go in an' stay till cock-crow, thin\nthey'd come out agin an' back to the rath. Sorra a parish widout a witch,\nan' some nights they'd have a great enthertainmint on the Corkschrew Hill,\nan' you'd see thim, wid shnakes on their arrums an' necks an' ears, be way\nav jewels, an' the eyes av dead men in their hair, comin' for miles an'\nmiles, some ridin' through the air on shticks an' bats an' owls, an' some\nwalkin', an' more on Pookas an' horses wid wings that 'ud come up in line\nto the top av the hill, like the cabs at the dure o' the theayter, an'\nlave thim there an' hurry aff to bring more.\n\n\"Sometimes the Owld Inimy, Satan himself, 'ud be there at the\nenthertainmint, comin' an a monsthrous draggin, wid grane shcales an' eyes\nlike the lightnin' in the heavens, an' a roarin' fiery mouth like a\nlime-kiln. It was the great day thin, for they do say all the witches\nbrought their rayports at thim saysons fur to show him phat they done.\n\n\"Some 'ud tell how they shtopped the wather in a spring, an'\ninconvanienced the nabers, more 'ud show how they dhried the cow's milk,\nan' made her kick the pail, an' they'd all laugh like to shplit. Some had\nblighted the corn, more had brought the rains on the harvest. Some towld\nhow their enchantmints made the childhre fall ill, some said how they set\nthe thatch on fire, more towld how they shtole the eggs, or spiled the\ncrame in the churn, or bewitched the butther so it 'udn't come, or led the\nshape into the bog. But that wasn't all.\n\n\"Wan 'ud have the head av a man murthered be her manes, an' wid it the\nhand av him hung fur the murther; wan 'ud bring the knife she'd scuttled a\nboat wid an' pint in the say to where the corpses laid av the fishermen\nshe'd dhrownded; wan 'ud carry on her breast the child she'd shtolen an'\nmeant to bring up in avil, an' another wan 'ud show the little white body\nav a babby she'd smothered in its slape. And the corpse-candles 'ud tell\nhow they desaved the thraveller, bringin' him to the river, an' the avil\nsper'ts 'ud say how they dhrew him in an' down to the bottom in his sins\nan' thin to the pit wid him. An' owld Belzebub 'ud listen to all av thim,\nwid a rayporther, like thim that's afther takin' down the spaches at a\nLague meetin', be his side, a-writing phat they said, so as whin they come\nto be paid, it 'udn't be forgotten.\n\n\"Thim wor the times fur the Pookas too, fur they had power over thim that\nwint forth afther night, axceptin' it was on an arriant av marcy they\nwere. But sorra a sinner that hadn't been to his juty reglar 'ud iver see\nthe light av day agin afther meetin' a Pooka thin, for the baste 'ud\naither kick him to shmithereens where he stud, or lift him on his back wid\nhis teeth an' jump into the say wid him, thin dive, lavin' him to dhrownd,\nor shpring over a clift wid him an' tumble him to the bottom a bleedin'\ncorpse. But wasn't there the howls av joy whin a Pooka 'ud catch a sinner\nunbeknownst, an' fetch him on the Corkschrew wan o' the nights Satan was\nthere. Och, God defind us, phat a sight it was. They made a ring wid the\ncorpse-candles, while the witches tore him limb from limb, an' the fiends\ndrunk his blood in red-hot iron noggins wid shrieks o' laughter to smother\nhis schreams, an' the Pookas jumped on his body an' thrampled it into the\nground, an' the timpest 'ud whishle a chune, an' the mountains about 'ud\nkape time, an' the Pookas, an' witches, an' sper'ts av avil, an'\ncorpse-candles, an' bodies o' the dead, an' divils, 'ud all jig together\nround the rock where owld Belzebub 'ud set shmilin', as fur to say he'd ax\nno betther divarshun. God's presince be wid us, it makes me crape to think\nav it.\n\n\"Well, as I was afther sayin', in the time av King Bryan, the Pookas done\na dale o' harrum, but as thim that they murthered wor dhrunken bastes that\nwor in the shebeens in the day an' in the ditch be night, an' wasn't\nmissed whin the Pookas tuk them, the King paid no attintion, an' small\nblame to him that 's.\n\n\"But wan night, the queen's babby fell ill, an' the king says to his man,\nsays he, 'Here, Riley, get you up an' on the white mare an' go fur the\ndocther.'\n\n\"'Musha thin,' says Riley, an' the king's counthry house was in the break\no' the hills, so Riley 'ud pass the rath an' the Corkschrew on the way\nafther the docther; 'Musha thin,' says he, aisey and on the quiet, 'it's\nmesilf that doesn't want that same job.'\n\n\"So he says to the king, 'Won't it do in the mornin'?'\n\n\"'It will not,' says the king to him. 'Up, ye lazy beggar, atin' me bread,\nan' the life lavin' me child.'\n\n\"So he wint, wid great shlowness, tuk the white mare, an' aff, an' that\nwas the last seen o' him or the mare aither, fur the Pooka tuk 'em. Sorra\na taste av a lie's in it, for thim that said they seen him in Cork two\ndays afther, thrading aff the white mare, was desaved be the sper'ts, that\nmade it seem to be him whin it wasn't that they've a thrick o' doin'.\n\n\"Well, the babby got well agin, bekase the docther didn't get there, so\nthe king left botherin' afther it and begun to wondher about Riley an' the\nwhite mare, and sarched fur thim but didn't find thim. An' thin he knewn\nthat they was gone entirely, bekase, ye see, the Pooka didn't lave as much\nas a hair o' the mare's tail.\n\n\"'Wurra thin,' says he, 'is it horses that the Pooka 'ull be stalin'? Bad\ncess to its impidince! This 'ull niver do. Sure we'll be ruinated\nentirely,' says he.\n\n\"Mind ye now, it's my consate from phat he said, that the king wasn't\nconsarned much about Riley, fur he knewn that he cud get more Irishmen\nwhin he wanted thim, but phat he meant to say was that if the Pooka tuk to\nhorse-stalin', he'd be ruinated entirely, so he would, for where 'ud he\nget another white mare? So it was a mighty sarious question an' he retired\nwidin himself in the coort wid a big book that he had that towld saycrets.\nHe'd a sight av larnin', had the king, aquel to a school-masther, an' a\nhead that 'ud sarcumvint a fox.\n\n\"So he read an' read as fast as he cud, an' afther readin' widout\nshtoppin', barrin' fur the bit an' sup, fur siven days an' nights, he come\nout, an' whin they axed him cud he bate the Pooka now, he said niver a\nword, axceptin' a wink wid his eye, as fur to say he had him.\n\n         [Illustration: \"He'd a sight of larnin', had the King\"]\n\n\"So that day he was in the fields an' along be the hedges an' ditches from\nsunrise to sunset, collectin' the matarials av a dose fur the Pooka, but\nphat he got, faith, I dunno, no more does any wan, fur he never said, but\nkep the saycret to himself an' didn't say it aven to the quane, fur he\nknewn that saycrets run through a woman like wather in a ditch. But there\nwas wan thing about it that he cudn't help tellin', fur he wanted it but\ncudn't get it widout help, an' that was three hairs from the Pooka's tail,\naxceptin' which the charm 'udn't work. So he towld a man he had, he'd give\nhim no end av goold if he'd get thim fur him, but the felly pulled aff his\ncaubeen an' scrotched his head an' says, 'Faix, yer Honor, I dunno phat'll\nbe the good to me av the goold if the Pooka gets a crack at me carkidge\nwid his hind heels,' an' he wudn't undhertake the job on no wages, so the\nking begun to be afeared that his loaf was dough.\n\n\"But it happen'd av the Friday, this bein' av a Chewsday, that the Pooka\ncaught a sailor that hadn't been on land only long enough to get bilin'\ndhrunk, an' got him on his back, so jumped over the clift wid him lavin'\nhim dead enough, I go bail. Whin they come to sarch the sailor to see phat\nhe had in his pockets, they found three long hairs round the third button\nav his top-coat. So they tuk thim to the king tellin' him where they got\nthim, an' he was greatly rejiced, bekase now he belaved he had the Pooka\nsure enough, so he ended his inchantmint.\n\n\"But as the avenin' come, he riz a doubt in the mind av him thish-a-way.\nEv the three hairs wor out av the Pooka's tail, the charm 'ud be good\nenough, but if they wasn't, an' was from his mane inshtead, or from a\nhorse inshtead av a Pooka, the charm 'udn't work an' the Pooka 'ud get\natop av him wid all the feet he had at wanst an' be the death av him\nimmejitly. So this nate and outprobrious argymint shtruck the king wid\ngreat force an' fur a bit, he was onaisey. But wid a little sarcumvintion,\nhe got round it, for he confist an' had absolution so as he'd be ready,\nthin he towld wan av the sarvints to come in an' tell him afther supper,\nthat there was a poor widdy in the boreen beyant the Corkschrew that\nwanted help that night, that it 'ud be an arriant av marcy he'd be on, an'\nso safe agin the Pooka if the charm didn't howld.\n\n\"'Sure, phat'll be the good o' that?' says the man, 'It 'ull be a lie, an'\nwon't work.'\n\n\"'Do you be aisey in yer mind,' says the king to him agin, 'do as yer\ntowld an' don't argy, for that's a pint av mettyfisics,' says he, faix it\nwas a dale av deep larnin' he had, 'that's a pint av mettyfisics an' the\nmore ye argy on thim subjics, the less ye know,' says he, an' it's thrue\nfur him. 'Besides, aven if it's a lie, it'll desave the Pooka, that's no\nmettyfishian, an' it's my belafe that the end is good enough for the\nmanes,' says he, a-thinking av the white mare.\n\n\"So, afther supper, as the king was settin' afore the fire, an' had the\ncharm in his pocket, the sarvint come in and towld him about the widdy.\n\n\"'Begob,' says the king, like he was surprised, so as to desave the Pooka\ncomplately, 'Ev that's thrue, I must go relave her at wanst.' So he riz\nan' put on sojer boots, wid shpurs on 'em a fut acrost, an' tuk a long\nwhip in his hand, for fear, he said, the widdy 'ud have dogs, thin wint to\nhis chist an' tuk his owld stockin' an' got a suv'rin out av it,--Och,\n'twas the shly wan he was, to do everything so well,--an' wint out wid his\nright fut first, an' the shpurs a-rattlin' as he walked.\n\n\"He come acrost the yard, an' up the hill beyant yon an' round the corner,\nbut seen nothin' at all. Thin up the fut path round the Corkscrew an' met\nniver a sowl but a dog that he cast a shtone at. But he didn't go out av\nthe road to the widdy's, for he was afeared that if he met the Pooka an'\nhe caught him in a lie, not bein' in the road to where he said he was\ngoin', it 'ud be all over wid him. So he walked up an' down bechuxt the\nowld church below there an' the rath on the hill, an' jist as the clock\nwas shtrikin' fur twelve, he heard a horse in front av him, as he was\nwalkin' down, so he turned an' wint the other way, gettin' his charm\nready, an' the Pooka come up afther him.\n\n\"'The top o' the mornin' to yer Honor,' says the Pooka, as perlite as a\nFrinchman, for he seen be his close that the king wasn't a common blagg\u00e2rd\nlike us, but was wan o' the rale quolity.\n\n\"'Me sarvice to ye,' says the king to him agin, as bowld as a ram, an'\nwhin the Pooka heard him shpake, he got perliter than iver, an' made a low\nbow an' shcrape wid his fut, thin they wint on together an' fell into\ndiscoorse.\n\n\"''Tis a black night for thravelin',' says the Pooka.\n\n\"'Indade it is,' says the king, 'it's not me that 'ud be out in it, if it\nwasn't a case o' needcessity. I'm on an arriant av charity,' says he.\n\n\"'That's rale good o' ye,' says the Pooka to him, 'and if I may make bowld\nto ax, phat's the needcessity?'\n\n\"''Tis to relave a widdy-woman,' says the king.\n\n\"'Oho,' says the Pooka, a-throwin' back his head laughin' wid great\nplazin'ness an' nudgin' the king wid his leg on the arrum, beways that it\nwas a joke it was bekase the king said it was to relave a widdy he was\ngoin'. 'Oho,' says the Pooka, ''tis mesilf that's glad to be in the\ncomp'ny av an iligint jintleman that's on so plazin' an arriant av marcy,'\nsays he. 'An' how owld is the widdy-woman?' says he, bustin' wid the\nhorrid laugh he had.\n\n                 [Illustration: \"The Quane a-gosterin'\"]\n\n\"'Musha thin,' says the king, gettin' red in the face an' not likin' the\njoke the laste bit, for jist betune us, they do say that afore he married\nthe quane, he was the laddy-buck wid the wimmin, an' the quane's maid\ntowld the cook, that towld the footman, that said to the g\u00e2rdener, that\ntowld the nabers that many's the night the poor king was as wide awake as\na hare from sun to sun wid the quane a-gostherin' at him about that same.\nMore betoken, there was a widdy in it, that was as sharp as a rat-thrap\nan' surrounded him whin he was young an' hadn't as much sinse as a goose,\nan' was like to marry him at wanst in shpite av all his relations, as\nwiddys undhershtand how to do. So it's my consate that it wasn't dacint\nfor the Pooka to be afther laughin' that-a-way, an' shows that avil\nsper'ts is dirthy blagg\u00e2rds that can't talk wid jintlemin. 'Musha,' thin,\nsays the king, bekase the Pooka's laughin' wasn't agrayble to listen to,\n'I don't know that same, fur I niver seen her, but, be jagers, I belave\nshe's a hundherd, an' as ugly as Belzebub, an' whin her owld man was\nalive, they tell me she had a timper like a gandher, an' was as aisey to\nmanage as an armful o' cats,' says he. 'But she's in want, an' I'm afther\nbringin' her a suv'rin,' says he.\n\n\"Well, the Pooka sayced his laughin', fur he seen the king was very vexed,\nan' says to him, 'And if it's plazin', where does she live?'\n\n\"'At the ind o' the boreen beyant the Corkschrew,' says the king, very\nshort.\n\n\"'Begob, that's a good bit,' says the Pooka.\n\n\"'Faix, it's thrue for ye,' says the king, 'more betoken, it's up hill\nivery fut o' the way, an' me back is bruk entirely wid the stapeness,'\nsays he, be way av a hint he'd like a ride.\n\n\"'Will yer Honor get upon me back,' says the Pooka. 'Sure I'm afther goin'\nthat-a-way, an' you don't mind gettin' a lift?' says he, a-fallin' like\nthe stupid baste he was, into the thrap the king had made fur him.\n\n\"'Thanks,' says the king, 'I b'lave not. I've no bridle nor saddle,' says\nhe, 'besides, it's the shpring o' the year, an' I'm afeared ye're\nsheddin', an' yer hair 'ull come aff an' spile me new britches,' says he,\nlettin' on to make axcuse.\n\n\"'Have no fear,' says the Pooka. 'Sure I niver drop me hair. It's no\nordhinary garron av a horse I am, but a most oncommon baste that's used to\nthe quolity,' says he.\n\n\"'Yer spache shows that,' says the king, the clever man that he was, to be\nperlite that-a-way to a Pooka, that's known to be a divil out-en-out, 'but\nye must exqueeze me this avenin', bekase, d'ye mind, the road's full o'\nshtones an' monsthrous stape, an' ye look so young, I'm afeared ye'll\nshtumble an' give me a fall,' says he.\n\n\"'Arrah thin,' says the Pooka, 'it's thrue fur yer Honor, I do look\nyoung,' an' he begun to prance on the road givin' himself airs like an\nowld widdy man afther wantin' a young woman, 'but me age is owlder than\nye'd suppoge. How owld 'ud ye say I was,' says he, shmilin'.\n\n    [Illustration: \"IF IT'S AGGRAYBLE TO YE, I'LL LOOK IN YER MOUTH.\"]\n\n            \"IF IT'S AGGRAYBLE TO YE, I'LL LOOK IN YER MOUTH.\"\n\n\n\"'Begorra, divil a bit know I,' says the king, 'but if it's agrayble to\nye, I'll look in yer mouth an' give ye an answer,' says he.\n\n\"So the Pooka come up to him fair an' soft an' stratched his mouth like as\nhe thought the king was wantin' fur to climb in, an' the king put his hand\non his jaw like as he was goin' to see the teeth he had: and thin, that\nminnit he shlipped the three hairs round the Pooka's jaw, an' whin he done\nthat, he dhrew thim tight, an' said the charm crossin' himself the while,\nan' immejitly the hairs wor cords av stale, an' held the Pooka tight, be\nway av a bridle.\n\n\"'Arra-a-a-h, now, ye bloody baste av a murtherin' divil ye,' says the\nking, pullin' out his big whip that he had consaled in his top-coat, an'\ngiving the Pooka a crack wid it undher his stummick, 'I'll give ye a ride\nye won't forgit in a hurry,' says he, 'ye black Turk av a four-legged\nnagur an' you shtaling me white mare,' says he, hittin' him agin.\n\n\"'Oh my,' says the Pooka, as he felt the grip av the iron on his jaw an'\nknewn he was undher an inchantmint, 'Oh my, phat's this at all,' rubbin'\nhis breast wid his hind heel, where the whip had hit him, an' thin jumpin'\nwid his fore feet out to cotch the air an' thryin' fur to break away.\n'Sure I'm ruined, I am, so I am,' says he.\n\n\"'It's thrue fur ye,' says the king, 'begob it's the wan thrue thing ye\niver said,' says he, a-jumpin' on his back, an' givin' him the whip an'\nthe two shpurs wid all his might.\n\n\"Now I forgot to tell ye that whin the king made his inchantmint, it was\ngood fur siven miles round, and the Pooka knewn that same as well as the\nking an' so he shtarted like a cunshtable was afther him, but the king was\nafeared to let him go far, thinkin' he'd do the siven miles in a jiffy,\nan' the inchantmint 'ud be broken like a rotten shtring, so he turned him\nup the Corkschrew.\n\n\"'I'll give ye all the axercise ye want,' says he, 'in thravellin' round\nthis hill,' an' round an' round they wint, the king shtickin' the big\nshpurs in him every jump an' crackin' him wid the whip till his sides run\nblood in shtrames like a mill race, an' his schreams av pain wor heard all\nover the worruld so that the king av France opened his windy and axed the\npolisman why he didn't shtop the fightin' in the shtrate. Round an' round\nan' about the Corkschrew wint the king, a-lashin' the Pooka, till his feet\nmade the path ye see on the hill bekase he wint so often.\n\n                   [Illustration: \"The Pooka Spirits\"]\n\n\"And whin mornin' come, the Pooka axed the king phat he'd let him go fur,\nan' the king was gettin' tired an' towld him that he must niver shtale\nanother horse, an' never kill another man, barrin' furrin blagg\u00e2rds that\nwasn't Irish, an' whin he give a man a ride, he must bring him back to the\nshpot where he got him an' lave him there. So the Pooka consinted, Glory\nbe to God, an' got aff, an' that's the way he was tamed, an' axplains how\nit was that Dennis O'Rourke was left be the Pooka in the ditch jist where\nhe found him.\"\n\n\"More betoken, the Pooka's an althered baste every way, fur now he dhrops\nhis hair like a common horse, and it's often found shtickin' to the hedges\nwhere he jumped over, an' they do say he doesn't shmell half as shtrong o'\nsulfur as he used, nor the fire out o' his nose isn't so bright. But all\nthe king did fur him 'ud n't taiche him to be civil in his spache, an'\nwhin he meets ye in the way, he spakes just as much like a blagg\u00e2rd as\never. An' it's out av divilmint entirely he does it, bekase he can be\nperlite as ye know be phat I towld ye av him sayin' to the king, an' that\nproves phat I said to ye that avil sper'ts can't larn rale good manners,\nno matther how hard they thry.\n\n\"But the fright he got never left him, an' so he kapes out av the highways\nan' thravels be the futpaths, an' so isn't often seen. An' it's my belafe\nthat he can do no harrum at all to thim that fears God, an' there's thim\nthat says he niver shows himself nor meddles wid man nor mortial barrin'\nthey're in dhrink, an' mebbe there's something in that too, fur it doesn't\ntake much dhrink to make a man see a good dale.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE SEXTON OF CASHEL.\n\n\n           [Illustration: Initial: \"The Sexton of Casbel\"]\n\nAll over Ireland, from Cork to Belfast, from Dublin to Galway, are\nscattered the ruins of churches, abbeys, and ecclesiastical buildings, the\nrelics of a country once rich, prosperous and populous. These ruins raise\ntheir castellated walls and towers, noble even in decay, sometimes in the\nmidst of a village, crowded with the miserably poor, sometimes on a\nmountain, in every direction commanding magnificent prospects; sometimes\non an island in one of the lakes, which, like emeralds in a setting of\ndeeper green, gem the surface of the rural landscape and contribute to\nincrease the beauty of scenery not surpassed in the world.\n\nAges ago the voice of prayer and the song of praise ceased to ascend from\nthese sacred edifices, and they are now visited only by strangers, guides,\nand parties of humble peasants, the foremost bearing on their shoulders\nthe remains of a companion to be laid within the hallowed enclosure, for\nalthough the church is in ruins, the ground in and about it is still holy\nand in service when pious hands lay away in the bosom of earth the bodies\nof those who have borne the last burden, shed the last tear, and succumbed\nto the last enemy. But among all the pitiable spectacles presented in this\n               unhappy [Illustration: THE ROCK OF CASHEL.]\n\n                           THE ROCK OF CASHEL.\n\n\ncountry, none is better calculated to inspire sad reflections than a rural\ngraveyard. The walls of the ruined church tower on high, with massive\ncornice and pointed window; within stand monuments and tombs of the Irish\ngreat; kings, princes, and archbishops lie together, while about the\nhallowed edifice are huddled the graves of the poor; here, sinking so as\nto be indistinguishable from the sod; there, rising in new-made\nproportions; yonder, marked with a wooden cross, or a round stick, the\nbranch of a tree rudely trimmed, but significant as the only token bitter\npoverty could furnish of undying love; while over all the graves, alike of\nthe high born and of the lowly, the weeds and nettles grow.\n\n\"Sure there's no saxton, Sorr,\" said car-man Jerry Magwire, in answer to a\nquestion, \"We dig the graves ourselves whin we put them away, an'\nsometimes there's a fight in the place whin two berryin's meet. Why is\nthat? Faith, it's not for us to be talkin' o' them deep subjects widout\nrespict, but it's the belafe that the last wan berrid must be carryin'\nwather all the time to the sowls in Purgathory till the next wan comes to\ntake the place av him. So, ye mind, when two berryin's happen to meet,\naitch party is shtrivin' to be done foorst, an' wan thries to make the\nother lave aff, an' thin they have it. Troth, Irishmen are too handy wid\ntheir fishts entirely, it's a weak pint wid 'em. But it's a sad sight, so\nit is, to see the graves wid the nettles on thim an' the walls all\ntumblin'. It isn't every owld church that has a caretaker like him of\nCashel. Bedad, he was betther nor a flock av goats to banish the weeds.\n\n\"Who was he? Faith, I niver saw him but the wan time, an' thin I had only\na shot at him as he was turnin' a corner, for it was as I was lavin'\nCormac's chapel the time I wint to Cashel on a pinance, bekase av a little\nthrouble on me mind along av a pig that wasn't mine, but got mixed wid\nmine whin I was afther killin' it. But, as I obsarved, it was only a shot\nat him I had, for it wasn't aften that he was seen in the daytime, but\ndone all his work in the night, an' it isn't me that 'ud be climbin' the\nRock av Cashel afther the sun 'ud go to slape. Not that there's avil\nsper'ts there, for none that's bad can set fut on that holy ground day or\nnight, but I'm not afther wantin' to meet a sper't av any kind, even if\nit's good, for how can ye tell about thim. Sure aven the blessed saints\nhave been desaved, an' it's not for a sinner like me to be settin' up for\nto know more than thimselves. But it was the long, bent body that he had,\nlike he'd a burdhen on his back, as they say, God be good to him, he had\non his sowl, an' a thin, white face wid the hair an' beard hangin' about\nit, an' the great, blue eyes lookin' out as if he was gazin' on the other\nworruld. No, I didn't run down the rock, but I didn't walk aither, but\njist bechuxt the two, wid a sharp eye round the corners that I passed. No\nmore do I belave there was harrum in him, but, God's prisence be about us,\nye can't tell.\n\n\"He was a man o' Clare be the name av Paddy O'Sullivan, an' lived on the\nhighway betune Crusheen an' Ennis, an' they do say that whin he was a lad,\nthere wasn't a finer to be seen in the County; a tall, shtrappin' young\nfelly wid an eye like a bay'net, an' a fisht like a shmith, an' the fut\nan' leg av him 'ud turn the hearts o' half the wimmin in the parish. An'\nthey was all afther him, like they always do be whin a man is good\nlookin', sure I've had a little o' that same exparience mesilf. Ye needn't\nshmile. I know me head has no more hair on it than an egg, an' I think me\nlast tooth 'ull come out tomorrer, bad cess to the day, but they do say\nthat forty years ago, I cud have me pick av the gurruls, an' mebbe they're\nmishtaken an' mebbe not. But I was sayin', the gurruls were afther Paddy\nlike rats afther chaze, an' sorra a wan o' thim but whin she spied him on\nthe road, 'ud shlip behind the hedge to shmooth her locks a bit an' set\nthe shawl shtraight on her head. An' whin there was a bit av a dance,\nniver a boy 'ud get a chance till Paddy made his chice to dance wid, an'\nsorra a good word the rest o' the gurruls 'ud give that same. Och, the\ntongues that wimmin have! Sure they're sharper nor a draggin's tooth.\nFaith, I know that well too, for I married two o' them an' larned a deal\ntoo afther doin' it, an' axin' yer pardon, it's my belafe that if min\nknewn as much before marryin' as afther, bedad, the owld maid population\n'ud be greatly incrased.\n\n\"Howandiver, afther a bit, Paddy left carin' for thim all, that, in my\nconsate, is a moighty safe way, and begun to look afther wan. Her name was\nNora O'Moore, an' she was as clever a gurrul as 'ud be found bechuxt\nLimerick an' Galway. She was kind o' resarved like, wid a face as pale as\na shroud, an' hair as black as a crow, an' eyes that looked at ye an'\nnever seen ye. No more did she talk much, an' whin Paddy 'ud be sayin' his\nfine spaches, she'd listen wid her eyes cast down, an' whin she'd had\nenough av his palaver, she'd jist look at him, an' somehow Paddy felt that\nhis p'liteness wasn't the thing to work wid. He cudn't undhershtand her,\nan' bedad, many's the man that's caught be not undhershtandin' thim.\nThere's rivers that's quiet on top bekase they're deep, an' more that's\nquiet bekase they're not deep enough to make a ripple, but phat's the\ndiffer if ye can't sound thim, an' whin a woman's quiet, begorra, it's not\naisy to say if she's deep or shallow. But Nora was a deep wan, an' as good\nas iver drew a breath. She thought a dale av Paddy, only she'd be torn\nlimb from limb afore she'd let him know it till he confist first. Well, my\ndear, Paddy wint on, at firsht it was only purtindin' he was, an' whin he\nfound she cudn't be tuk wid his chaff, he got in airnest, an' afore he\nknewn it, he was dead in love wid Nora, an' had as much show for gettin'\nout agin as a shape in a bog, an' sorra a bit did he know at all at all,\nwhether she cared a traneen for him. It's funny entirely that whin a man\nthinks a woman is afther him, he's aff like a hare, but if she doesn't\ncare a rap, begob, he'll give the nose aff his face to get her. So it was\nwid Paddy an' Nora, axceptin' that Paddy didn't know that Nora wanted him\nas much as he wanted her.\n\n\"So, wan night, whin he was bringin' her from a dance that they'd been at,\nhe said to her that he loved her betther than life an' towld her would she\nmarry him, an' she axed was it jokin' or in airnest he was, an' he said\ncud she doubt it whin he loved her wid all the veins av his heart, an' she\ntrimbled, turnin' paler than iver, an' thin blushin' rosy red for joy an'\ntowld him yes, an' he kissed her, an' they both thought the throuble was\nall over foriver. It's a way thim lovers has, an' they must be axcused,\nbekase it's the same wid thim all.\n\n\"But it wasn't at all, fur Nora had an owld squireen av a father, that was\nas full av maneness as eggs is av mate. Sure he was the divil entirely at\nhome, an' niver left off wid the crassness that was in him. The timper av\nhim was spiled be rason o' losing his bit o' money wid c\u00e2rds an' racin',\nan' like some min, he tuk it out wid his wife an' dawther. There was only\nthe three o' thim in it, an' they do say that whin he was crazy wid\ndhrink, he'd bate thim right an' lift, an' turn thim out o' the cabin into\nthe night, niver heeding, the baste, phat 'ud come to thim. But they niver\nsaid a word thimselves, an' the nabers only larned av it be seein' thim.\n\n\"Well. Whin O'Moore was towld that Paddy was kapin' comp'ny wid Nora, an'\nthe latther an' her mother towld him she wanted fur to marry Paddy, the\nowld felly got tarin' mad, fur he was as proud as a paycock, an' though\nhe'd nothin' himself, he riz agin the match, an' all the poor mother an'\nNora cud say 'udn't sthir him.\n\n              [Illustration: \"Be aff wid yer nonsinse\"]\n\n\"'Sure I've nothin' agin him,' he'd say, 'barrin' he's as poor as a\nfiddler, an' I want Nora to make a good match.'\n\n\"Now the owld felly had a match in his mind fur Nora, a lad from\nTipperary, whose father was a farmer there, an' had a shmart bit av land\nwid no end av shape grazin' on it, an' the Tipperary boy wasn't bad at\nall, only as shtupid as a donkey, an' whin he'd come to see Nora, bad cess\nto the word he'd to say, only look at her a bit an' thin fall aslape an'\nknock his head agin the wall. But he wanted her, an' his father an'\nO'Moore put their heads together over a glass an' aggrade that the young\nwans 'ud be married.\n\n\"'Sure I don't love him a bit, father,' Nora 'ud say.\n\n\"'Be aff wid yer nonsinse,' he'd say to her. 'Phat does it matther about\nlove, whin he's got more nor a hunderd shape. Sure I wudn't give the wool\nav thim fur all the love in Clare,' says he, an' wid that the argymint 'ud\nend.\n\n\"So Nora towld Paddy an' Paddy said he'd not give her up for all the men\nin Tipperary or all the shape in Ireland, an' it was aggrade that in wan\nway or another, they'd be married in spite av owld O'Moore, though Nora\nhated to do it, bekase, as I was afther tellin' ye, she was a good gurrul,\nan' wint to mass an' to her duty reg'lar. But like the angel that she was,\nshe towld her mother an' the owld lady was agrayble, an' so Nora\nconsinted.\n\n\"But O'Moore was shrewder than a fox whin he was sober, an' that was whin\nhe'd no money to shpend in dhrink, an' this bein' wan o' thim times, he\nwatched Nora an' begun to suspicion somethin'. So he made belave that\neverything was right an' the next time that Murphy, that bein' the name o'\nthe Tipperary farmer, came, the two owld fellys settled it that O'Moore\nan' Nora 'ud come to Tipperary av the Winsday afther, that bein' the day\no' the fair in Ennis that they knew Paddy 'ud be at, an' whin they got to\nTipperary, they'd marry Nora an' young Murphy at wanst. So owld Murphy was\nto sind the c\u00e2r afther thim an' everything was made sure. So, av the\nWinsday, towards noon, says owld O'Moore to Nora,--\n\n\"'Be in a hurry now, me child, an' make yersel' as fine as ye can, an'\nMurphy's c\u00e2r 'ull be here to take us to the fair.'\n\n\"Nora didn't want to go, for Paddy was comin' out in the afthernoon,\nmisthrustin' that owld O'Moore 'ud be at the fair. But O'Moore only towld\nher to make haste wid hersilf or they'd be late, an' she did. So the c\u00e2r\ncame, wid a boy dhriving, an' owld O'Moore axed the boy if he wanted to go\nto the fair, so that Nora cudn't hear him, an' the boy said yes, an'\nO'Moore towld him to go an' he'd dhrive an' bring him back tomorrer. So\nthe boy wint away, an' O'Moore an' Nora got up an' shtarted. Whin they\ncame to the crass-road, O'Moore tuk the road to Tipperary.\n\n\"'Sure father, ye're wrong,' says Nora, 'that's not the way.'\n\n\"'No more is it,' said the owld desayver, 'but I'm afther wantin' to see a\nfrind o' mine over here a bit an' we'll come round to the Ennis road on\nthe other side,' says he.\n\n\"So Nora thought no more av it, but whin they wint on an' on, widout\nshtoppin' at all, she begun to be disquisitive agin.\n\n\"'Father, is it to Ennis or not ye're takin' me,' says she.\n\n\"Now, be this time, they'd got on a good bit, an' the owld villin seen it\nwas no use thryin' to desave her any longer.\n\n\"'I'm not,' says he, 'but it's to Tipperary ye're goin', where ye're to be\nmarried to Misther Murphy this blessed day, so ye are, an' make no\nthrouble about it aither, or it'll be the worse for ye,' says he, lookin'\nmoighty black.\n\n\"Well, at first Nora thought her heart 'ud shtand still. 'Sure, Father\ndear, ye don't mane it, ye cudn't be so cruel. It's like a blighted tree\nI'd be, wid that man,' an' she thried to jump aff the c\u00e2r, but her father\nheld her wid a grip av stale.\n\n\"'Kape still,' says he wid his teeth closed like a vise. 'If ye crass me,\nI'm like to murdher ye. It's me only escape from prison, for I'm in debt\nan' Murphy 'ull help me,' says he. 'Sure,' says he, saftenin' a bit as he\nseen the white face an' great pleadin' eyes, 'Sure ye'll be happy enough\nwid Murphy. He loves ye, an' ye can love him, an' besides, think o' the\nshape.'\n\n\"But Nora sat there, a poor dumb thing, wid her eyes lookin' deeper than\niver wid the misery that was in thim. An' from that minit, she didn't\nspake a word, but all her sowl was detarmined that she'd die afore she'd\nmarry Murphy, but how she'd get out av it she didn't know at all, but\nwatched her chance to run.\n\n\"Now it happened that owld O'Moore, bein' disturbed in his mind, mistuk\nthe way, an' whin he come to the crass-roads, wan to Tipperary an' wan to\nCashel, he tuk the wan for the other, an' whin the horse thried to go home\nto Tipperary, he wudn't let him, but pulled him into the Cashel road.\nFaix, he might have knewn that if he'd let the baste alone, he'd take him\nright, fur horses knows a dale more than ye'd think. That horse o' mine is\nonly a common garron av a baste, but he tuk me from Ballyvaughn to Lisdoon\nVarna wan night whin it was so dark that ye cudn't find yer nose, an' wint\nbe the rath in a gallop, like he'd seen the good people. But niver mind,\nI'll tell ye the shtory some time, only I was thinkin' O'Moore might have\nknewn betther.\n\n\"But they tuk the Cashel road an' wint on as fast as they cud, for it was\nafthernoon an' gettin' late. An' O'Moore kept lookin' about an' wonderin'\nthat he didn't know the counthry, though he'd niver been to Tipperary but\nwanst, an' afther a while, he gev up that he was lost entirely. No more\nwud he ax the people on the road, but gev thim 'God save ye' very short,\nfor he was afeared Nora might make throuble. An' by an' by, it come on to\nrain, an' whin they turned the corner av a hill, he seen the Rock o'\nCashel wid the churches on it, an' thin he stopped.\n\n\"'Phat's this at all,' says he. 'Faix, if that isn't Cashel I'll ate it,\nan' we've come out o' the way altogether.'\n\n\"Nora answered him niver a word, an' he shtarted to turn round, but whin\nhe looked at the horse, the poor baste was knocked up entirely.\n\n\"'We'll go on to Cashel,' says he, 'an' find a shebeen, an' go back in the\nmornin'. It's hard luck we're afther havin',' says he.\n\n                  [Illustration: \"Where is me dawther?\"]\n\n\"So they wint on, an' jist afore they got to the Rock, they seen a nate\nlodgin' house be the road an' wint in. He left Nora to sit be the fire,\nwhile he wint to feed the horse, an' whin he come back in a minit, he\nlooked for her, but faith, she'd given him the shlip an' was gone\ncomplately.\n\n\"'Where is me dawther?' says he.\n\n\"'Faith, I dunno,' says the maid. 'She walked out av the dure on the\nminit,' says she.\n\n\"Owld O'Moore run, an' Satan an' none but himself turned him in the way\nshe was afther takin.' God be good to thim, no wan iver knewn phat tuk\nplace, but whin they wint wid a lanthern to sarch fur thim whin they\ndidn't raturn, they found the marks o' their feet on the road to the\nstrame. Half way down the path they picked up Nora's shawl that was torn\nan' flung on the ground an' fut marks in plenty they found, as if he had\ncaught her an' thried to howld her an' cudn't, an' on the marks wint to\nthe high bank av the strame, that was a torrent be razon av the rain. An'\nthere they ended wid a big slice o' the bank fallen in, an' the sarchers\ncrassed thimselves wid fright an' wint back an' prayed for the repose av\ntheir sowls.\n\n\"The next day they found thim, a good Irish mile down the strame, owld\nO'Moore wid wan hand howlding her gown an' the other wan grippin' her\ncollar an' the clothes half torn aff her poor cowld corpse, her hands\nstratched out afore her, wid the desperation in her heart to get away, an'\nher white face wid the great eyes an' the light gone out av thim, the poor\ncraythur, God give her rest, an' so to us all.\n\n\"They laid thim dacintly, wid candles an' all, an' the wake that they had\nwas shuparb, fur the shtory was towld in all the counthry, wid the vartues\nav Nora; an' the O'Brian's come from Ennis, an' the O'Moore's from\nCrusheen, an' the Murphy's an' their frinds from Tipperary, an' more from\nClonmel. There was a power av atin' an' slathers av dhrink fur thim that\nwanted it, fur, d'ye mind, thim of Cashel thried fur to show the rale\nIrish hoshpitality, bekase O'Moore an' Nora were sint there to die an'\nthey thought it was their juty to thrate thim well. An' all the County\nClare an' Tipperary was at the berryin', an' they had three keeners, the\nbest that iver was, wan from Ennis, wan from Tipperary, an' wan from\nLimerick, so that the praises av Nora wint on day an' night till the\nberryin' was done. An' they made Nora's grave in Cormac's Chapel just in\nfront o' the Archbishop's tomb in the wall an' berried her first, an' tuk\nO'Moore as far from her as they cud get him, an' put his grave as clost be\nthe wall as they cud go fur the shtones an' jist ferninst the big gate on\nthe left hand side, an' berried him last, an' sorra the good word they had\nfur him aither.\n\n\"Poor Paddy wint nayther to the wake nor to the berryin', fur afther they\ntowld him the news, he sat as wan in a dhrame, no more cud they rouse him.\nHe'd go to his work very quite, an' niver shpake a word. An' so it was,\nabout a fortnight afther, he says to his mother, says he, 'Mother I seen\nNora last night an' she stood be me side an' laid her hand on me brow, an'\nsays \"Come to Cashel, Paddy dear, an' be wid me.\"' An' his mother was\nfrighted entirely, for she parsaved he was wrong in his head. She thried\nto aise his mind, but the next night he disappared. They folly'd him to\nCashel, but he dodged an' kept from thim complately whin they come an' so\nthey left him. In the day he'd hide an' slape, an' afther night, Nora's\nsper't 'ud mate him an' walk wid him up an' down the shtones av the Chapel\nan' undher the arches av the Cathaydral, an' he cared fur her grave, an'\nbekase she was berried there, fur the graves av all thim that shlept on\nthe Rock. No more had he any frinds, but thim o' Cashel 'ud lave pitaties\nan' bread where he'd see it an' so he lived. Fur sixty wan years was he on\nthe Rock an' never left it, but he'd sometimes show himself in the day\nwhin there was a berryin', an' say, 'Ye've brought me another frind,' an'\nhelp in the work, an' never was there a graveyard kept like that o'\nCashel.\n\n\"When he got owld, an' where he cud look into the other worruld, Nora came\nivery night an' brought more wid her, sper'ts av kings an' bishops that\nrest on Cashel, an' there's thim that's seen the owld man walkin' in\nCormac's Chapel, Nora holdin' him up an' him discoorsin' wid the mighty\ndead. They found him wan day, cowld an' shtill, on Nora's grave, an' laid\nhim be her side, God rest his sowl, an' there he slapes to-day, God be\ngood to him.\n\n        [Illustration: \"The Owld Man walkin' in Cormae's Chapel\"]\n\n\"They said he was only a poor owld innocent, but all is aqualized, an'\nthim that's despised sometimes have betther comp'ny among the angels than\nthat of mortials.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nSATAN'S CLOVEN HOOF.\n\n\n            [Illustration: Initial: \"Satan's Cloven Hoof\"]\n\nAmong the beautiful traits of the Irish character, none is more prominent\nthan the religious element. Philosophers declare that the worshipping\nprinciple is strong in proportion to the lack of happiness in the\ncircumstances of life, and at first glance there seems a degree of truth\nin the statement; for the rich, enjoying their riches, are likely to be\ncontented and to look no further than this world; while the poor,\noppressed and ground to the earth by those whom they feel to be no better\nthan themselves, having that innate sense of justice common to all men,\nand discerning the inequality of worldly lots, are not slow to place\nimplicit belief in the doctrine of a final judgment, at which all\ninequalities will be righted, and both rich and poor will stand side by\nside; the former gaining no advantage from his riches, the latter being at\nno disadvantage from his poverty.\n\nThere is, however, good reason to believe that in the days of Ireland's\ngreatness there was the same strength of devotion as at present. Ireland\nis so full of ruined churches and ecclesiastical buildings as to give\ncolor of truth to the statement of a recent traveller, \"it is a country of\nruins.\" Rarely is the traveller out of sight of the still standing walls\nof a long deserted church, and not infrequently the churches are found in\ngroups. The barony of Forth, in Wexford, though comprising a territory of\nonly 40,000 acres, contains the ruins of eighteen churches, thirty-three\nchapels, two convents, and a hospital of vast proportions. Nor is this\ndistrict exceptional, for at Glendalough, Clon-mac-nois, Inniscathy, Inch\nDerrin, and Innis Kealtra, there are groups of churches, each group having\nseven churches, the edifices of goodly size, and at Clonferth and Holy\nCross, there are seven chapels in each town, so close together as to cause\nwonder whether all were called into use.\n\nOne manifestation of the religious element of the Irish nature is seen in\nthe profound reverence for the memory of the saints. Of these, Ireland\nclaims, according to one authority, no less than seventy-five thousand,\nand it is safe to say that the curious inquirer might find one or more\nlegends of each, treasured up in the unwritten folk-lore of the country\ndistricts. To the disadvantage of the minor saints, however, most of the\nstories cluster round a few well-known names, and nothing delights the\nIrish story-teller more than to relate legends of the saints, which he\ndoes with a particularity as minute in all its details as though he had\nstood by the side of the saint, had seen everything that was done, and\nheard every word that was spoken; supplying missing links in the chain of\nthe story from a ready imagination, and throwing over the whole the\nglamour of poetic fancy inseparable from the Irish nature.\n\nThe neighborhood of Glendalough, County Wicklow, is sacred to the memory\nof Saint Kevin, and abounds with legends of his life and works. The seven\nchurches which, according to tradition, were built there under his\ndirection, are now mostly in ruins; his bed, a hollow in a precipice, is\nstill shown, together with his kitchen and the altar at which he once\nministered. In the graveyard of one of the churches is a curious stone\ncross, of considerable size, evidently monumental, though the inscription\nhas been so defaced as to be illegible. On the front of the cross there is\na deep indentation much resembling that made by the hoof of a cow in soft\nearth, the bottom of the indentation being deepest at the sides and\nsomewhat ridged in the middle. Concerning this cross and the depression in\nits face, the following legend was related by an old peasant of the\nneighborhood.\n\n                       [Illustration: Glendalough]\n\n\"Ye must know, that among all the saints that went to heaven from\nIreland's sod, there isn't wan, barrin' Saint Patrick, that stands in a\nbetther place than the blessed Saint Kevin av Glendalough, fur the\nwondherful things that he done is past all tellin'. 'Twas he that built\nall the churches ye see in the vale here, an' when he lived, he owned all\nthe land round about, fur he restored King O'Toole's goose, that the king\nhad such divarshun in, when it was too ould to fly, so the king gev him\nall that the goose 'ud fly over, an' when the goose got her wings agin,\nshe was so merry that she flew over mighty near all the land that King\nO'Toole had before she come back at all, so he got it.\n\n\"'Twas he too that put out o' the counthry the very last sarpint that was\nleft in it, afther Saint Patrick had druv the rest into the say, fur he\nmet the baste wan day as he was walkin' in the hills and tuk him home wid\nhim to give him the bit an' sup, an' the sarpint got as dhrunk as a piper,\nso Saint Kevin put him in a box an' nailed it up an' flung it into the\nsay, where it is to this blessed day.\n\n\"But 'tis my belafe that the besht job o' work he ever done was markin'\nthe divil so if you'd meet him an the road, you'd know in a minnit that it\nwas himself an' no other that was in it, an' so make ready, aither fur to\nrun away from him, or to fight him wid prayin' as fast as ye cud, bekase,\nye see, it's no use fur to shtrive wid him any other way, seein' that no\nwaypon can make the laste dint on his carkidge.\n\n\"In thim days, an' before phat tuk place I'm tellin' ye av, the divil was\nall as wan as a man, a tall felly like a soger, wid a high hat comin' to a\npint an' feathers on it, an' fine boots an' shpurs an' a short red jacket\nwid a cloak over his shoulder an' a soord be his side, as fine as any\ngintleman av' the good ould times. So he used to go about the counthry,\ndesavin' men an' wimmin, the latther bein' his chice as bein' aisier fur\nto desave, an' takin' thim down wid him to his own place, an' it was a\nfine time he was havin' entirely, an' everything his own way. Well, as he\nwas thravellin' about, he heard wan day av Saint Kevin an' the church he\nwas afther buildin' an' the haythens he was convartin' an' he says to\nhimself, 'Sure this won't do. I must give up thriflin' an' look afther me\nbizness, or me affairs 'ull go to the dogs, so they will.'\n\n\"It was in Kerry he was when he heard the news, an' was havin' a fine time\nthere, fur when Saint Patrick convarted Ireland, he didn't go to Kerry,\nbut only looked into it an' blessed it an' hurried on, but though he\ndidn't forget it, intindin', I belave, to go back, the divil tuk up his\nquarthers there, to make it as sure as he cud. But when he heard av Saint\nKevin's doin's, it was too much fur him, so he shtarted an' come from\nKerry to Glendalough wid wan jump, an' there sure enough, the walls o' the\nchurch were risin' afore his eyes, an' as he stud on that hill he heard\nthe avenin' song o' the monks that were helpin' Saint Kevin in the work.\nSo the divil was tarin' mad, an' stud on the brow o' the hill, cursin' to\nhimself an' thinkin' that if any more churches got into Ireland, his job\no' work 'ud be gone, an' he'd betther go back to England where he come\nfrom. He made up his mind though, that he'd do fur Saint Kevin if he cud,\nbut mind ye, the blessed saint was so well beknownst to all the counthry,\nthat the divil was afeared to tackle him. So he laid about in the grass,\non his breast like a sarpint fur three or four days till they were\nbeginnin' to put the roof on, and then he thought he'd thry.\n\n\"Now I must tell ye wan thing. The blessed saint was at that time only a\nyoung felly, though they don't make 'em any betther than he was. When he\nleft home, he'd a shweetheart be the name o' Kathleen, an' she loved him\nbetther than her life, an' so did he her in that degray that he'd lay down\nan' die on the shpot fur the love av her, but his juty called him fur to\nbe God's priest, an' he turned his back on father an' mother an' saddest\nav all on Kathleen, though it was like tarin' out his heart it was, an'\ncame to Glendalough. Kathleen was like to die, but afther a bit, she got\nover it a little an' went into a convent, for, says she, 'I'll marry no\nwan, an' 'ull meet him in heaven.' But Saint Kevin didn't know phat had\nbecome av her, an' thried hard not to think av her, but wanst in a while\nthe vision av her 'ud come back to him like the mem'ry av a beautiful\ndhrame.\n\n\"Now about this time, while the divil was layin' about in the bushes\na-watchin' the work, an' the tower of the big church was liftin' itself\nabove the trees, the blessed saint begun to be onaisy in his mind, fur,\nsays he to himself, 'Things is too aisy entirely. It's just thim times\nwhen all is goin' on as smooth as a duck on a pond that the divil comes\ndown like a fox on a goslin' an' takes every wan unbeknownst, so wins the\nvict'ry. I'll have a care, fur afther the sunshine comes the shtorm,' says\nhe. So that avenin' he ordhered his monks to say a thousand craydos, an'\ntwo thousand paters an' aves, an' afther that was done, he got in his boat\nan' crassed the lake. He climbed up to his bed above ye there, an' said\nhis baids agin an' went to slape, but the divil was watchin' him like a\nhawk, for he'd laid a thrap fur the blessed saint to catch him wid, that\nwas thish-a-way.\n\n\"Every body knows how that Satan is shlicker than a weasel, an' has a\nmem'ry like a miser's box that takes in everything an' lets nothin' go\nout. When ye do anything, sorra a bit av it 'scapes the divil, an' he hugs\nit clost till a time comes when he can make a club av it to bate ye wid,\nan' so he does. The owld felly remimbered all that passed betune Kathleen\nan' the blessed saint, an' he knewn how hard it was fur Saint Kevin to\nforgit her, so he thought he'd put him in a fix. Afther the saint had\ncuddled up in his shtraw wid his cloak over him an' was shnoring away as\nsnug as a flea in a blanket, comes the divil, a-climbin' up the rock, in\nthe exact image o' the young Kathleen. Ye may think it quare, but it's no\nwondher to thim that undherstands it, fur the divil can take any shape he\nplazes an' look like any wan he wants to, an' so he does for the purpose\nav temptin' us poor sinners to disthruction, but there's wan thing be\nwhich he's always known; when ye've given up to him or when ye've baten\nhim out o' the face, no matther which, he's got to throw aff the disguise\nthat's on him an' show you who he is, an' when he does it, it isn't the\niligant, dressed-up divil that ye see an' that I was just tellin' ye av,\nbut the rale, owld, black nagur av a rannychorus, widout a haporth o' rags\nto the back av him, an' his horns an' tail a-shtickin' out, an' his eyes\nas big as an oxen's an' shinin' like fire, an' great bat's wings on him,\nan', savin' yer prisince, the most nefairius shmell o' sulfur ye ever\nshmelt. But before, he looks all right, no matther phat face he has, an'\nit's only be the goodness o' God that the divil is bound fur to show\nhimself to ye, bekase, Glory be to God, it's his will that men shall know\nwho they're dalin' wid, an' if they give up to the divil, an' afther\nfindin' out who's in it, go on wid the bargain they've made, sure the\nfault is their own, an' they go to hell wid their eyes open, an' if they\nbate him, he's got to show himself fur to let thim see phat they've\nescaped.\n\n\"Well, I was afther sayin', the divil was climbin' up the rock in the form\no' Kathleen, an' come to the saint's bed an' teched him an the shouldher.\nThe blessed saint was layin' there belike dhraming o' Kathleen, fur sure,\nthere was no harm in that, an' when he woke up an' seen her settin' be his\nside, he thought the eyes 'ud lave him.\n\n\"'Kathleen,' says he, 'is it yoursilf that's in it, an' me thinkin' I'd\nparted from you forever?'\n\n\"'It is,' says the ould desaver, 'an' no other, Kevin darlint, an' I've\ncome to shtay wid ye.'\n\n\"'Sure darlint,' says the saint, 'ye know how it bruk me heart entirely to\nlave ye, no more wud I have done it, but be the will o' God. Ye know I\nloved ye, an' God forgive me, I'm afeared I love ye still, but it isn't\nright, Kathleen. Go in pace, in the name o' God, an' lave me,' says he.\n\n\"'No Kevin,' says Satan, a-throwin' himself on Kevin's breast, wid both\narrums round his neck, 'I'll never lave ye,' lettin' an to cry an' dhrop\ntears an the face o' the blessed saint.\n\n\"It's no aisy matther to say no to a woman anyhow, aven to an ugly woman,\nbut when it's a good-lookin' wan that's in it, an' she axin' ye wid her\narrums round ye an' the crystal dhrops like that many dimunds fallin' from\nher eyes that look at ye like shtars through a shower av rain, begob it's\nmeself that doesn't undhershtand why Saint Kevin didn't give up at wanst,\nan' so he wud if he hadn't been the blessed saint that he was. But he was\nmightily flusthered, an' no wondher, an' stud there wid his breast\nhayvin', a-shtrivin' to resist the timptation to thrade a crown in heaven\nfur a love on airth.\n\n\"'Lave this place, Kevin,' says the tempther, 'an' come wid me, we'll go\naway an' be happy together forever,' an' wid that word, an' as the fate av\nthe saint was trimblin' in the balances, the holy angels o' God stud\nbeside him, an' wan whishpered in his ear that the Kathleen he loved\nbefore was a pure, good woman, an' that she'd 'a' died afore she'd come to\nhim that-a-way.\n\n\"'No,' says he, wid sudden shtrength. 'It's not Kathleen that's in it, but\nan avil sper't. God's prisence be about us! Get you gone Satan an' sayce\nto throuble me,' an' that minnit the blessed saint jumped up aff the\nground an' wid his two feet gev the owld rayprobate a thunderin' kick in\nthe stummick, an' when he doubled up wid the pain an' fell back an'\nclapped his hands together on the front av him, Saint Kevin gev him\nanother in his rare, axin' yer pardon, that sent him clane over the clift,\nwid Saint Kevin gatherin' shtones an' flingin' thim afther him wid all the\nmight that was in him. So the minnit the saint kicked him the very foorst\nkick, Kathleen disappeared, an' there was the owld black Belzebub\na-tumblin' over, an' fallin' down to the lake, holdin' his stummick an'\nthryin' hard to catch himself wid his wings afore he'd hit the wather. But\nhe did by the time he got to the bottom an' flew away, bellerin' worse nor\na bull with a dog hangin' to his nose, so that all the monks woke wid\nfright, an' cudn't go to shlape agin till they'd said a craydo an' five\naves apiece, but the blessed saint set be his bed a-sayin' his baids the\nrest o' the night wid a pile o' shtones convaynient to his hand fur fear\nthe divil 'ud come back. But Satan flew over an that hill an' rubbed\nhimself before an' behind too, where the saint had kicked him, an' didn't\ngo back, for he'd enough o' the saint fur that time. But he was mightily\nvexed, an' not to lose the chance fur to do some mischief before he'd go\naway, he pulled down all the walls that the poor monks had built that day.\n\n\"Now there's thim that says that it was the rale Kathleen that Saint Kevin\nkicked over the clift, but sure that's not thrue, fur it's not in an\nIrishman to thrate a woman that-a-way, that makes me belave that the\nshtory I'm tellin' ye was the thrue shtory an' that it wasn't Kathleen at\nall, but Satan, that Saint Kevin thrated wid such onpoliteness, an my\nblessin' an him fur that same, fur he come out very well axceptin' five or\nsix blisthers on his face, where the divil's tears touched him, that's\nwell known to make blisthers on phatever they touch.\n\n\"Well, as I was sayin', he pulled down the church walls, an' the monks put\nthim up agin, an' the next mornin' they were down, an' so fur a good bit\nthe contist went an betune the divil an' the monks, a-shtrivin' if they\ncud build up fashter than he cud pull down, fur he says to himself, Satan\ndid, 'Jagers, I can't be losin' me time here widout doin' something, nor,\nbedad, no more can I tell how to rache the saint widout sarcumspectin'\nhim.'\n\n                [Illustration: Saint Kevin and the Devil]\n\n\"But the saint bate him at that game, for wan night, afther the work was\ndone, he put half the monks on the wall to watch there the night, an' when\nSatan come flyin' along like the dirthy bat that he was, there was the\nmonks all along be the day's job, aitch wan a-sayin' his baids as fast as\nhe cud an' a bottle o' holy wather be his side to throw at the divil when\nhe'd come. So he went from thim an' be takin' turns at watchin' an'\nworkin', they finished the church.\n\n\"In coorse o' time, Saint Kevin wanted another church an' begun to build\nit too, for he said, 'Begob, I'll have that church done be fall if every\ngrain o' sand in Glendalough becomes a divil an' rises up fur to purvint\nit,' an' so he did, Glory be to God, but at first was bothered to git the\nmoney fur to raise the walls. Well, wan day as he was in the bother, he\nwas walkin' an the hills, an' he heard the clattherin' av a horse's feet\nbehind him an the road, an' afore he cud turn round, up comes the most\nilligant black horse ye ever seen, an' a tall gintleman a ridin' av him,\nwid all the look av a soger, a broad hat on the head av him, an' a silk\njacket wid goold trimmin's, an' shtripes on his britches, an' gloves to\nhis elbows, an' soord an' shpurs a-jinglin', the same as he was a rich\nlord.\n\n\"'God save ye,' says the saint.\n\n\"'God save ye kindly,' says the gintleman, an' they walked an together an'\nfell into convarsin'.\n\n\"'I'm towld ye're afther buildin' another church,' says the gintleman.\n\n\"'It's thrue for ye,' says the saint, 'but it's meself that's bothered\nabout that same, for I've no money,' says he.\n\n\"'That's too bad,' says the gintleman; 'have ye axed for help?' says he.\n\n\"'Faix, indade I have,' says the saint, 'but the times is hard, an' the\nmoney goin' out o' the counthry to thim blagg\u00e2rd landlords in England,'\nsays he.\n\n\"'It's right ye are,' says the gintleman, 'but I've hopes o' betther times\nwhen the tinants get the land in their own hands,' says he. 'I'm goin' to\nright thim avils. I'm the new Lord Liftinant,' says he, 'an' able to help\nye an the job, undher a proper undhershtandin',' says he.\n\n\"At foorst Saint Kevin was that surprised that he'd like to dhrop an the\nroad, fur he hadn't heard av the 'pintmint av a new Lord Liftinant, but he\nraizoned wid himself that it cud aisily be done widout his knowin' av it,\nan' so he thought he'd a shtrake av luck in seein' av him.\n\n\"'God be good to yer Lordship,' says he, 'an' make yer bed in the heavens,\nan' it's thankful I'd be fur any shmall favors ye plaze to give, fur it's\nvery poor we are.'\n\n\"'An' phat 'ud ye say to a prisint av tin thousand pound,' says the\ngintleman, 'purvided ye spind it an the church ye have an' not in buildin'\na new wan,' says the gintleman, an' wid that word, Saint Kevin knew the\nould inimy, an' shtarted at him.\n\n\"But the divil had enough o' Saint Kevin's heels, for he'd felt the kick\nhe cud give wid 'em, an' faix, the blessed saint was as well sarcumstanced\nin that quarther as a donkey, an' Belzebub knew that same, so he niver\nstayed, but when he saw Saint Kevin comin', immejitly the black horse\nchanged into a big dhraggin, an' the illigant close dhrapped aff the divil\nan' in his own image he went aff shpurrin' the dhraggin, he an' the baste\nflappin' their wings as fast as they cud to get out of the saint's way an'\nlavin' afther thim the shmell av sulfur that shtrong that the blessed\nsaint did nothin' for an hour but hould his nose an' cough.\n\n\"Afther thim two axpayriences, the divil seen it was no use o' him\nofferin' fur to conthraven Saint Kevin, so he rayjuiced his efforts to\nbotherin' the monks at the work. He'd hang about day an' night, doin' all\nthe mischief that he cud, bekase, says he, 'If I can't shtop thim, by\nJayminy, I'll delay thim to that degray that they'll find it the shlowest\njob they ever undhertuk,' says he, an' so it was. When they'd finish a bit\no' the wall an' lave it to dhry, up 'ud come the divil an' kick it over;\nwhen two o' them 'ud be carrying a heavy shtone, the divil, unbeknownst to\nthim, 'ud knock it out o' their hands so as to make it dhrop on their\ntoes, a-thinkin' belike, that they'd shwear on the quiet to thimselves:\nthat they never did; when a holy father 'ud lay down his hammer an' turn\nhis back, the divil 'ud snatch it up an' fling it aff the wall; till wid\nhis knockin' over the wather-bucket, an' shcrapin' aff the morthar, an'\nupsettin' the hod o' bricks, an' makin' the monks forgit where they'd put\nthings, it got so that they were in a muck o' shweat every hour o' the\nday; an' from that time it got to be said, when anything wint wrong widout\na raizon, that the divil's in it.\n\n\"Now whin Saint Kevin conshecrated the church, they tuk wid it the ground\nround about as far as ye see that shtone wall, for, says he, 'Sure it'll\nalways be handy.' So in coorse o' time, as the second church was gettin'\ndone, wan avenin' Saint Kevin went out wid a bucket fur to milk his cow,\nthat had just come down from the mountain where she'd been grazin'. Well,\nhe let the calf to her, an' the poor little baste bein' hungry, fur I\nbelave the cow hadn't come up the night afore, it begun on wan side an'\nthe saint an the other, an' the calf was suckin' away wid all the jaws it\nhad, an' kep' up a haythenish punchin' wid its nose beways av a hint to\nthe cow fur to give up more milk. The calf punched an' the cow kicked,\nfur, mind ye, the divil was in thim both, the poor bastes, no more was it\ntheir fault at all, an' betune howldin' the bucket in wan hand an' milking\nwid the other wan, an' kapin' his eye shkinned for the cow's heels, an'\nshovin' the calf from his side, the saint was like to lose all the milk.\n\n\"'Tatther an' agers,' says he, 'shtand shtill, ye onnattheral crayther, or\nI'll bate the life out o' ye, so I will,' says he, tarin' mad, fur the\ncalf was gettin' all, an' the bottom o' the bucket not covered. But the\ncow wudn't do it, so the blessed saint tuk the calf be the years fur to\ndrag him away, an' then the cow run at him wid her horns so that he had to\nlet go the calf's years an' dodge an' was in a bother entirely. But he got\nhim a club in case the cow 'ud offer fur to hook him agin, an' opened the\ngate into the field behind the church, an' afther a good dale o' jumpin'\nabout he sucsayded in dhrivin' in the cow an' kapin' out the calf. Then he\nshut the gate an' wipin' the shweat aff his blessed face, he got the\nbucket an' shtool an' set down to milk in pace. But be this time the cow\nwas tarin' mad at bein' shut from the calf, an' at the first shquaze he\ngev her, she jumped like she'd heard a banshee, an' then phat 'ud she do\nbut lift up her heel an' give him a kick an the skull fit to crack it fur\nhim an' laid him on the grass, an' turnin' round, she put her fut in the\nbucket an' stud lookin' at him, as fur to ax if he'd enough.\n\n\"'The divil brile the cow,' says the saint, God forgive him fur cursin'\nher, but ye see he'd lost all consate av her be the throuble he'd had wid\nher afore, besides the crack on his head, that was well nigh aiquel to the\nkick he cud give himself, so that he was axcusable fur phat he was sayin',\nfur it's no joke I'm tellin' ye to be made a showbogher av, be a baste av\na cow.\n\n\"'Sure I will, yer Riverince,' says a deep voice behind him, 'an' thank ye\nfur that same favor, fur it's a fat bit she is.'\n\n\"Saint Kevin riz up a-rubbin' his head as fast as he cud an' looked round\nan' there sure enough was owld Satan himself standin' there grinnin' away\nwid the horrid mouth av him stratched from year to year, a-laughin' at the\nfix the saint was in. Well, the minnit Saint Kevin set his two eyes an\nhim, he knewn he had him, fur ye see, the ground was conshecrated, but the\ndivil didn't know it fur it was done wan time when he'd gone to Cork to\nattind a landlord's convintion to raise the rints on a lot o' shtarving\ntinants, that bein' a favorite job wid him. If he'd knewn the ground was\nholy, he'd never dared to set fut an it, fur ye see, if ye can ketch the\ndivil an holy ground where he's no bizness, ye've got him fast an' tight\nan' can pull him in when ye plaze. But the saint wasn't goin' to give the\nowld desaver any show so he run at him an' gripped him be the horns, the\nsame as he was a goat, an' threw him an the ground an' tied his hands wid\na pace av his own gown that he tore aff, an' the divil, do phat he cud,\nwasn't able to break loose.\n\n\"'Now,' says he, 'ye slatherin', blood-suckin', blagg\u00e2rdin' nagur, I'll\nfix ye, ye owld hippypotaymus, so as ivery sowl in Ireland 'ull know ye\nwhere ever ye're met.'\n\n\"So he rowled up his shlaves an' shpit an his hands an' fell to work. He\nonschrewed the divil's left leg at the jint av the knee, an' laid it an\nthe grass. Then he tuk aff the cow's right hind leg at the knee an' laid\nthat an the grass. Then he schrewed the owld cow's leg an the divil's\nknee, an' the divil's fut an the owld cow's leg, an' untied Satan an' bid\nhim git up.\n\n\"'Now,' says he to him, 'do you go at wanst, an' I bid ye that when ye\nmeet man or mortial, the foorst thing ye do is to show that fut that they\nknow from the shtart who ye are. Now shtart, ye vagabone blagg\u00e2rd av a\nshpalpeen, or I'll kick the backbone shtrait up into the shkull o' ye.\nOut!' he says, flourishin' his fut at him.\n\n\"Well, the divil made a break fur to run, bekase he wanted no more\nbenedictions from the toes o' Saint Kevin, but not bein' used to his new\nleg, the very foorst shtep he made wid it, it kicked out behind agin this\nshtone, that wasn't a crass at all then, an' made this hole that ye see,\nan' Saint Kevin tuk the shtone an' made a crass av it aftherwards. But the\ndivil didn't shtop at all when the leg wudn't go fur him, fur he seen the\nblessed saint comin', a-wavin' his fut about, so he rowled over an' over\ntill he got to the wall, then made a shpring an it an' out av sight like a\nghost.\n\n   [Illustration: \"An' so he's lame, an' must show his cloven fut\"]\n\n\"That's the way Satan got his lame leg, bekase, ye see he's niver larned\nfur to manage it, an' goes limpity-lop, an' though he wears a cloak, is\nobligated fur to show the cow's fut whenever he talks wid any wan, fur if\nhe doesn't, begorra, the leg does fur itself, fur it's niver forgot the\nthrick av kicking the owld cow larned it, an' if Satan waits a minnit, up\ngoes the cow's fut, as hard an' high as the last time she kicked the\nsaint. No more did the divil ever dare to come there agin, so the blessed\nSaint Kevin was left in pace to build the siven churches, an the divil\nwasn't ever seen in Glendalough, till the day the saint was berrid, an'\nthen he peeped over the hill to look at the berryin', but he wudn't come\ndown, thinkin', belike, it was a lie they were tellin' him when they said\nthe saint was dead, fur to injuice him to come into the glen an' give\nSaint Kevin wan more whack at him wid his fut. An' they do say, that he's\nbeen to the besht docthers in the univaarse fur to get him another leg,\nbut they cudn't do it, Glory be to God; an' so he is lame an' must show\nhis cloven fut, so as ivery wan knows at wanst that it's the divil himself\nthat's in it, an' can run away from him before he's time to do thim harm.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENCHANTED ISLAND.\n\n\n           [Illustration: Initial: \"The Enchanted Island\"]\n\nOn the afternoon of Sunday, July 7, 1878, the inhabitants of Ballycotton,\nCounty Cork, were greatly excited by the sudden appearance, far out at\nsea, of an island where none was known to exist. The men of the town and\nisland of Ballycotton were fishermen and knew the sea as well as they knew\nthe land. The day before, they had been out in their boats and sailed over\nthe spot where the strange island now appeared, and were certain that the\nlocality was the best fishing-ground they had.\n\n\"And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew,\" for the day was clear\nand the island could be seen as plainly as they saw the hills to the\nnorth. It was rugged, in some parts rocky, in others densely wooded; here\nand there were deep shadows in its sides indicating glens heavily covered\nwith undergrowth and grasses. At one end it rose almost precipitously from\nthe sea; at the other, the declivity was gradual; the thick forest of the\nmountainous portion gave way to smaller trees, these to shrubs; these to\ngreen meadows that finally melted into the sea and became\nindistinguishable from the waves.\n\nUnder sail and oar, a hundred boats put off from the shore to investigate;\nwhen, as they neared the spot, the strange island became dim in outline,\nless vivid in color, and at last vanished entirely, leaving the\nwonder-stricken villagers to return, fully convinced that for the first\ntime in their lives they had really seen the Enchanted Island. For once\nthere was a topic of conversation that would outlast the day, and as the\nstory of the Enchanted Island passed from lip to lip, both story and\nisland grew in size till the latter was little less than a continent,\ncontaining cities and castles, palaces and cathedrals, towers and\nsteeples, stupendous mountain ranges, fertile valleys, and wide spreading\nplains; while the former was limited only by the patience of the listener,\nand embraced the personal experience, conclusions, reflections, and\nobservations of every man, woman, and child in the parish who had been\nfortunate enough to see the island, hear of it, or tell where it had been\nseen elsewhere.\n\nFor the Enchanted Island of the west coast is not one of those ordinary,\nhumdrum islands that rise out of the sea in a night, and then, having\ncome, settle down to business on scientific principles, and devote their\nattention to the collection of soil for the use of plants and animals. It\ndisdains any such commonplace course as other islands are content to\nfollow, but is peripatetic, or, more properly, seafaring, in its habits,\nand as fond of travelling as a sailor. At its own sweet will it comes,\nand, having shown itself long enough to convince everybody who is not an\n\"innocent entirely\" of its reality, it goes without leave-taking or\nceremony, and always before boats can approach near enough to make a\ncareful inspection. This is the invariable history of its appearance. No\none has ever been able to come close to its shores, much less land upon\nthem, but it has been so often seen on the west coast, that a doubt of its\nexistence, if expressed in the company of coast fishermen, will at once\nestablish for the sceptic a reputation for ignorance of the common affairs\nof every-day life.\n\nIn Cork, for instance, it has been seen by hundreds of people off\nBallydonegan Bay, while many more can testify to its appearance off the\nBay of Courtmacsherry. In Kerry, all the population of Ballyheige saw it a\nfew years ago, lying in Tralee Bay, between Kerry Head and Brandon's Head,\nand shortly before, the villagers of Lisneakeabree, just across the bay\nfrom Ballyheige, saw it between their shore and Kerry Head, while the\nfishermen in Saint Finan's Bay and in Ballinskelligs are confident it has\nbeen seen, if not by themselves, at least by some of their friends. It has\nappeared at the mouth of the Shannon, and off Carrigaholt in Clare, where\nthe people saw a city on it. This is not so remarkable as it seems, for,\nin justice to the Enchanted Island, it should be stated that its\nresemblance to portions of the neighboring land is sometimes very close,\nand shows that the \"enchanter\" who has it under a spell knows his\nbusiness, and being determined to keep his island for himself changes its\nappearance as well as its location in order that his property may not be\nrecognized nor appropriated.\n\nIn Galway, the Enchanted Island has appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame\nBay, a local landlord at the time making a devout wish that it would stay\nthere. The fishermen of Ballynaskill, in the Joyce Country, saw it about\nfifteen years ago, since when it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. The\nCounty Mayo has seen it, not only from the Achille Island cliffs, but also\nfrom Downpatrick Head; and in Sligo, the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay know\nall about it, while half the population of Inishcrone still remember its\nappearance about twenty years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal\nsay it looked like their own island, \"sure two twins couldn't be liker,\"\nand the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared there, observed along\nthe shore of the island a village like Maas, the one in which they lived.\nIt has also appeared off Rathlin's Island, on the Antrim coast, but, so\nfar as could be learned, it went no further to the east, confining its\nmigrations to the west coast, between Cork on the south and Antrim on the\nnorth.\n\nConcerning the island itself, legendary authorities differ on many\nmaterial points. Some hold it to be \"a rale island sure enough,\" and that\nits exploits are due to \"jommethry or some other inchantmint,\" while\nopponents of this materialistic view are inclined to the opinion that the\nisland is not what it seems to be, that is to say, not \"airth an' shtones,\nlike as thim we see, but only a deludherin' show that avil sper'ts, or the\ndivil belike, makes fur to desave us poor dishsolute craythers.\" Public\nopinion on the west coast is therefore strongly divided on the subject,\nunity of sentiment existing on two points only; that the island has been\nseen, and that there is something quite out of the ordinary in its\nappearance. \"For ye see, yer Anner,\" observed a Kerry fisherman, \"it's\nagin nacher fur a rale island to be comin' and goin' like a light in a\nbog, an' whin ye do see it, ye can see through it, an' by jagers, if it's\na thrue island, a mighty quare wan it is an' no mishtake.\"\n\nOn so deep and difficult a subject, an ounce of knowledge is worth a pound\nof speculation, and the knowledge desired was finally furnished by an old\nfisherman of Ballyconealy Bay, on the Connemara coast, west of Galway.\nThis individual, Dennis Moriarty by name, knew all about the Enchanted\nIsland, having not only seen it himself, but, when a boy, learned its\nhistory from a \"fairy man,\" who obtained his information from \"the good\npeople\" themselves, the facts stated being therefore, of course, of\nindisputable authority, what the fairies did not know concerning the\ndoings of supernatural and enchanted circles, being not worth knowing. Mr.\nMoriarty was stricken in years, having long given up active service in the\nboats and relegated himself to lighter duties on shore. He had much\nconfidence in the accuracy of his information on the subject of the\nisland, and a glass of grog, and \"dhraw ov the pipe,\" brought out the\nstory in a rich, mellow brogue.\n\n\"Faith, I'm not rightly sure how long ago it was, but it was a good while\nan' before the blessed Saint Pathrick come to the counthry an' made\nCrissans av the haythens in it. Howandiver, it was in thim times that\nbetune this an' Inishmore, there was an island. Some calls it the Island\nav Shades, an' more says its name was the Sowls Raypose, but it doesn't\nmatther, fur no wan knows. It was as full av payple as it could howld, an'\ncities wor on it wid palaces an' coorts an' haythen timples an' round\ntowers all covered wid goold an' silver till they shone so ye cudn't see\nfor the brightness.\n\n\"And they wor all haythens there, an' the king av the island was the\nbiggest av thim, sure he was Satan's own, an' tuk delight in doin' all the\nbloody things that come into his head. If the waither that minded the\ntable did annything to displaze him, he'd out wid a soord the length av me\narrum an' cut aff his head. If they caught a man shtaling, the king 'ud\nhave him hung at wanst widout the taste av a thrial, 'Bekase,' says the\nking, says he, 'maybe he didn't do it at all, an' so he'd get aff, so up\nwid him,' an' so they'd do. He had more than a hunderd wives, ginerally\nspakin', but he wasn't throubled in the laste be their clack, for whin wan\nhad too much blasthogue in her jaw, or begun gostherin' at him, he cut aff\nher head an' said, beways av a joke, that 'that's the only cure fur a\nwoman's tongue.' An' all the time, from sun to sun, he was cursin' an'\nhowlin' wid rage, so as I'm sure yer Anner wouldn't want fur to hear me\nsay thim blastpheemies that he said. To spake the truth av him, he was\nwicked in that degray that, axin' yer pardon, the owld divil himself\nwouldn't own him.\n\n\"So wan time, there was a thunderin' phillaloo in the king's family, fur\nmind ye, he had thin just a hunderd wives. Now it's my consate that it's\naisier fur a hunderd cats to spind the night in pace an the wan thatch\nthan for two wimmin to dhraw wather out av the same well widout aitch wan\ncallin' the other wan all the names she can get out av her head. But whin\nye've a hunderd av 'em, an' more than a towsand young wans, big an'\nlittle, its aisey to see that the king av the island had plinty av use fur\nthe big soord that he always kept handy to settle family dishputes wid.\nSo, be the time the row I'm tellin' ye av was over an' the wimmin shtopped\ntalkin', the king was a widdy-man just ten times, an' had only ninety\nwives lift.\n\n\"So he says to himself, 'Bedad, I must raycrout the force agin, or thim\nthat's left 'ull think I cant do widout 'em an' thin there'll be no ind to\ntheir impidince. Begorra, this marryin' is a sayrious business,' says he,\nsighin', fur he'd got about all the wimmin that wanted to be quanes an'\ndidn't just know where to find anny more. But, be pickin' up wan here an'\nthere, afther a bit he got ninety-nine, an' then cud get no more, an' in\nspite av sendin' men to ivery quarther av Ireland an' tellin' the kings'\ndawthers iverywhere how lonesome he was, an' how the coort was goin' to\nrack an' ruin entirely fur the want av another quane to mind the panthry,\nsorra a woman cud be had in all Ireland to come, fur they'd all heard av\nthe nate manes he tuk to kape pace in his family.\n\n\"But afther thryin' iverywhere else, he sent a man into the Joyce\nCounthry, to a mighty fine princess av the Joyces. She didn't want to go\nat first, but the injuicemints war so shtrong that she couldn't howld out,\nfor the king sint her presints widout end an' said, if she'd marry him,\nhe'd give her all the dimunds they cud get on a donkey's back.\n\n\"Now over beyant the Twelve Pins, in the Joyce Counthry, there was a great\ninchanter, that had all kinds av saycrets, an' knew where ye'd dig for a\npot av goold, an' all about doctherin', and cud turn ye into a pig in a\nminnit, an' build a cassel in wan night, an' make himself disappare when\nye wanted him, an' take anny shape he plazed, so as to look to be a baste\nwhin he wasn't, an' was a mighty dape man entirely. Now to him wint the\nprincess an' axed him phat to do, for she didn't care a traneen for the\nking, but 'ud give the two eyes out av her head to get the dimunds. The\ninchanter heard phat she had to say an' then towld her, 'Now, my dear, you\nmarry the owld felly, an' have no fear, fur av he daars to touch a hair av\nyer goolden locks, I'll take care av you an' av him too.'\n\n\"So he gev her a charm that she was to say whin she wanted him to come an'\nanother wan to repate whin she was in mortial danger an' towld her fur to\ngo an' get marr'ed an' get the dimunds as quick as she cud. An' that she\ndid, an' at foorst the king was mightily plazed at gettin' her, bekase she\nwas hard to get, an' give her the dimunds an' all she wanted, so she got\non very well an' tuk care av the panthry an' helped the other wives about\nthe coort.\n\n\"Wan day the king got up out av the goolden bed he shlept an, wid a\nterrible sulk an him, an' in a state av mind entirely, for the wind was in\nthe aiste an' he had the roomytisms in his back. So he cursed an' shwore\nlike a Turk an' whin the waither axed him to come to his brekquest, he\nkicked him into the yard av the coort, an' wint in widout him an' set down\nbe the table. So wan av the quanes brought him his bowl av stirabout an'\nthin he found fault wid it. 'It's burned,' say he, an' threw it at her.\nThen Quane Peggy Joyce, that hadn't seen the timper that was an him, come\nin from the panthry wid a shmile an her face an' a big noggin o' milk in\nher hand. 'Good morrow to ye,' she says to him, but the owld vagabone\ndidn't spake a word. 'Good morrow,' she says to him agin, an' thin he\nbroke out wid a fury.\n\n          [Illustration: \"Howld yer pace, ye palaverin' shtrap\"]\n\n\"'Howld yer pace, ye palaverin' shtrap. D' ye think I'm to be deefened wid\nyer tongue? Set the noggin an the table an' be walkin' aff wid yerself or\nI'll make ye sorry ye come,' says he.\n\n\"It was the first time he iver spake like that to her, an' the Irish blood\nov her riz, an' in a minnit she was as mad as a gandher and as bowld as a\nlion.\n\n\"'Don't you daar to spake that-a-way to me, Sorr,' she says to him. 'I'll\nhave ye know I won't take a word av yer impidince. Me fathers wore crowns\nages afore yer bogthrottin' grandfather come to this island, an' ivery wan\nknows he was the first av his dirthy thribe that had shoes an his feet.'\nAn' she walked strait up to him an' folded her arrums an' looked into his\nface as impidint as a magpie. 'Don't think fur to bully me,' she says. 'I\ncome av a race that niver owned a coward, and I wouldn't give that fur you\nan' all the big soords ye cud carry,' says she, givin' her fingers a snap\nright at the end av his nose.\n\n\"Now the owld haythen niver had anny wan to spake like that to him, an' at\nfirst was that surprised like as a horse had begun fur to convarse at him,\nno more cud he say a word, he was that full o' rage, and sat there,\nopenin' and shuttin' his mouth an' swellin' up like he'd burst, an' his\nface as red as a turkey-cock's. Thin he remimbered his soord ah' pulled it\nout an' stratched out his hand fur to ketch the quane an' cut aff her\nhead. But she was too quick for him entirely, an' whin he had the soord\nraised, she said the charm that was to purtect her, an' afore ye cud wink,\nthere stood the blood-suckin' owld villin, mortified to shtone wid his\narrum raised an' his hand reached out, an' as stiff as a mast.\n\n\"Thin she said the other charm that called the inchanter an' he come at\nwanst. She towld him phat she done an' he said it was right av her, an' as\nshe was a purty smart woman he said he'd marry her himself. So he did, an'\nbein' that the island was cursed be rayzon av the king's crimes, they come\nto Ireland wid all the payple. So they come to Connemara, an' the\ninchanter got husbands fur all the king's wives an' homes fur all the men\nav the island. But he inchanted the island an' made it so that the bad\nking must live in it alone as long as the sun rises an' sits. No more does\nthe island stand still, but must go thravellin' up an' down the coast, an'\nwan siven years they see it in Kerry an' the next siven years in Donegal,\nan' so it goes, an' always will, beways av a caution to kings not to cut\naff the heads av their wives.\"\n\n                    [Illustration: \"Howlin' wid rage\"]\n\n\n\n\n\nHOW THE LAKES WERE MADE.\n\n\n          [Illustration: Initial: \"How the Lakes were made\"]\n\nAmong the weird legends of the Irish peasantry is found a class of stories\npeculiar both in the nature of the subject and in the character of the\ntradition. From the dawn of history, and even before, the island has been\ncrowded with inhabitants, and as the centres of population changed, towns\nand cities were deserted and fell into ruins. Although no longer\ninhabited, their sites are by no means unknown or forgotten, but in many\nlocalities where now appear only irregular heaps of earth and stones to\nwhich the arch\u0107ologist sometimes finds difficulty in attributing an\nartificial origin there linger among the common people tales of the city\nthat once stood on the spot; of its walls, its castles, its palaces, its\ntemples, and the pompous worship of the deities there adored. Just as, in\nPalestine, the identification of Bible localities has, m many instances,\nbeen made complete by the preservation among the Bedouins of the\nScriptural names, so, in Ireland, the cities of pagan times are now being\nlocated through the traditions of the humble tillers of the soil, who\ntransmit from father to son the place-names handed down for untold\ngenerations.\n\nInstances are so abundant as to defy enumeration, but a most notable one\nis Tara, the greatest as it was the holiest city of pagan Ireland. Now it\nis a group of irregular mounds that the casual observer would readily\nmistake for natural hills, but for ages the name clung to the place until\nat last the attention of antiquaries was attracted, interest was roused,\ninvestigation made, excavation begun, and the site of Tara made a\ncertainty.\n\nNot all ancient Irish cities, however, escaped the hand of time as well as\nTara, for there are geological indications of great natural convulsions in\nthe island at a date comparatively recent, and not a few of the Irish\nlakes, whose name is legion, were formed by depression or upheaval, almost\nwithin the period of written history. A fertile valley traversed by a\nstream, a populous city by the little river, an earthquake-upheaval lower\ndown the watercourse, closing the exit from the valley, a rising and\nspreading of the water, an exodus of the inhabitants, such has undoubtedly\nbeen the history of Lough Derg and Lough Ree, which are but reservoirs in\nthe course of the River Shannon, while the upper and lower Erne lakes are\nlikewise simply expansions of the river Erne. Lough Neag had a similar\norigin, the same being also true of Loughs Allen and Key. The Killarney\nLakes give indisputable evidence of the manner in which they were formed,\nbeing enlargements of the Laune, and Loughs Carra and Mask, in Mayo, are\nbelieved to have a subterranean outlet to Lough Carrib, the neighborhood\nof all three testifying in the strongest possible manner to the sudden\nclosing of the natural outlet for the contributing streams.\n\nThe towns which at one time stood on ground now covered by the waters of\nthese lakes were not forgotten. The story of their fate was told by one\ngeneration to another, but in course of ages the natural cause, well known\nto the unfortunates at the time of the calamity, was lost to view, and the\nstory of the disaster began to assume supernatural features. The\ndestruction of the city became sudden; the inhabitants perished in their\ndwellings; and, as a motive for so signal an event was necessary, it was\nfound in the punishment of duty neglected or crime committed.\n\nLough Allen is a small body of water in the County Leitrim, and on its\nshores, partly covered by the waves, are several evidences of human\nhabitation, indications that the waters at present are much higher than\nformerly. Among the peasants in the neighborhood there is a legend that\nthe little valley once contained a village. In the public square there was\na fountain guarded by spirits, fairies, elves, and leprechawns, who\nobjected to the building of the town in that locality, but upon an\nagreement between themselves and the first settlers permitted the erection\nof the houses on condition that the fountain be covered with an elegant\nstone structure, the basin into which the water flowed from the spring to\nbe protected by a cover never to be left open, under pain of the town's\ndestruction, the good people being that nate an' clane that they didn't\nwant the laste speck av dust in the wather they drunk. So a decree was\nissued, by the head man of the town, that the cover be always closed by\nthose resorting to the fountain for water, and that due heed might be\ntaken, children, boys under age, and unmarried women, were forbidden under\nany circumstances to raise the lid of the basin.\n\nFor many years things went on well, the fairies and the townspeople\nsharing alike the benefits of the fountain, till, on one unlucky day,\npreparations for a wedding were going on in a house close by, and the\nmother of the bride stood in urgent need of a bucket of water. Not being\nable to bring it herself, the alleged reason being \"she was scholdin' the\nhouse in ordher,\" she commanded her daughter, the bride expectant, to go\nin her stead.\n\nThe latter objected, urging the edict of the head man already mentioned,\nbut was overcome, partly by her mother's argument, that \"the good people\nknow ye're the same as married now that the banns are cried,\" but\nprincipally by the more potent consideration, \"Av ye havn't that wather\nhere in a wink, I'll not lave a whole bone in yer body, ye lazy young\nshtrap, an' me breaking me back wid the work,\" she took the bucket and\nproceeded to the fountain with the determination to get the water and\n\"shlip out agin afore the good people 'ud find her out.\" Had she adhered\nto this resolution, all would have been well, as the fairies would have\ndoubtless overlooked this infraction of the city ordinance. But as she was\nfilling the pail, her lover came in. Of course the two at once began to\ntalk of the all-important subject, and having never before taken water\nfrom the fountain, she turned away, forgetting to close the cover of the\nwell. In an instant, a stream, resistless in force, burst forth, and\nthough all the married women of the town ran to put down the cover, their\nefforts were in vain, the flood grew mightier, the village was submerged,\nand, with two exceptions, all the inhabitants were drowned. The girl and\nher lover violated poetic justice by escaping; for, seeing the mischief\nthey had done, they were the first to run away, witnessed the destruction\nof the town from a neighboring hill, and were afterwards married, the\nnarrator of this incident coming to the sensible conclusion that \"it was\ntoo bad entirely that the wans that got away were the wans that, be\nrights, ought to be droonded first.\"\n\nUpper Lough Erne has a legend, in all important particulars identical with\nthat of Lough Allen, the catastrophe being, however, in the former case\nbrought about by the carelessness of a woman who left her baby at home\nwhen she went after water and hearing it scream, \"as aven the best babies\ndo be doin', God bless 'em, for no betther rayson than to lishen at\nthimselves,\" she hurried back, forgetting to cover the well, with a\nconsequent calamity like that which followed similar forgetfulness at\nLough Allen.\n\nIn the County Mayo is found Lough Conn, once, according to local\nstory-tellers, the site of a village built within and around the enclosure\nof a castle. The lord of the castle, being fond of fish, determined to\nmake a fish-pond, and as the spot selected for the excavation was covered\nby the cabins of his poorest tenants, he ordered all the occupants to be\nturned out forthwith, an order at once carried out \"wid process-sarvers,\nan' bailiffs, an' consthables, an' sogers, an' polis, an' the people all\nshtandin' 'round.\" One of the evicted knelt on the ground and cursed the\nchief with \"all the seed, breed and gineration av 'im,\" and prayed \"that\nthe throut-pond 'ud be the death av 'im.\" The prayer was speedily\nanswered, for no sooner was the water turned into the newly-made pond,\nthan an overflow resulted; the valley was filled; the waves climbed the\nwalls of the castle, nor ceased to rise till they had swept the chief from\nthe highest tower, where \"he was down an his hard-hearted knees, sayin'\nhis baids as fast as he cud, an' bawlin' at all the saints aither to bring\nhim a boat or taiche him how to swim quick.\" Regard for the unfortunate\ntenants, however, prevented any interference by the saints thus vigorously\nand practically supplicated, so the chief was drowned and went, as the\nstory-teller concluded, to a locality where he \"naded more wather than\nhe'd left behind him, an' had the comp'ny av a shwarm av other landlords\nthat turned out the poor to shtarve.\"\n\nLough Gara, in Sligo, flows over a once thriving little town, the City of\nPeace, destroyed by an overflow on account of the lack of charity for\nstrangers. A poor widow entered it one night leading a child on each side\nand carrying a baby at her breast. She asked alms and shelter, but in\nvain; from door to door she went, but the customary Irish hospitality, so\nabundant alike to the deserving and to the unworthy, was lacking. At the\nend of the village \"she begun to scraich, yer Anner, wid that shtrength\nyou'd think she'd shplit her troat.\" At this provocation, all the\ninhabitants at once ran to ascertain the reason of so unusual a noise,\nupon which, when they were gathered 'round her, the woman pronounced the\ncurse of the widow and orphan on the people and their town. They laughed\nat her and returned home, but that night, the brook running through the\nvillage became a torrent, the outlet was closed, the waters rose, and\n\"ivery wan o' them oncharitable blagg\u00e2rds wor drownded, while they wor\naslape. Bad cess to the lie that's in it, for, sure, there's the lake to\nthis blessed day.\"\n\n                        [Illustration: Lough Conn]\n\nIn County Antrim there lies Lough Neag, one of the largest and most\nbeautiful bodies of water on the island. The waters of the lake are\ntransparently blue, and even small pebbles on the bottom can be seen at a\nconsiderable depth. Near the southern end, a survey of the bottom\ndiscloses hewn stones laid in order, and careful observations have traced\nthe regular walls of a structure of considerable dimensions. Tradition\nsays it was a castle, surrounded by the usual village, and accounts for\nits destruction by the lake on this wise. In ancient times, the castle was\nowned by an Irish chief named Shane O'Donovan, noted for his bad traits of\ncharacter, being merciless in war, tyrannical in peace, feared by his\nneighbors, hated by his dependents, and detested by everybody for his\ninhospitality and want of charity. His castle then stood by the bank of\nthe lake, on an elevated promontory, almost an island, being joined to the\nmainland by a narrow isthmus, very little above the water level.\n\nBy chance there came into that part of Ireland an angel who had been sent\nfrom heaven to observe the people and note their piety. In the garb and\nlikeness of a man, weary and footsore with travel, the angel spied the\ncastle from the hills above the lake, came down, and boldly applied for a\nnight's lodging. Not only was his request refused, \"but the oncivil Shane\nO'Donovan set an his dogs fur to bite him.\" The angel turned away, but no\nsooner had he left the castle gate than the villagers ran 'round him and a\ncontest ensued as to which of them should entertain the traveller. He made\nhis choice, going to the house of a cobbler who was \"that poor that he'd\nbut the wan pitatee, and when he wanted another he broke wan in two.\" The\nheavenly visitor shared the cobbler's potato and slept on the cobbler's\nfloor, \"puttin' his feet into the fire to kape thim warrum,\" but at\ndaylight he rose, and calling the inhabitants of the village, led them\nout, across the isthmus to a hill near by, and bid them look back. They\ndid so, beholding the castle and promontory separated from the mainland\nand beginning to subside into the lake. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the\ncastle sank, while the waters rose around, but stood like a wall on every\nside of the castle, not wetting a stone from turret to foundation. At\nlength the wall of water was higher than the battlements, the angel waved\nhis hand, the waves rushed over the castle and its sleeping inmates, and\nthe O'Donovan inhospitality was punished. The angel pointed to a spot near\nby, told the villagers to build and prosper there; then, as the\nawe-stricken peasants kneeled before him, his clothing became white and\nshining, wings appeared on his shoulders, he rose into the air and\nvanished from their sight.\n\nOf somewhat different origin is the pretty Lough Derryclare, in Connemara,\nsouth of the Joyce Country. The ferocious O'Flahertys frequented this\nregion in past ages, and, with the exception of Oliver Cromwell, no\nhistorical name is better known in the west of Ireland than O'Flaherty.\nOne of this doughty race was, it seems, a model of wickedness. \"He was as\nproud as a horse wid a wooden leg, an' so bad, that, savin' yer presince,\nthe divil himself was ashamed av him.\" This O'Flaherty had sent a party to\ndevastate a neighboring village, but as the men did not return promptly,\nhe started with a troop of horse in the direction they had taken. On the\nway he was passing through a deep ravine at the bottom of which flowed a\ntiny brook, when he met his returning troops, and questioning them as to\nthe thoroughness with which their bloody work had been done, found, to his\ngreat wrath, that they had spared the church and those who took refuge in\nits sacred precincts.\n\n\"May God drownd me where I shtand,\" said he, \"if I don't shlay thim all an\nthe althar,\" and no doubt he would have done so, but the moment the words\npassed his lips, the rivulet became a seething torrent, drowned him and\nhis men, and the lake was formed over the spot where they stood when the\ncurse was pronounced. \"An' sometimes, they say, that when the lake is\nquite shtill, ye may hear the groans av the lost sowls chained at the\nbottom.\"\n\nThe fairies are responsible for at least two of the Irish lakes, Lough Key\nand the Upper Lough Killarney. The former is an enlargement of the River\nBoyle, a tributary of the Shannon, and is situated in Roscommon. At a low\nstage of water, ruins can be discerned at the bottom of the river, and are\nreported to be those of a city whose inhabitants injudiciously attempted\nto swindle the \"good people\" in a land bargain. The city was built, it\nseems, by permission of the fairies, the understanding being that all\nraths were to be left undisturbed. For a long time the agreement was\nrespected, fairies and mortals living side by side, and neither class\ninterfering with the other. But, as the necessity for more arable land\nbecame evident, it was determined by the townspeople to level several\nraths and mounds that interfered with certain fields and boundary lines.\nThe dangers of such a course were plainly pointed out by the local\n\"fairy-man,\" and all the \"knowledgable women\" lifted their voices against\nit, but in vain; down the raths must come and down they came, to the\nconsternation of the knowing ones, who predicted no end of evil from so\nflagrant a violation of the treaty with the fairies.\n\nThe night after the demolition of the raths, one of the towns-men was\ncoming through the gorge below the city, when, \"Millia, murther, there wor\nmore than a hundherd t'ousand little men in grane jackets bringin' shtones\nan' airth an' buildin' a wall acrass the glen. Begob, I go bail but he was\nthe skairt man when he seen phat they done, an' run home wid all the legs\nhe had an' got his owld woman an' the childher. When she axed him phat he\nwas afther, he towld her to howld her whisht or he'd pull the tongue out\nav her an' to come along an' not spake a word. So they got to the top o'\nthe hill an' then they seen the wathers swapin' an the city an' niver a\nsowl was there left o' thim that wor in it. So the good people had their\nrayvinge, an' the like o' that makes men careful wid raths, not to\ndisplaze their betthers, for there's no sayin' phat they'll do.\"\n\nThe Upper Killarney lake was created by the fairy queen of Kerry to punish\nher lover, the young Prince O'Donohue. She was greatly fascinated by him,\nand, for a time, he was as devoted to her as woman's heart could wish. But\nthings changed, for, in the language of the boatman, who told the legend,\n\"whin a woman loves a man, she's satisfied wid wan, but whin a man loves a\nwoman, belike he's not contint wid twinty av her, an' so was it wid\nO'Donohue.\" No doubt, however, he loved the fairy queen as long as he\ncould, but in time tiring of her, \"he concluded to marry a foine lady, and\nwhen the quane rayproached him wid forgittin' her, at first he said it\nwasn't so, an' whin she proved it an him, faith he'd not a word left in\nhis jaw. So afther a dale o' blasthogue bechuxt thim, he got as mad as\nPaddy Monagan's dog when they cut his tail aff, an' towld her he wanted no\nmore av her, an' she towld him agin for to go an' marry his red-headed\ngurrul, 'but m\u00e2rk ye,' says she to him, 'ye shall niver resave her into\nyer cassel.' No more did he, for the night o' the weddin', while they were\nall dhrinkin' till they were ready to burst, in comes the waither an'\nsays, 'Here's the wather,' says he. 'Wather,' says O'Donohue, 'we want no\nwather to-night. Dhrink away.' 'But the wather's risin',' says the\nwaither. 'Arrah, ye Bladdherang,' says O'Donohue, 'phat d' ye mane be\ninthrudin' an agrayble frinds an such an outspishus occasion wid yer\npresince? Be aff, or be the powdhers o' war I'll wather ye,' says he,\nrisin' up for to shlay the waither. But wan av his gintlemin whuspered the\nthruth in his year an' towld him to run. So he did an' got away just in\ntime, for the cassel was half full o' wather whin he left it. But the\nquane didn't want to kill him, so he got away an' built another cassel an\nthe hill beyant where he lived wid his bride.\"\n\nStill another origin for the Irish lakes is found in Mayo, where Lough\nCarra is attributed to a certain \"giont,\" by name unknown, who formerly\ndwelt in the neighborhood, and, with one exception, found everything\nnecessary for comfort and convenience. He was a cleanly \"giont,\" and\ndesirous of performing his ablutions regularly and thoroughly. The streams\nin the neighborhood were ill adapted to his use, for when he entered any\none of them for bathing purposes \"bad scran to the wan that 'ud take him\nin furder than to the knees.\" Obviously this was not deep enough, so one\nday when unusually in need of a bath and driven desperate by the\ninadequacy of the means, \"he spit an his han's an' went to work an' made\nLough Carra. 'Bedad,' says he, 'I'll have a wash now,' an' so he did,\" and\ndoubtless enjoyed it, for the lake is deep and the water clear and pure.\n\nJust below Lough Carra is Lough Mask, a large lake between Mayo and\nGalway. Concerning its origin, traditionary authorities differ, some\nmaintaining that the lake was the work of fairies, others holding that it\nwas scooped out by a rival of the cleanly gigantic party already\nmentioned, a theory apparently confirmed by the fact that it has no\nvisible outlet, though several streams pour into it, its waters, it is\nbelieved, escaping by a subterranean channel to Lough Corrib, thence to\nthe sea. Sundry unbelievers, however, stoutly assert a conviction that\n\"it's so be nacher entirely an' thim that says it's not is ignerant\ngommochs that don't know,\" and in the face of determined scepticism the\nquestion of the origin of the lake must remain unsettled.\n\nThus far, indeed, it is painful to be compelled to state that scarcely one\nof the narratives of this chapter passes undisputed among the veracious\ntradition-mongers of Ireland. Like most other countries in this practical,\npoetry-decrying age, the Emerald Isle has scientists and sceptics, and\namong the peasants are found many men who have no hesitation in\nproclaiming their disbelief in \"thim owld shtories,\" and who even openly\naffirm that \"laigends about fairies an' giants is all lies complately.\" In\nthe face of this growing tendency towards materialism and the disposition\nto find in natural causes an explanation of wonderful events, it is\npleasant to be able to conclude this chapter with an undisputed account of\nthe origin of Lough Ree in the River Shannon, the accuracy of the\ninformation being in every particular guaranteed by a boatman on the\nShannon, \"a respectable man,\" who solemnly asseverated \"Sure, that's no\nlaigend, but the blessed truth as I'm livin' this minnit, for I'd sooner\ncut out me tongue be the root than desave yer Anner, when every wan knows\nthere's not a taste av a lie in it at all.\"\n\n\"When the blessed Saint Pathrick was goin' through Ireland from wan end to\nthe other buildin' churches, an' Father Malone says he built three\nhundherd an' sixty foive, that's a good manny, he come to Roscommon be the\nway av Athlone, where ye saw the big barracks an' the sojers. So he passed\nthrough Athlone, the counthry bein' full o' haythens entirely an' not av\nCrissans, and went up the Shannon, kapin' the river on his right hand, an'\ncome to a big peat bog, that's where the lake is now. There were more than\na thousand poor omadhawns av haythens a-diggin' the peat, an' the blessed\nsaint convarted thim at wanst afore he'd shtir a toe to go anny furder.\nThen he built thim a church an the hill be the bog, an' gev thim a holy\nman fur a priest be the name o' Caruck, that I b'lave is a saint too or\nlasteways ought to be fur phat he done. So Saint Pathrick left thim wid\nthe priest, givin' him great power on the divil an' avil sper'ts, and\ntowld him to build a priest's house as soon as he cud. So the blessed\nCaruck begged an' begged as long as he got anny money, an' whin he'd the\nlast ha'penny he cud shtart, he begun the priest's house fur to kape monks\nin.\n\n\"But the divil was watchin' him ivery minnit, fur it made the owld felly\ntarin' mad to see himself bate out o' the face that-a-way in the counthry\nwhere he'd been masther so long, an' he detarmined he'd spile the job. So\nwan night, he goes to the bottom o' the bog, an' begins dammin' the\nshtrame, from wan side to the other, layin' the shtones shtrong an' tight,\nan' the wather begins a risin' an the bog. Now it happened that the\nblessed Caruck wasn't aslape as Satan thought, but up an' about, for he\nmisthrusted that the Owld Wan was dodgin' round like a wayzel, an' was an\nthe watch fur him. So when the blessed man saw the wather risin' on the\nbog an' not a taste o' rain fallin', 'Phat's this?' says he. 'Sure it's\nsome o' Satan's deludherin'.'\n\n\"So down he goes bechuxt the hills an' kapin' from the river, an' comes up\nbelow where the divil was workin' away pilin' on the airth an' shtones. So\nhe comes craipin' up on him an' when he got purty clost, he riz an' says,\n'Hilloo, Nayber!' Now Belzebub was like to dhrop on the ground wid fright\nat the look av him, he was that astonished. But there was no gettin' away,\nso he shtopped on the job, wiped the shweat aff his face, an' says,\n'Hilloo yerself.'\n\n\"'Ye're at yer owld thricks,' says the blessed Caruck.\n\n\"'Shmall blame to me, that's,' says Belzebub, 'wid yer churches an' saints\nan' convartin' thim haythens, ye're shpiling me business entirely. Sure,\nhaven't I got to airn me bread?' says he, spakin' up as bowld as a cock,\nand axcusin' himself.\n\n\"At first the blessed Caruck was goin' to be rough wid him for shtrivin'\nto interfare wid the church an' the priest's house be risin' the wather on\nthim, but that minnit the moon shone out as bright as day an' he looked\nback an' there was the beautifulest lake he iver set his blessed eyes on,\nan' the church wid its towers riz above it like a fairy cassel in a\ndhrame, an' he clasped his hands wid delight. So Satan looked too an' was\nmortefied to death wid invy when he seen how he bate himself at his own\ngame.\n\n\"So the blessed Caruck towld Belzebub to lave the dam where it was, an'\nthen, thinkin' av the poor bog-throtters that 'ud nade the turf, he\nordhered him beways av a punishmint, to dig all the turf there was in the\nbog an' pile it up on the hill to dhry.\n\n\"'Don't you lave as much as a speck av it undher wather,' says he to him,\n'or as sure as I'm a saint I'll make ye repint it to the end o' yer\nsnakin' life,' says he, an' thin stud on the bank an' watched the Owld\nDeludher while he brought out the turf in loads on his back, an' ivery\nload as big as the church, till the hape av sods was as high as a\nmountain. So he got it done be mornin', an' glad enough was the divil to\nhave the job aff his hands, fur he was as wet as a goose in May an' as\ntired as a pedler's donkey. So the blessed Caruck towld him to take\nhimself aff an' not come back: that he was mighty well plazed to do.\n\n                  [Illustration: The Church by the Bog]\n\n\"That's the way the lake come to be here, an' the blessed Caruck come well\nout o' that job, fur he sold the turf an' built a big house on the shore\nwid the money, an' chated the divil besides, Glory be to God, when the\nOwld Wan was thryin' his best fur to sarcumvint a saint.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nABOUT THE FAIRIES.\n\n\n             [Illustration: Initial: \"About the Fairies\"]\n\nThe Oriental luxuriance of the Irish mythology is nowhere more\nconspicuously displayed than when dealing with the history, habits,\ncharacteristics and pranks of the \"good people.\" According to the most\nreliable of the rural \"fairy-men,\" a race now nearly extinct, the fairies\nwere once angels, so numerous as to have formed a large part of the\npopulation of heaven. When Satan sinned and drew throngs of the heavenly\nhost with him into open rebellion, a large number of the less warlike\nspirits stood aloof from the contest that followed, fearing the\nconsequences, and not caring to take sides till the issue of the conflict\nwas determined. Upon the defeat and expulsion of the rebellious angels,\nthose who had remained neutral were punished by banishment from heaven,\nbut their offence being only one of omission, they were not consigned to\nthe pit with Satan and his followers, but were sent to earth where they\nstill remain, not without hope that on the last day they may be pardoned\nand readmitted to Paradise. They are thus on their good behavior, but\nhaving power to do infinite harm, they are much feared, and spoken of,\neither in a whisper or aloud, as the \"good people.\"\n\nUnlike Leprechawns, who are not considered fit associates for reputable\nfairies, the good people are not solitary, but quite sociable, and always\nlive in large societies, the members of which pursue the co\u00f6perative plan\nof labor and enjoyment, owning all their property, the kind and amount of\nwhich are somewhat indefinite, in common, and uniting their efforts to\naccomplish any desired object, whether of work or play. They travel in\nlarge bands, and although their parties are never seen in the daytime,\nthere is little difficulty in ascertaining their line of march, for, \"sure\nthey make the terriblest little cloud o' dust iver raised, an' not a bit\no' wind in it at all,\" so that a fairy migration is sometimes the talk of\nthe county. \"Though, be nacher, they're not the length av yer finger, they\ncan make thimselves the bigness av a tower when it plazes thim, an' av\nthat ugliness that ye'd faint wid the looks o' thim, as knowin' they can\nshtrike ye dead on the shpot or change ye into a dog, or a pig, or a\nunicorn, or anny other dirthy baste they plaze.\"\n\nAs a matter of fact, however, the fairies are by no means so numerous at\npresent as they were formerly, a recent historian remarking that the\nNational Schools and societies of Father Mathew are rapidly driving the\nfairies out of the country, for \"they hate larnin' an' wisdom an' are\nlovers av nacher entirely.\"\n\nIn a few remote districts, where the schools are not yet well established,\nthe good people are still found, and their doings are narrated with a\nchildlike faith in the power of these first inhabitants of Ireland, for it\nseems to be agreed that they were in the country long before the coming\neither of the Irishman or of his Sassenagh oppressor.\n\nThe bodies of the fairies are not composed of flesh and bones, but of an\nethereal substance, the nature of which is not determined. \"Ye can see\nthimselves as plain as the nose on yer face, an' can see through thim like\nit was a mist.\" They have the power of vanishing from human sight when\nthey please, and the fact that the air is sometimes full of them inspires\nthe respect entertained for them by the peasantry. Sometimes they are\nheard without being seen, and when they travel through the air, as they\noften do, are known by a humming noise similar to that made by a swarm of\nbees. Whether or not they have wings is uncertain. Barney Murphy, of\nKerry, thought they had; for several seen by him a number of years ago\nseemed to have long, semi-transparent pinions, \"like thim that grows on a\ndhraggin-fly.\" Barney's neighbors, however, contradicted him by stoutly\ndenying the good people the attribute of wings, and intimated that at the\ntime Barney saw the fairies he was too drunk to distinguish a pair of\nwings from a pair of legs, so this branch of the subject must remain in\ndoubt.\n\nWith regard to their dress, the testimony is undisputed. Young lady\nfairies wear pure white robes and usually allow their hair to flow loosely\nover their shoulders; while fairy matrons bind up their tresses in a coil\non the top or back of the head, also surrounding the temples with a golden\nband. Young gentlemen elves wear green jackets, with white breeches and\nstockings; and when a fairy of either sex has need of a cap or\nhead-covering, the flower of the fox-glove is brought into requisition.\n\nMale fairies are perfect in all military exercises, for, like the other\ninhabitants of Ireland, fairies are divided into factions, the objects of\ncontention not, in most cases, being definitely known. In Kerry, a number\nof years ago, there was a great battle among the fairies, one party\ninhabiting a rath or sepulchral mound, the other an unused and lonely\ngraveyard. Paddy O'Donohue was the sole witness of this encounter, the\nnarrative being in his own words.\n\n\"I was lyin' be the road, bein' on me way home an' tired wid the walkin'.\nA bright moon was out that night, an' I heard a noise like a million av\nsogers, thrampin' on the road, so I riz me an' looked, an' the way was\nfull av little men, the length o' me hand, wid grane coats on, an' all in\nrows like wan o' the ridgmints; aitch wid a pike on his showldher an' a\nshield on his arrum. Wan was in front, beway he was the ginral, walkin'\nwid his chin up as proud as a paycock. Jagers, but I was skairt an' prayed\nfasther than iver I did in me life, for it was too clost to me entirely\nthey wor for comfort or convaynience aither. But they all went by, sorra\nthe wan o' thim turnin' his head to raygard me at all, Glory be to God for\nthat same; so they left me. Afther they were clane gone by, I had curosity\nfor to see phat they were afther, so I folly'd thim, a good bit aff, an'\nready to jump an' run like a hare at the laste noise, for I was afeared if\nthey caught me at it, they'd make a pig o' me at wanst or change me into a\nbaste complately. They marched into the field bechuxt the graveyard an'\nthe rath, an' there was another army there wid red coats, from the\ngraveyard, an' the two armies had the biggest fight ye iver seen, the\ngranes agin the reds. Afther lookin' on a bit, I got axcited, for the\ngranes were batin' the reds like blazes, an' I up an' give a whilloo an'\ncalled out, 'At 'em agin! Don't lave wan o' the blaggards!' An' wid that\nword, the sight left me eyes an' I remimber no more till mornin', an'\nthere was I, layin' on the road where I seen thim, as shtiff as a crutch.\"\n\nThe homes of the fairies are commonly in raths, tumuli of the pagan days\nof Ireland, and, on this account, raths are much dreaded, and after\nsundown are avoided by the peasantry. Attempts have been made to remove\nsome of these raths, but the unwillingness of the peasants to engage in\nthe work, no matter what inducements may be offered in compensation, has\ngenerally resulted in the abandonment of the undertaking. On one of the\nislands in the Upper Lake of Killarney there is a rath, and the\nproprietor, finding it occupied too much ground, resolved to have it\nlevelled to increase the arable surface of the field. The work was begun,\nbut one morning, in the early dawn, as the laborers were crossing the lake\non their way to the island, they saw a procession of about two hundred\npersons, habited like monks, leave the island and proceed to the mainland,\nfollowed, as the workmen thought, by a long line of small, shining\nfigures. The phenomenon was perhaps genuine, for the mirage is by no means\nan uncommon appearance in some parts of Ireland, but work on the rath was\nat once indefinitely postponed. Besides raths, old castles, deserted\ngraveyards, ruined churches, secluded glens in the mountains, springs,\nlakes, and caves all are the homes and resorts of fairies, as is very well\nknown on the west coast.\n\nThe better class of fairies are fond of human society and often act as\nguardians to those they love. In parts of Donegal and Galway they are\nbelieved to receive the souls of the dying and escort them to the gates of\nheaven, not, however, being allowed to enter with them. On this account,\nfairies love graves and graveyards, having often been seen walking to and\nfro among the grassy mounds. There are, indeed, some accounts of faction\nfights among the fairy bands at or shortly after a funeral, the question\nin dispute being whether the soul of the departed belonged to one or the\nother faction.\n\n                    [Illustration: Music: Fairy Dance]\n\nThe amusements of the fairies consist of music, dancing, and ball-playing.\nIn music their skill exceeds that of men, while their dancing is perfect,\nthe only drawback being the fact that it blights the grass, \"fairy-rings\"\nof dead grass, apparently caused by a peculiar fungous growth, being\ncommon in Ireland. Although their musical instruments are few, the fairies\nuse these few with wonderful skill. Near Colooney, in Sligo, there is a\n\"knowlageable woman,\" whose grandmother's aunt once witnessed a fairy\nball, the music for which was furnished by an orchestra which the\nmanagement had no doubt been at great pains and expense to secure and\ninstruct.\n\n\"It was the cutest sight alive. There was a place for thim to shtand on,\nan' a wondherful big fiddle av the size ye cud slape in it, that was\nplayed be a monsthrous frog, an' two little fiddles, that two kittens\nfiddled on, an' two big drums, baten be cats, an' two trumpets, played be\nfat pigs. All round the fairies were dancin' like angels, the fireflies\ngivin' thim light to see by, an' the moonbames shinin' on the lake, for it\nwas be the shore it was, an' if ye don't belave it, the glen's still\nthere, that they call the fairy glen to this blessed day.\"\n\nThe fairies do much singing, seldom, however, save in chorus, and their\nsongs were formerly more frequently heard than at present. Even now a\nbelated peasant, who has been at a wake, or is coming home from a fair, in\npassing a rath will sometimes hear the soft strains of their voices in the\ndistance, and will hurry away lest they discover his presence and be angry\nat the intrusion on their privacy. When in unusually good spirits they\nwill sometimes admit a mortal to their revels, but if he speaks, the scene\nat once vanishes, he becomes insensible, and generally finds himself by\nthe roadside the next morning, \"wid that degray av pains in his arrums an'\nlegs an' back, that if sixteen thousand divils were afther him, he cudn't\nstir a toe to save the sowl av him, that's phat the fairies do be pinchin'\nan' punchin' him for comin' on them an' shpakin' out loud.\"\n\nKindly disposed fairies often take great pleasure in assisting those who\ntreat them with proper respect, and as the favors always take a practical\nform, there is sometimes a business value in the show of reverence for\nthem. There was Barney Noonan, of the County Leitrim, for instance, \"An'\nsorra a betther boy was in the county than Barney. He'd work as reg'lar as\na pump, an' liked a bit av divarshun as well as annybody when he'd time\nfor it, that wasn't aften, to be sure, but small blame to him, for he\nwasn't rich be no manner o' manes. He'd a power av rag\u00e2rd av the good\npeople, an' when he wint be the rath beyant his field, he'd pull aff his\ncaubeen an' take the dudheen out av his mouth, as p'lite as a dancin'\nmasther, an' say, 'God save ye, ladies an' gintlemen,' that the good\npeople always heard though they niver showed thimselves to him. He'd a bit\no' bog, that the hay was on, an' afther cuttin' it, he left it for to\ndhry, an' the sun come out beautiful an' in a day or so the hay was as\ndhry as powdher an' ready to put away.\n\n\"So Barney was goin' to put it up, but, it bein' the day av the fair, he\nthought he'd take the calf an' sell it, an' so he did, an' comin' up wid\nthe boys, he stayed over his time, bein' hindhered wid dhrinkin' an'\ndancin' an' palaverin' at the gurls, so it was afther dark when he got\nhome an' the night as black as a crow, the clouds gatherin' on the tops av\nthe mountains like avil sper'ts an' crapin' down into the glens like\ndisthroyin' angels, an' the wind howlin' like tin thousand Banshees, but\nBarney didn't mind it all wan copper, bein' glorified wid the dhrink he'd\nhad. So the hay niver enthered the head av him, but in he wint an' tumbled\nin bed an' was shnorin' like a horse in two minnits, for he was a\nbach'ler, God bless him, an' had no wife to gosther him an' ax him where\nhe'd been, an' phat he'd been at, an' make him tell a hunderd lies about\nnot gettin' home afore. So it came on to thunder an' lighten like as all\nthe avil daymons in the univarse were fightin' wid cannons in the shky,\nan' by an' by there was a clap loud enough to shplit yer skull an' Barney\nwoke up.\n\n\"'Tattheration to me,' says he to himself, 'it's goin' for to rain an' me\nhay on the ground. Phat 'll I do?' says he.\n\n\"So he rowled over on the bed an' looked out av a crack for to see if it\nwas ralely rainin'. An' there was the biggest crowd he iver seen av little\nmen an' wimmin. They'd built a row o' fires from the cow-house to the bog\nan' were comin' in a shtring like the cows goin' home, aitch wan wid his\ntwo arrums full o' hay. Some were in the cow-house, resayvin' the hay;\nsome were in the field, rakin' the hay together; an' some were shtandin'\nwid their hands in their pockets beways they were the bosses, tellin' the\nrest for to make haste. An' so they did, for every wan run like he was\nafther goin' for the docther, an' brought a load an' hurried back for\nmore.\n\n\"Barney looked through the crack at thim a crossin' himself ivery minnit\nwid admiration for the shpeed they had. 'God be good to me,' says he to\nhimself, ''tis not ivery gossoon in Leitrim that's got haymakers like\nthim,' only he never spake a word out loud, for he knewn very well the\ngood people 'ud n't like it. So they brought in all the hay an' put it in\nthe house an' thin let the fires go out an' made another big fire in front\no' the dure, an' begun to dance round it wid the swatest music Barney iver\nheard.\n\n\"Now be this time he'd got up an' feelin' aisey in his mind about the hay,\nbegun to be very merry. He looked on through the dure at thim dancin', an'\nby an' by they brought out a jug wid little tumblers and begun to drink\nsummat that they poured out o' the jug. If Barney had the sense av a\nherrin', he'd a kept shtill an' let thim dhrink their fill widout openin'\nthe big mouth av him, bein' that he was as full as a goose himself an'\nnaded no more; but when he seen the jug an' the tumblers an' the fairies\ndrinkin' away wid all their mights, he got mad an' bellered out like a\nbull, 'Arra-a-a-h now, ye little attomies, is it dhrinkin' ye are, an'\nnever givin' a sup to a thirsty mortial that always thrates yez as well as\nhe knows how,' and immejitly the fairies, an' the fire, an' the jug all\nwint out av his sight, an' he to bed agin in a timper. While he was layin'\nthere, he thought he heard talkin' an' a cugger-mugger goin' on, but when\nhe peeped out agin, sorra a thing did he see but the black night an' the\nrain comin' down an' aitch dhrop the full av a wather-noggin. So he wint\nto slape, continted that the hay was in, but not plazed that the good\npeople 'ud be pigs entirely, to be afther dhrinkin' undher his eyes an'\nnot offer him a taste, no, not so much as a shmell at the jug.\n\n\"In the mornin' up he gets an' out for to look at the hay an' see if the\nfairies put it in right, for he says, 'It's a job they're not used to.' So\nhe looked in the cow-house an' thought the eyes 'ud lave him when there\nwasn't a shtraw in the house at all. 'Holy Moses,' says he, 'phat have\nthey done wid it?' an' he couldn't consave phat had gone wid the hay. So\nhe looked in the field an' it was all there; bad luck to the bit av it had\nthe fairies left in the house at all, but when he shouted at thim, they\ngot tarin' mad an' took all the hay back agin to the bog, puttin' every\nshtraw where Barney laid it, an' it was as wet as a drownded cat. But it\nwas a lesson to him he niver forgot, an' I go bail that the next time the\nfairies help him in wid his hay he'll kape shtill an' let thim dhrink\nthimselves to death if they plaze widout sayin' a word.\"\n\nThe good people have the family relations of husband and wife, parent and\nchild, and although it is darkly hinted by some that fairy husbands and\nwives have as many little disagreements as are found in mortal households,\n\"for, sure a woman's tongue is longer than a man's patience,\" and \"a\nhusband is bound for to be gosthered day in an' day out, for a woman's jaw\nis sharpened on the divil's grindshtone,\" yet opinions unfavorable to\nmarried happiness among the fairies are not generally received. On the\ncontrary, it is believed that married life in fairy circles is regulated\non the basis of the absolute submission of the wife to the husband. As\nthis point was elucidated by a Donegal woman, \"They're wan, that's the\nhusband an' the wife, but he's more the wan than she is.\"\n\nThe love of children is one of the most prominent traits of fairy\ncharacter, but as it manifests itself by stealing beautiful babes,\nreplacing them by young Leprechawns, the fairies are much dreaded by west\ncoast mothers, and many precautions are taken against the elves. Thefts of\nthis kind now rarely occur, but once they were common, as \"in thim owld\ntimes, ye cud see tin fairies where there isn't wan now, be razon o' thim\nlavin' the counthry.\"\n\nA notable case of baby stealing occurred in the family of Termon Magrath,\nwho had a castle, now in picturesque ruins, on the shore of Lough Erne, in\nthe County Donegal. The narrator of the incident was \"a knowledgable\nwoman,\" who dwelt in an apology for a cabin, a thatched shed placed\nagainst the precipitous side of the glen almost beneath the castle. The\nwretched shelter was nearly concealed from view by the overhanging\nbranches of a large tree and by thick undergrowth, and seemed unfit for a\npig-pen, but, though her surroundings were poor beyond description, \"Owld\nMeg,\" in the language of one of her neighbors, \"knew a dale av fairies an'\nwitches an' could kape thim from a babby betther than anny woman that iver\ndhrew the breath av life.\" A bit of tobacco to enable her to take a \"dhraw\no' the pipe, an' that warms me heart to the whole worruld,\" brought forth\nthe story.\n\n                        [Illustration: \"Owld Meg\"]\n\n\"It's a manny year ago, that Termon Magrath wint, wid all his army, to the\nwar in the County Tyrone, an' while he was gone the babby was born an'\nthey called her Eva. She was her mother's first, so she felt moighty\nonaisey in her mind about her 's knowin' that the good people do be always\nafther the first wan that comes, an' more whin it's a girl that's in it,\nthat they thry to stale harder than they do a boy, bekase av belavin'\nthey're aisier fur to rare, though it's mesilf that doesn't belave that\nsame, fur wan girl makes more throuble than tin boys an' isn't a haporth\nmore good.\n\n\"So whin the babby was born they sent afther an owld struckawn av a widdy\nthat set up for a wise woman, that knew no more o' doctherin' than a pig\nav Paradise, but they thought she could kape away the fairies, that's a\njob that takes no ind av knowledge in thim that thries it. But the poor\nowld woman did the best she knew how, an' so, God be good to her, she\nwasn't to be blamed fur that, but it's the likes av her that do shame thim\nthat's larned in such things, fur they make people think all wise wimmin\nas ignerant as hersilf. So she made the sign o' the crass on the babby's\nface wid ashes, an' towld thim to bite aff its nails and not cut thim till\nnine weeks, an' held a burnin' candle afore its eyes, so it 'ud do the\ndeeds av light an' not av darkness, an' mixed sugar an' salt an' oil, an'\ngive it to her, that her life 'ud be swate an' long presarved an' go\nsmooth, but the owld widdy forgot wan thing. She didn't put a lucky\nshamrock, that 's got four leaves, in a gospel an' tie it 'round the\nbabby's neck wid a t'read pulled out av her gown, an' not mindin' this,\nall the rest was no good at all. No more did she tell the mother not to\ntake her eyes aff the child till the ninth day; afther that the fairies\ncud n't take it.\n\n\"So the nurse tuk the babby in the next room an' laid it on the bed, an'\nwint away for a minnit, but thinkin' she heard it cry, back she come an'\nthere was the babby, bedclothes an' all just goin' through the flure,\nbein' dhrawn be the fairies. The nurse scraiched an' caught the clothes\nan' the maid helped her, so that the two o' thim pulled wid all their\nmights an' got the bedclothes up agin, but while the child was out o'\nsight, the fairies changed it an' put a fairy child in its place, but the\nnurse didn't know phat the fairies done, no more did the owld struckawn,\nthat shows she was an ignerant woman entirely. But the fairies tuk Eva\naway undher the lake where they trated her beautiful. Every night they gev\nher a dance, wid the loveliest music that was iver heard, wid big drums\nan' little drums, an' fiddles an' pipes an' thrumpets, fur such a band the\ngood people do have when they give a dance.\n\n\"So she grew an' the quane said she should have a husband among the\nfairies, but she fell in love wid an owld Leprechawn, an' the quane, to\nsarcumvint her, let her walk on the shore o' the lake where she met Darby\nO'Hoolighan an' loved him an' married him be the quane's consint. The\nquane towld her to tell him if he shtruck her three blows widout a razon,\nshe'd lave him an' come back to the fairies. The quane gev her a power av\nriches, shape an' pigs widout number an' more oxen than ye cud count in a\nweek. So she an' Darby lived together as happy as two doves, an' she\nhadn't as much care as a blind piper's dog, morebetoken, they had two\nboys, good lookin' like their mother an' shtrong as their father.\n\n                  [Illustration: Eva calling the Cattle]\n\n\"Wan day, afther they'd been marred siventeen years, she an' Darby were\ngoin' to a weddin', an' she was shlow, so Darby towld her fur to hurry an'\ngev her a slap on the shouldher wid the palm av his hand, so she begun to\ncry. He axed her phat ailed her an' she towld him he'd shtruck her the\nfirst av the three blows. So he was mighty sorry an' said he'd be careful,\nbut it wasn't more than a year afther, when he was taichin' wan o' the\nboys to use a shtick, that she got behind him an' got hit wid the\nshillaly. That was the second blow, an' made her lose her timper, an' they\nhad a rale quarl. So he got mad, sayin' that nayther o' thim blows ought\nto be counted, bein' they both come be accident. So he flung the shtick\nagin the wall, 'Divil take the shtick,' says he, an' went out quick, an'\nthe shtick fell back from the wall an' hit her an the head. 'That's the\nthird,' says she, an' she kissed her sons an' walked out. Thin she called\nthe cows in the field an' they left grazin' an' folly'd her; she called\nthe oxen in the shtalls an' they quit atin' an' come out; an' she shpoke\nto the calf that was hangin' in the yard, that they'd killed that mornin'\nan' it got down an' come along. The lamb that was killed the day afore, it\ncome; an' the pigs that were salted an' thim hangin' up to dhry, they\ncome, all afther her in a shtring. Thin she called to her things in the\nhouse, an' the chairs walked out, an' the tables, an' the chist av\ndrawers, an' the boxes, all o' thim put out legs like bastes an' come\nalong, wid the pots an' pans, an' gridiron, an' buckets, an' noggins, an'\nkish, lavin' the house as bare as a 'victed tinant's, an' all afther her\nto the lake, where they wint undher an' disappared, an' haven't been seen\nbe man or mortial to this blessed day.\n\n\"Now, there's thim that says the shtory aint thrue, fur, says they, how\n'ud a woman do such a thrick as go aff that a way an' take ivery thing she\nhad, just bekase av her husband hittin' her be accident thim three times.\nBut thim that says it forgits that she was a young wan, aven if she did\nhave thim boys I was afther tellin' ye av, an' faith, it's no lie I'm\nsayin', that it's not in the power av the angels o' God to be knowin' phat\na young wan 'ull be doin'. Afther they get owld, an' do be losin' their\ntaythe, an' their beauty goes, thin they're sober an' get over thim\nnotions; but it takes a dale av time to make an owld wan out av a young\nwan.\n\n\"But she didn't forget the boys she'd left, an' wanst in a while she'd\ncome to the aidge av the lake whin they were clost be the bank an' spake\nwid thim, fur aven, if she was half a fairy, she'd the mother's heart that\nthe good God put in her bosom; an' wan time they seen her wid a little\nattomy av a man alang wid her, that was a Leprechawn, as they knewn be the\nlook av him, an' that makes me belave that the rale rayzon av her lavin'\nher husband was to get back to the owld Leprechawn she was in love wid\nafore she was marr'd to Darby O'Hoolighan.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE BANSHEE.\n\n\n                [Illustration: Initial: \"The Banshee\"]\n\nAlthough the Irish have the reputation of being grossly superstitious,\nthey are not a whit more so than the peasantry of England, France, or\nGermany, nor scarcely as much addicted to superstitious beliefs and\nfancies as the lower class of Scottish Highlanders. The Irish imagination\nis, however, so lively as to endow the legends of the Emerald Isle with an\nindividuality not possessed by those of most other nations, while the\nIrish command of language presents the creatures of Hibernian fancy in a\ngarb so vividly real and yet so fantastically original as to make an\nimpression sometimes exceedingly startling.\n\nOf the creations of the Irish imagination, some are humorous, some\ngrotesque, and some awe-inspiring even to sublimity, and chief among the\nlast class is \"the weird-wailing Banshee, that sings by night her mournful\ncry,\" giving notice to the family she attends that one of its members is\nsoon to be called to the spirit-world. The name of this dreaded attendant\nis variously pronounced, as Banshee, Banshi, and Benshee, being translated\nby different scholars, the Female Fairy, the Woman of Peace, the Lady of\nDeath, the Angel of Death, the White Lady of Sorrow, the Nymph of the Air,\nand the Spirit of the Air. The Banshee is quite distinct from the Fearshee\nor Shifra, the Man of Peace, the latter bringing good tidings and singing\na joyful lay near the house when unexpected good fortune is to befall any\nor all its inmates. The Banshee is really a disembodied soul, that of one\nwho, in life, was strongly attached to the family, or who had good reason\nto hate all its members. Thus, in different instances, the Banshee's song\nmay be inspired by opposite motives. When the Banshee loves those whom she\ncalls, the song is a low, soft chant, giving notice, indeed, of the close\nproximity of the angel of death, but with a tenderness of tone that\nreassures the one destined to die and comforts the survivors; rather a\nwelcome than a warning, and having in its tones a thrill of exultation, as\nthough the messenger spirit were bringing glad tidings to him summoned to\njoin the waiting throng of his ancestors. If, during her lifetime, the\nBanshee was an enemy of the family, the cry is the scream of a fiend,\nhowling with demoniac delight over the coming death-agony of another of\nher foes.\n\n                [Illustration: Music: Song of the Banshee]\n\nIn some parts of Ireland there exists a belief that the spirits of the\ndead are not taken from earth, nor do they lose all their former interest\nin earthly affairs, but enjoy the happiness of the saved, or suffer the\npunishment imposed for their sins, in the neighborhood of the scenes among\nwhich they lived while clothed in flesh and blood. At particular crises in\nthe affairs of mortals, these disenthralled spirits sometimes display joy\nor grief in such a manner as to attract the attention of living men and\nwomen. At weddings they are frequently unseen guests; at funerals they are\nalways present; and sometimes, at both weddings and funerals, their\npresence is recognized by aerial voices or mysterious music known to be of\nunearthly origin. The spirits of the good wander with the living as\nguardian angels, but the spirits of the bad are restrained in their\naction, and compelled to do penance at or near the places where their\ncrimes were committed. Some are chained at the bottoms of the lakes,\nothers buried under ground, others confined in mountain gorges; some hang\non the sides of precipices, others are transfixed on the tree-tops, while\nothers haunt the homes of their ancestors, all waiting till the penance\nhas been endured and the hour of release arrives. The Castle of\nDunseverick, in Antrim, is believed to be still inhabited by the spirit of\na chief, who there atones for a horrid crime, while the castles of\nDunluce, of Magrath, and many others are similarly peopled by the wicked\ndead. In the Abbey of Clare, the ghost of a sinful abbot walks and will\ncontinue to do so until his sin has been atoned for by the prayers he\nunceasingly mutters in his tireless march up and down the aisles of the\nruined nave.\n\nThe Banshee is of the spirits who look with interested eyes on earthly\ndoings; and, deeply attached to the old families, or, on the contrary,\nregarding all their members with a hatred beyond that known to mortals,\nlingers about their dwellings to soften or to aggravate the sorrow of the\napproaching death. The Banshee attends only the old families, and though\ntheir descendants, through misfortune, may be brought down from high\nestate to the ranks of peasant-tenants, she never leaves nor forgets them\ntill the last member has been gathered to his fathers in the churchyard.\nThe MacCarthys, Magraths, O'Neills, O'Rileys, O'Sullivans, O'Reardons,\nO'Flahertys, and almost all other old families of Ireland, have Banshees,\nthough many representatives of these names are in abject poverty.\n\nThe song of the Banshee is commonly heard a day or two before the death of\nwhich it gives notice, though instances are cited of the song at the\nbeginning of a course of conduct or line of undertaking that resulted\nfatally. Thus, in Kerry, a young girl engaged herself to a youth, and at\nthe moment her promise of marriage was given, both heard the low, sad wail\nabove their heads. The young man deserted her, she died of a broken heart,\nand the night before her death, the Banshee's song, loud and clear, was\nheard outside the window of her mother's cottage. One of the O'Flahertys,\nof Galway, marched out of his castle with his men on a foray, and, as his\ntroops filed through the gateway, the Banshee was heard high above the\ntowers of the fortress. The next night she sang again, and was heard no\nmore for a month, when his wife heard the wail under her window, and on\nthe following day his followers brought back his corpse. One of the\nO'Neills of Shane Castle, in Antrim, heard the Banshee as he started on a\njourney before daybreak, and was accidentally killed some time after, but\nwhile on the same journey.\n\n                  [Illustration: The \"Hateful Banshee\"]\n\nThe wail most frequently comes at night, although cases are cited of\nBanshees singing during the daytime, and the song is often inaudible to\nall save the one for whom the warning is intended. This, however, is not\ngeneral, the death notice being for the family rather than for the doomed\nindividual. The spirit is generally alone, though rarely several are heard\nsinging in chorus. A lady of the O'Flaherty family, greatly beloved for\nher social qualities, benevolence, and piety, was, some years ago, taken\nill at the family mansion near Galway, though no uneasiness was felt on\nher account, as her ailment seemed nothing more than a slight cold. After\nshe had remained in-doors for a day or two several of her acquaintances\ncame to her room to enliven her imprisonment, and while the little party\nwere merrily chatting, strange sounds were heard, and all trembled and\nturned pale as they recognized the singing of a chorus of Banshees. The\nlady's ailment developed into pleurisy, and she died in a few days, the\nchorus being again heard in a sweet, plaintive requiem as the spirit was\nleaving her body. The honor of being warned by more than one Banshee is,\nhowever, very great, and comes only to the purest of the pure.\n\nThe \"hateful Banshee\" is much dreaded by members of a family against which\nshe has enmity. A noble Irish family, whose name is still familiar in\nMayo, is attended by a Banshee of this description. This Banshee is the\nspirit of a young girl deceived and afterwards murdered by a former head\nof the family. With her dying breath she cursed her murderer, and promised\nshe would attend him and his forever. Many years passed, the chieftain\nreformed his ways, and his youthful crime was almost forgotten even by\nhimself, when, one night, he and his family were seated by the fire, and\nsuddenly the most horrid shrieks were heard outside the castle walls. All\nran out, but saw nothing. During the night the screams continued as though\nthe castle were besieged by demons, and the unhappy man recognized, in the\ncry of the Banshee, the voice of the young girl he had murdered. The next\nnight he was assassinated by one of his followers, when again the wild,\nunearthly screams of the spirit were heard, exulting over his fate. Since\nthat night, the \"hateful Banshee\" has never failed to notify the family,\nwith shrill cries of revengeful gladness, when the time of one of their\nnumber had arrived.\n\n                  [Illustration: The \"Friendly Banshee\"]\n\nBanshees are not often seen, but those that have made themselves visible\ndiffer as much in personal appearance as in the character of their cries.\nThe \"friendly Banshee\" is a young and beautiful female spirit, with pale\nface, regular, well-formed features, hair sometimes coal-black, sometimes\ngolden; eyes blue, brown, or black. Her long, white drapery falls below\nher feet as she floats in the air, chanting her weird warning, lifting her\nhands as if in pitying tenderness bestowing a benediction on the soul she\nsummons to the invisible world. The \"hateful Banshee\" is a horrible hag,\nwith angry, distorted features; maledictions are written in every line of\nher wrinkled face, and her outstretched arms call down curses on the\ndoomed member of the hated race. Though generally the only intimation of\nthe presence of the Banshee is her cry, a notable instance of the contrary\nexists in the family of the O'Reardons, to the doomed member of which the\nBanshee always appears in the shape of an exceedingly beautiful woman, who\nsings a song so sweetly solemn as to reconcile him to his approaching\nfate.\n\nThe prophetic spirit does not follow members of a family who go to a\nforeign land, but should death overtake them abroad, she gives notice of\nthe misfortune to those at home. When the Duke of Wellington died, the\nBanshee was heard wailing round the house of his ancestors, and during the\nNapoleonic campaigns, she frequently notified Irish families of the death\nin battle of Irish officers and soldiers. The night before the battle of\nthe Boyne several Banshees were heard singing in the air over the Irish\ncamp, the truth of their prophecy being verified by the death-roll of the\nnext day.\n\nHow the Banshee is able to obtain early and accurate information from\nforeign parts of the death in battle of Irish soldiers is yet undecided in\nHibernian mystical circles. Some believe that there are, in addition to\nthe two kinds already mentioned, \"silent Banshees,\" who act as attendants\nto the members of old families, one to each member; that these silent\nspirits follow and observe, bringing back intelligence to the family\nBanshee at home, who then, at the proper seasons, sings her dolorous\nstrain. A partial confirmation of this theory is seen in the fact that the\nBanshee has given notice at the family seat in Ireland of deaths in\nbattles fought in every part of the world. From North America, the West\nIndies, Africa, Australia, India, China; from every point to which Irish\nregiments have followed the roll of the British drums, news of the\nprospective shedding of Irish blood has been brought home, and the\nslaughter preceded by a Banshee wail outside the ancestral windows. But it\nis due to the reader to state, that this silent Banshee theory is by no\nmeans well or generally received, the burden of evidence going to show\nthat there are only two kinds of Banshees, and that, in a supernatural\nway, they know the immediate future of those in whom they are interested,\nnot being obliged to leave Ireland for the purpose of obtaining their\ninformation.\n\nSuch is the wild Banshee, once to be heard in every part of Ireland, and\nformerly believed in so devoutly that to express a doubt of her existence\nwas little less than blasphemy. Now, however, as she attends only the old\nfamilies and does not change to the new, with the disappearance of many\nnoble Irish names during the last half century have gone also their\nBanshees, until in only a few retired districts of the west coast is the\ndreaded spirit still found, while in most parts of the island she has\nbecome only a superstition, and from the majesty of a death-boding angel,\nis rapidly sinking to a level with the Fairy, the Leprechawn and the\nPooka; the subject for tales to amuse the idle and terrify the young.\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROUND TOWERS.\n\n\n             [Illustration: Initial: \"The Round Towers\"]\n\nAmong the ruins spread everywhere over the island, relics of prehistoric\nIreland are common, but wonderful as are many of these monumental remains\nof a people as mysterious as their own structures, none are more\nremarkable than the round towers, found in almost every locality of note\neither for its history or antiquities. The number of these towers was\nformerly very great, but from the ravages of time, the convenience of the\nstructures as quarries of ready hewn stone, and intentional destruction by\nintolerant or thoughtless persons, they have gradually disappeared, until,\nat present, only eighty-three remain, of which seventeen are nearly\nperfect, the remainder being in a more or less advanced stage of\ndilapidation.\n\nThe round towers vary in height, those remaining perfect or nearly so\nbeing from seventy to two hundred feet, and from eighty to thirty feet in\ndiameter at the base. The entrance is twelve to eighteen feet from the\nground, the tower being divided into stories about ten feet high, each\nstory lighted by a single window, the highest compartment having\ninvariably four lancet windows opening to the cardinal points of the\ncompass. The roof is conical, made of overlapping stone slabs, and a\ncircle of grotesquely carved heads and zigzag ornamentation is found\nbeneath the projecting cornice. The masonry is of hewn stone, but not the\nleast regularity is observable in the size or shape of the blocks, some\nbeing very large, others small, and every figure known to the geometrician\ncan be found in the stones of a single tower.\n\nAll towers still standing occupy sites noted as historical, and evidence,\nsufficient to warrant the belief, can be adduced to show that almost every\nhistoric spot on Irish soil once boasted one or more of these interesting\nstructures. The existing towers are generally found close by the ruins of\nchurches, abbeys, or other ecclesiastical buildings, and the effect on the\nlandscape of the masses of ruins, surmounted by a single tall shaft, is\noften picturesque in the extreme. The proximity of the tower to the church\nis so common as to lead writers on Irish antiquities to conjecture that\nthe former was constructed by the monks who built the church; those\nadvocating the Christian origin of the round tower taking the ground that\nit was built, either as a place of safe-keeping for valuable property, as\na belfry for the church, or for the purpose of providing cells for\nhermits.\n\nNo one of these suppositions is tenable. In the troublous times of\nIreland, and, unhappily, it has had scarcely any other kind, the\nmonasteries and ecclesiastical buildings of every description were\ngenerally spared, even by the most ruthless marauders; and, had this not\nbeen the case, those possessing sufficient valuable property to attract\nthe cupidity of the lawless were far more likely to provide an\ninconspicuous hiding place for their wealth than to advertise its\npossession by erecting a tower which, from every direction, was invariably\nthe most conspicuous feature of the landscape. That the towers were not\nintended for belfries is evident from the fact that, in nearly every case,\nthe churches close by are provided with bell-towers forming a part of the\nsacred edifice, which would not be the case if the round towers had been\ndesigned for the purpose of supporting bells. That they were not built for\nhermit-cells is apparent from the fact that hermit-caves and cells are\nabundant in Ireland, and, almost without exception, in secluded spots. No\ndoubt, from time to time, some of the round towers were adapted to each of\nthese uses, but, in every case, convenience was the motive, the monks and\nchurch-builders altering the existing structure to meet a pressing\nnecessity. In fact, there is excellent reason for believing that the round\ntowers were not built by the monks at all, the monastic writers being very\nfond of recording, with great particularity, what they built and how they\nbuilt it, and in no passage do they mention the construction of a round\ntower. Whenever allusion is made to these structures, their existence is\ntaken for granted, and several church historians who mention the erection\nof churches at the foot of a round tower demonstrate that this peculiar\nedifice antedates the introduction of Christianity into Ireland.\n\nThe round towers are indisputably of pagan origin, and of antiquity so\ngreat as to precede written history. There is no doubt that the early\nIrish were sun and fire worshippers, and many excellent reasons may be\ngiven for the belief that the round towers were built by the Druids for\npurposes of religion.\n\nEvery tower has an extensive view to the East, so as to command an early\nsight of the rising sun, the dawn being the favorite hour for celebrating\nsun-worship. Every tower contains, at its base, so extraordinary a\nquantity of ashes and embers as to compel the conviction that, in each, a\nsacred or perpetual fire was kept burning. In every locality where a round\ntower stands, there linger among the peasantry traditions pointing to a\nuse sacred but not Christian. Perhaps the most significant indication of\ntheir former character as places sacred to sun and fire-worship is found\nin the names by which, to the present day, they are known among the common\npeople. The generic Irish name for the round tower is Colcagh, fire-God;\nbut the proper names designating particular towers are still more\ncharacteristic. Turaghan, the Tower of Fire; Aidhne, the Circle of Fire;\nAghadoe, the Field of Fire; Teghadoe, the Fire House; Arddoe, the Height\nof Fire; Kennegh, the Chief Fire; Lusk, the Flame; Fertagh, the Burial\nFire Tower; Fertagh na Guara, the Burial Fire Tower of the Fire\nWorshippers; Gall-Ti-mor, the Flame of the Great Circle; Gall-Baal, the\nFlame of the Community; Baal-Tinne, the Fire of the Community, and many\nsimilar names, retain the memory and worship of the Druids when written\nrecords are silent or wanting.\n\nIn addition to the significance contained in the names of the towers, the\nhills, mountains, or islands on which they are situated have, very\nfrequently, designations conveying an allusion, either to the circle, a\nfavorite and sacred figure in Druidical holy places, or to the sun or fire\nworship. Another curious circumstance, still further identifying the round\ntower with the rites of sun worship, is found in the fact that wherever\nthis form of religion has prevailed, it has been accompanied by well or\nspring worship, and, generally, by the veneration of the ox as a sacred\nanimal. Most of the Irish round towers have near them springs or wells\nstill regarded as holy, and concerning which many tales of miraculous\ncures are told, while in not a few instances there yet linger in the same\nneighborhoods legends of sacred cows, usually the property of some famous\nlocal saint or hero.\n\nThe round towers of Ireland are, in fact, a portion of a vast system of\ntowers of identical construction, and by following the geographical course\nof these structures, the march of fire worship from the East may be\ndetermined with some accuracy. Pass from Ireland to Brittany, and there,\nin the mountainous or hilly districts, several towers are found exactly\nlike those of Ireland. In the north of Spain several remain; in Portugal,\none; in the south of Spain they are numerous. Opposite the Spanish coast,\nin the north of Africa, there are also many, being found in various places\nin Morocco, Algeria, Tunis, and Tripoli. In Sardinia, several hundred are\nstill standing; and written testimony to the purpose for which they were\nerected is abundant among the Sardinian records. In Minorca, among many\nothers, is the famous Tower of Allaior. The mountain districts of south\nItaly have numbers of them, and they are also found on several hills in\nSicily. Malta has the Giant's Tower, in every particular of appearance and\nconstruction identical with the Tower of Cashel in Ireland. Cyprus has\nthem, and they still remain in Candia and on the coast of Asia Minor. In\nPalestine none have yet been found, or at least have not been recorded by\ntravellers or surveyors; a fact that may, perhaps, be fully accounted for\nby the zeal of the Hebrews in destroying every vestige of Canaanitish\nidolatry; but, with some probability, it is conjectured that the \"high\nplaces\" broken down may have been towers of the sun, for the Canaanites\nwere fire worshippers, and the name Baal is found alike in Palestine and\nIreland.\n\nIn Syria, north of Palestine, they begin again; are found in Armenia, and\nin the Caucasus, so numerously as to crown almost every hill-top. East of\nthe Caspian Sea they abound, and towards the centre of Asia as far as\nrecords of exploration and travel present reliable accounts of the\ncountry. Returning to the shores of the Mediterranean, their existence on\nthe northern coast of Africa has been mentioned. In Arabia and on the\nEgyptian shore of the Red Sea, they stand in considerable numbers, are\nfound in Persia, Afghanistan, Beloochistan, India, Ceylon, and Sumatra, in\nsome places being still used, it is said, for fire worship.\n\nThroughout this vast extent of territory there is no material difference\nin the shape, appearance, or construction of the round tower. In Sumatra\nand Java, as in Ireland, the door is elevated, the building divided into\nstories; the walls are constructed of many sided hewn stones, the upper\nstory is lighted by four windows looking to the cardinal points, the\ncornice has the same kind of zigzag ornamentation, and the roof is\nconstructed in the same manner, of overlapping stones. Even the names are\nnearly the same, for in India and Ireland these buildings are Fire-Towers,\nFire-Circles, or Sun-Houses.\n\nAnother bit of circumstantial evidence going to prove that the round\ntowers of Ireland were erected by a people having the same religion and\nsimilar religious observances as the natives of India is seen in the\nlegends concerning the Indian towers. In India, the local traditions tell\nhow each of these towers was built in one night by some notable character\nwho was afterwards buried in it. In Ireland, the same legend is found; to\nthe present day, the peasants of the neighborhood telling with gusto the\nstory of the tower being first seen in the early morning, rising toward\nthe sky on a spot where, the evening before, no preparations for building\nhad been visible.\n\nThe Tower Tulloherin, for instance, was built in one night by a monk who\ncame to the neighborhood as a missionary. Finding the people inhospitable,\nand unable to obtain lodging for the night, he determined to remain,\nbelieving there could not be found in Ireland a locality more in need of\nmissionary work. So, on the evening of his arrival, he began to build, and\nby morning the tower was finished, and he took up his abode in it,\npreaching from its entrance to the crowds attracted by the fame of the\nmiracle. The story of the Tower of Aghagower is similar, save in one\nparticular, the saint in this case being aided by angels. Kilmackduagh was\nbuilt in one night by angels without human assistance, the work being done\nat the solicitation of a saint who watched and prayed while the angels\ntoiled.\n\nBallygaddy has a history somewhat less miraculous, the local peasant\nhistorian attributing its origin to a \"giont\" of the neighborhood. Having\nreceived a belligerent message from another \"giont,\" he took a stand on\nBallygaddy hill to watch for the coming of his antagonist, proposing, as\nthe humble chronicler stated, \"to bate the head aff the braggin' vagabone\nif he said as much as Boo.\" For seven days and nights he stood upon the\nhill, and at the end of that time, as may readily be believed, \"his legs\nwor that tired he thought they'd dhrop aff him.\" To relieve those valuable\nmembers he put up the tower as a support to lean on. The bellicose\ngigantic party who proposed the encounter finally came to time, and lovers\nof antiquities will be glad to learn that the tower-building giant \"didn't\nlave a whole bone in the blagg\u00e2rd's ugly carkidge.\" After the battle, the\nvictor \"shtarted for to kick the tower down,\" but, upon second thought,\nconcluded to put the roof on it and \"lave it for a wondher to thim little\nmortials that come afther him,\" for which consideration all honor to his\nmemory.\n\nThe Tower Ardpatrick was, according to tradition, built under the auspices\nof Ireland's great saint, while the high tower on the Rock of Cashel is\nattributed, by the same authority, to Cormac Macarthy, king and archbishop\nof Cashel, who, being once engaged in hostilities with a neighboring\npotentate, needed a watch-tower, so summoned all his people, built the\ntower in one night, and, at sunrise, was able by its help to ascertain the\nlocation of the opposing army and so give it an overwhelming defeat. The\nGlendalough Tower was built by a demon at the command of Saint Kevin. This\nsaint had conspicuously routed Satan on a previous occasion; so the\narch-fiend and all the well-informed of his subjects kept at a safe\ndistance from Glendalough, not caring to take any risks with so doughty a\nspiritual champion as Saint Kevin had proved himself to be in more than\none encounter.\n\n\"But there was wan snakin' vagabone av a divil that come from furrin parts\nan' hadn't heard the news about the saint, and the blessed saint caught\nhim wan avenin' an' set him to work to build that tower. So the black\nrogue wint at it as hard as he knew how, an' was workin' away wid all the\nhands he had, as busy as a barmaid at a fair, thinkin' that afore sunrise\nhe'd have it so high it 'ud fall down be itself an' do the blessed saint\nnot a ha'porth av good. But afther batin' owld Satan himself, Saint Kevin\nwasn't to be deludhered be wan av his undershtrappers, an' was watchin'\nwid his two eyes every minnit o' the time, so whin the divil had the tower\nhigh enough, he threw his bishop's cap at it, an' it become shtone an'\nmade the roof, so the omadhawn divil was baten at his own game.\"\n\n             [Illustration: \"Crackin' their Haythen Shkulls\"]\n\nThe round tower is not without a touch of romance, one of the most notable\nstructures, Monaster-Boice, having been built by a woman under peculiar\ncircumstances. According to the legend, she was young, beautiful, and\ngood, but though she ought to have been happy also, she was not, being\npersecuted by the attentions of a suitor chieftain, whose reputation must\nhave been far from irreproachable, since he was characterized by the\nnarrator of the story either as an \"outprobrious ruffin,\" or \"a\nsootherin', deludherin', murtherin' villin.\" Loving another chief who was\na \"gintleman entirely,\" and determined to escape from the obnoxious\nattentions of the \"ruffin\" already mentioned, the lady, having learned\nthat her disagreeable suitor had resolved to carry her off, employed two\nmen to aid her the night before the proposed abduction, and, before\nmorning, built the tower and took up her abode in the topmost chamber. In\ndue season the chieftain came \"wid a gang av thaves,\" but, disappointed in\nhis \"endayvor fur to stale away her varchew,\" besieged the tower. Having\ntaken the precaution to provide a good supply of heavy stones, the lady\npelted her persecutors vigorously, \"crackin' their haythen shkulls the\nsame as they wor egg-shells.\" Her heroism was rewarded by her deliverance,\nfor her lover, hearing of her desperate situation, came to her relief and\nattacked the besiegers, so that \"wid the lady flingin' shtones at the\nfront o' them, an' the other fellys beltin' 'em behind, they got\ndisconsarted as not knowin' phat to do next, an' so they up's an' runs\nlike as tin thousand divils wor parshooin' afther thim. So she was saved\nan' brought down, an' was married to the boy av her heart the next Sunday,\nGlory be to God, an' that's the way the tower come to be built, an' shows\nthat thim that thries to marry a lady agin her will always comes to grief,\nfur av she cant bate thim wid her tongue she can some other way, fur a\nwoman can always get phat she's afther, an' bad luck to the lie that's in\nthat.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE POLICE.\n\n\n                [Illustration: Initial: \"The Police\"]\n\nDuring the last few years, the most obviously conspicuous individual in\nIreland is the policeman. Go where you will, if the policeman is not there\nbefore you, the reason is probably to be found in the fact that he has\njust been there and will likely return before you leave. In Dublin, Cork,\nLimerick, Athlone, Belfast, and other large cities and towns, the police\nare seen at every corner, singly, in pairs, and in groups. Fresh-looking\npolice are going on duty; tired-out police are going home; clean,\nwell-brushed police are starting to the country on horseback, having heard\nreports of rural disturbance; muddy police are coming in on jaunting-cars,\nwith prisoners from the nearest eviction. Everywhere you meet them; young\npolicemen, with fresh, rosy complexions; middle-aged policemen, with stern\nfaces, bearing strong evidence of Irish pugilistic talent; old policemen,\nwith deeply scarred and weather-beaten countenances, looking forward to\nspeedy retirement and a moderate pension; they are in the city, in the\nvillage, on the high road, in the by-way, and on the mountain paths. At\nevery railroad station they are to be seen in pairs, observing those who\narrive and depart, and noting all that may seem suspicious in the\nappearance and actions of travellers.\n\nAs long as a stranger remains on the common, well-frequented tourist\nroutes he escapes with a sharp glance of inspection, but let him leave the\ncourses usually followed by travellers, or go into parts of the country\nnot often visited by strangers, and he at once becomes an object of\nintense suspicion. You are driving along a retired country road; at the\nturn of the hill a policeman heaves in sight. He speaks pleasantly, and if\nnothing arouses his suspicion, he will pass on and you see him no more;\nbut if the slightest distrust of you or your business finds lodgment in\nhis mind, he marks you as a possible victim. He temporarily vanishes; look\nround as you proceed on your journey, and you may, by chance, catch a\nglimpse of him a mile or two away, peeping over a wall after you, but in\nthe next village, where you stop for the night, he reappears, and the\nlocal policemen, after his coming, will be sure to observe you with some\ndegree of attention. Leave your baggage in the public room of the inn and\nstep out on the street. In comes the policeman, ascertains your name,\ntakes a mental inventory of your effects, makes a note of the railway and\nhotel labels on your trunks, and goes away to report. A sharp detective is\nthe policeman even in the country districts. He knows articles of American\nmanufacture at a glance, and needs only to see your satchel to tell\nwhether it came from America or was made in England. Talk with him, and he\nwill chat cordially about the weather, the crops, the state of the\nmarkets, but all the time he is trying to make out who you are and what is\nyour business. His eyes ramble from your hat to your shoes, and by the\ntime the conversation is ended, he has prepared for the \"sargeant\" a\nreport of your personal appearance and apparel. \"Hat, English; coat,\nLondon-made; trousers, doubtful; shoes, American; party evidently an Irish\nYankee, who might as well be looked after.\"\n\nThe Irish policeman, or \"consthable,\" as he is familiarly known on his\nnative sod, is the son of a peasant. Finding life as a laborer or tenant\nin either case intolerable, he debated in his own mind the question\nwhether he should emigrate to America, enlist in the British army, or\napply for a place on the constabulary. The first step was, to him, the\nmost acceptable, but he lacked the money to go; of the two courses left\nopen, enlistment in the army was the more pleasant, since in Ireland the\nconstabulary are almost entirely cut off from association with the people\nin a social or friendly way, a general belief prevailing that the Irishman\nwho enters the police has deserted the cause of his country and entered\nthe service of her deadliest foe. So the police are avoided by their\nformer companions, shunned by old friends, and, lastly, what is of some\nconsequence to a genuine Irishman, are given the cold shoulder by the\nladies. To be sure, the Irishman who enlists in the British army would be\ntreated in the same way at his old home, but as he usually leaves never to\nreturn, the case is materially different. Chance, or the obligation of\nsupporting aged parents or a helpless family of young brothers and\nsisters, usually determines the question, and the young Irishman enters\nthe constabulary, thenceforth to be a social leper, for the constable is\nhated by his countrymen with a hatred that knows no bounds.\n\nFrom the day he puts on his neat blue uniform and saucer-like cap, the\nconstable, in the troubled west coast counties, carries his life in his\nhand. Every hedge he scrutinizes with a careful eye; behind it may lurk an\nassassin. Every division wall is watched for suspicious indications, his\nalertness being quickened by the knowledge that he is guarding his own\nlife. He is compelled to undertake duties obnoxious to his own feelings\nand sense of justice, and to risk life and limb to carry out repugnant\norders. A bad year comes, a tenant is in arrears and cannot pay rent; the\nagent determines on an eviction and sends for the police. The constables\narrive in force, but the tenant has anticipated them and collected a crowd\nof friends. The hut is closed and barred, while inside are half a score of\nmen and women, determined to resist as long as resistance is of any avail.\n\n                [Illustration: The Police and the Tenants]\n\nAs soon as the police appear on the scene, a babel of Irish voices ensues\nand fearful curses and imprecations are hurled at all concerned in the\neviction, succeeded by showers of stones from enthusiastic outside\nsupporters of the cabin's defenders. The constables draw their clubs and\nmake a rush, striking right and left at the heads of the crowd. A\ndesperate battle ensues, in which the police are generally victorious,\ndriving the rabble to a safe distance; then, leaving a portion of the\nforce to keep them away, the remainder return to effect an entrance to the\nhut. A beam, handled by several pairs of strong arms, speedily demolishes\nthe miserable pretence of a door, then in go the police, to be met with\nfists, clubs, stones, showers of boiling water, and other effective and\noffensive means of defence. After a stubborn contest the cabin is finally\ncleared; the furniture, if there be any, is set out in the road, the\nthatched roof torn off and scattered on the ground, the walls levelled,\nand the police, battered with sticks and stones, scalded, burned, return\nto headquarters with their prisoners. Not infrequently a policeman is\nkilled on one of these evictionary expeditions, the defence of his slayers\nbeing generally grounded on the statement made in court in one instance of\nthis kind near Limerick. \"We niver intinded fur to kill him at all, but\nhis shkull was too thin entirely for a consthable, an' broke wid the\nbatin' he was afther gettin'.\"\n\nFirearms are not often used in these encounters between the police and the\npopulace, for such battles always take place in daylight, and although,\nwhen an eviction promises to be of more than usual danger, the police\ncarry rifles, strict orders are given not to use them save in dire\nextremity, and a policeman will be beaten almost to death without\nresorting to the use of his gun. On ordinary day-duty the police carry\nonly a short club or revolver, hidden under the coat; but at night, the\ncountry constables are armed with rifle and bayonet, and patrol the roads\nin pairs, one walking on each side and as close as possible to the hedge\nor wall.\n\nBut in spite of the extraordinary difficulties and unceasing dangers of\nhis work the constable does his duty with scrupulous exactness, and\ninstances of treachery to the government among the Irish constabulary are\nextremely rare. Indeed, service in the constabulary is much sought for,\nand there are always more applicants than vacancies. The physical standard\nis so high that the police are the picked men of the country, while the\naverage grade of intelligence among them is better than among the\npeasantry from whose ranks they have come.\n\nReady as they are to go cheerfully on any service, however laborious or\nperilous, there is one task which the constabulary of the west coast hold\nin mortal detestation, and that is, an expedition into the mountains to\nseize illicit stills and arrest distillers of poteen. Such an enterprise\nmeans days and nights of toilsome climbing, watching, waiting, and spying;\noften without result, and generally with a strong probability that when\nthe spot where the still has been is surrounded, the police thinking they\nhave the law breakers in a trap, the latter take the alarm, escape by some\nunknown path, leaving nothing but \"the pot and the smell\" as reminiscences\nof their presence and employment. The disappointing nature of the duty is\nthus one good reason for the dislike felt for it by the constables, but\nanother is found in the unusual degree of peril attending it, for in the\nmountains of Donegal, Mayo, Galway, Clare, and Kerry, the distillers\ngenerally own firearms, know how to use them, and feel no more compunction\nfor shooting a policeman than for killing a dog. The extremely rugged\ncharacter of the Mayo mountains, in particular, offers many opportunities\nfor the outlaws to practise their craft in safety and secrecy, for, the\nwhole neighborhood being on the lookout for the enemy, there are always\nfriends to give the alarm. To hide the still in the ground or in a\nconvenient cave is the work of very few minutes, after which the\ndistillers are quite at leisure and turn their attention to shooting at\nthe police, a job attended with so little risk to themselves and so much\ndiscomfort to the constables that the latter frequently give up the chase\non very slight provocation.\n\nNear Lake Derryclare, in the Connemara district of Galway, and almost\nunder the shadow of the Twelve Pins, there stands by the wayside a small\nrude monument of uncut stones, a mere heap, surmounted by a rough wooden\ncross. Such stone heaps as this are common on the west coast, and\noriginate in the custom of making a family memorial, each member of the\nfamily, or, in some cases, each friend attending the funeral, contributing\na stone to the rude monument. In some neighborhoods, every relative and\nfriend casts a stone on the common pile whenever he passes the spot, so\nthe heap is constantly growing. This particular monument in Connemara does\nnot differ in any important respect from many others, but before it, in\nthe summer of 1886, there knelt, all day long, an old peasant woman. Every\nmorning she came from a hut in the glen near by and spent every hour of\ndaylight in prayer before the wooden cross. It seemed to matter little to\nher whether it rained or the sun shone; in sunshine, the hood of her\ntattered cloak was thrown back and her white hair exposed, while the rain\ncompelled her to draw the hood forward, but rain or shine she was always\nthere, her lips silently moving as the beads slipped through her withered\nfingers, nor could any question divert her attention from her devotions.\nShe never looked up, never took the slightest notice of remarks addressed\nto her, nor was she ever heard to speak aloud. Once a week provisions were\nsent to her house from the nearest police station; they were left within,\nand those who brought them went their way, for she gave them no word of\nthanks, no look of gratitude; nor, for many years, had the constables sent\nwith the allowance made her by the government ventured to compel her to\nspeak to them.\n\nHer story was told by a Sergeant of Police, and formed a painful\nillustration of the poteen trade in the mountains. In the year 1850, while\nthe country was still suffering from the effects of the \"starving time,\"\nshe lived with her husband, Michael O'Malley, and four sons, on a little\nfarm near Lake Derryclare. Year after year had the crops failed, but the\nlittle family held together, faring, or rather starving, alike. In the\nyear mentioned, although the country in general was beginning to recover\nfrom the famine, this part of Connemara was still stricken, and the crop\nseemed likely again to fail. Starvation stared the hapless family in the\nface. The boys were well grown lads, accustomed to the hard life of\npeasants, and willing to work if any could be found. All four left home,\nthe eldest going to Galway, the other three to the sea-shore, where they\nfound temporary employment in the fisheries. While so engaged, they\nlearned the secrets of the illicit distiller, and having, in course of\ntime, managed to procure a small still, they returned home with it, and as\nthe cabin was in a secluded quarter of a little frequented district, they\npersuaded the old man to engage in the enterprise with them. The risk of\ndetection appeared so small, especially when compared with the profits,\nthat against the prayers and entreaties of the woman, the still was set up\nin a retired spot near by and the manufacture of the poteen begun in as\nlarge quantities as their limited resources would allow. A number of years\npassed, and, as their product found a ready sale in the neighborhood, the\nO'Malleys prospered as they had never done before, the boys married, and\nfamilies grew around them.\n\nThe eldest brother, John O'Malley, having gone to Galway, succeeded, by\nwhat he considered a great stroke of good fortune, in obtaining a place on\nthe constabulary. The family at home knew nothing of him, nor had he\ncommunicated with them, for directly after his enlistment he was sent to\nthe County Wexford on the opposite side of the island, and completely lost\nsight of his old home. Proving intelligent and capable, he was promoted,\nmade a sergeant, and ordered to the County Galway. Immediately upon his\narrival at his new post, a small village in Connemara, intelligence was\nbrought of illicit distilling near the Twelve Pins, and O'Malley was\nordered to proceed with a strong party of police to seize the still, and,\nif possible, arrest the criminals. The names of the offenders were not\ngiven, but the location of the glen where operations were carried on was\ndescribed with such exactness that O'Malley, who knew every foot of ground\nin the vicinity, laid such plans as to render escape by the distillers a\npractical impossibility.  Before dark one evening a party of twelve\nmounted constables armed with rifles started from Maume, at the head of\nLough Corrib, travelled all night, and by morning Sergeant O'Malley had so\nposted his men round the glen that the arrest of the distillers was\napparently a certainty. In the early dawn, before objects could be\ndistinctly seen, several men were observed going into the glen, and, at a\ngiven signal, the police closed in on the little shanty where the still\nwas in operation. A desperate fight ensued, and Sergeant O'Malley was shot\ndead by one of his brothers without knowing whose hand pointed the weapon.\nTwo of the O'Malleys were killed by the police bullets, and a constable\nwas mortally wounded. Michael and his remaining son were taken alive,\nafterwards tried for murder, when for the first time they learned that the\ndead Sergeant was their relative. Both were hanged, the singular\ncircumstances of the crime for which they suffered attracting wide\nattention.\n\nMrs. O'Malley thus beheld herself, at a single blow, deprived of husband\nand four sons. For a time she was wildly demented, but the violence passed\naway, and as her clouded brain became calm, it was occupied by one idea,\nto the exclusion of all others,--prayer for the repose of her dead. The\nbody of the Sergeant was buried near Maume, but O'Malley and his three\nsons were buried together under the cairn in a long disused churchyard\nthrough which the road passed, a churchyard like thousands more in\nIreland, where the grave-stones are hidden by the nettles and weeds.\nThither, with a love stronger than death, goes the poor old woman every\nday, and, untiring in her devotion, spends her life reciting the prayers\nfor the dead.\n\n       [Illustration: \"Thither goes the poor old women every day\"]\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEPRECHAWN.\n\n\n              [Illustration: Initial: \"The Leprechawn\"]\n\nEvery mythology has its good and evil spirits which are objects of\nadoration and subjects of terror, and often both classes are worshipped\nfrom opposite motives; the good, that the worshipper may receive benefit;\nthe evil, that he may escape harm. Sometimes good deities are so\nbenevolent that they are neglected, superstitious fear directing all\ndevotion towards the evil spirits to propitiate them and avert the\ncalamities they are ever ready to bring upon the human race; sometimes the\nmalevolent deities have so little power that the prayer of the pious is\noffered up to the good spirits that they may pour out still further\nfavors, for man is a worshipping being, and will prostrate himself with\nequal fervor before the altar whether the deity be good or bad.\n\nMidway, however, between the good and evil beings of all mythologies there\nis often one whose qualities are mixed; not wholly good nor entirely evil,\nbut balanced between the two, sometimes doing a generous action, then\ndescending to a petty meanness, but never rising to nobility of character\nnor sinking to the depths of depravity; good from whim, and mischievous\nfrom caprice.\n\nSuch a being is the Leprechawn of Ireland, a relic of the pagan mythology\nof that country. By birth the Leprechawn is of low descent, his father\nbeing an evil spirit and his mother a degenerate fairy; by nature he is a\nmischief-maker, the Puck of the Emerald Isle. He is of diminutive size,\nabout three feet high, and is dressed in a little red jacket or\nroundabout, with red breeches buckled at the knee, gray or black\nstockings, and a hat, cocked in the style of a century ago, over a little,\nold, withered face. Round his neck is an Elizabethan ruff, and frills of\nlace are at his wrists. On the wild west coast, where the Atlantic winds\nbring almost constant rains, he dispenses with ruff and frills and wears a\nfrieze overcoat over his pretty red suit, so that, unless on the lookout\nfor the cocked hat, \"ye might pass a Leprechawn on the road and never know\nit's himself that's in it at all.\"\n\nIn Clare and Galway, the favorite amusement of the Leprechawn is riding a\nsheep or goat, or even a dog, when the other animals are not available,\nand if the sheep look weary in the morning or the dog is muddy and worn\nout with fatigue, the peasant understands that the local Leprechawn has\nbeen going on some errand that lay at a greater distance than he cared to\ntravel on foot. Aside from riding the sheep and dogs almost to death, the\nLeprechawn is credited with much small mischief about the house. Sometimes\nhe will make the pot boil over and put out the fire, then again he will\nmake it impossible for the pot to boil at all. He will steal the\nbacon-flitch, or empty the potato-kish, or fling the baby down on the\nfloor, or occasionally will throw the few poor articles of furniture about\nthe room with a strength and vigor altogether disproportioned to his\ndiminutive size. But his mischievous pranks seldom go further than to\ndrink up all the milk or despoil the proprietor's bottle of its poteen,\nsometimes, in sportiveness, filling the bottle with water, or, when very\nangry, leading the fire up to the thatch, and then startling the in-mates\nof the cabin with his laugh as they rise, frightened, to put out the\nflames.\n\nTo offset these troublesome attributes, the Leprechawn is very domestic,\nand sometimes attaches himself to a family, always of the \"rale owld\nshtock,\" accompanying its representatives from the castle to the cabin and\nnever deserting them unless driven away by some act of insolence or\nnegligence, \"for, though he likes good atin', he wants phat he gets to\ncome wid an open hand, an' 'ud laver take the half av a pratee that's\nfreely given than the whole av a quail that's begrudged him.\" But what he\neats must be specially intended for him, an instance being cited by a\nClare peasant of a Leprechawn that deserted an Irish family, because, on\none occasion, the dog having left a portion of his food, it was set by for\nthe Leprechawn. \"Jakers, 't was as mad as a little wasp he was, an' all\nthat night they heard him workin' away in the cellar as busy as a nailer,\nan' a sound like a catheract av wather goin' widout saycin'. In the\nmornin' they wint to see phat he'd been at, but he was gone, an' whin they\ncome to thry for the wine, bad loock to the dhrop he'd left, but all was\ngone from ivery cask an' bottle, and they were filled wid say-wather,\nbeways av rayvinge o' phat they done him.\"\n\nIn different country districts the Leprechawn has different names. In the\nnorthern counties he is the Logheryman; in Tipperary, he is the\nLurigadawne; in Kerry, the Luricawne; in Monaghan, the Cluricawne. The\ndress also varies. The Logheryman wears the uniform of some British\ninfantry regiments, a red coat and white breeches, but instead of a cap,\nhe wears a broad-brimmed, high, pointed hat, and after doing some trick\nmore than usually mischievous, his favorite position is to poise himself\non the extreme point of his hat, standing at the top of a wall or on a\nhouse, feet in the air, then laugh heartily and disappear. The Lurigadawne\nwears an antique slashed jacket of red, with peaks all round and a jockey\ncap, also sporting a sword, which he uses as a magic wand. The Luricawne\nis a fat, pursy little fellow whose jolly round face rivals in redness the\ncut-a-way jacket he wears, that always has seven rows of seven buttons in\neach row, though what use they are has never been determined, since his\njacket is never buttoned, nor, indeed, can it be, but falls away from a\nshirt invariably white as the snow. When in full dress he wears a helmet\nseveral sizes too large for him, but, in general, prudently discards this\narticle of headgear as having a tendency to render him conspicuous in a\ncountry where helmets are obsolete, and wraps his head in a handkerchief\nthat he ties over his ears.\n\nThe Cluricawne of Monaghan is a little dandy, being gorgeously arrayed in\na swallow-tailed evening coat of red with green vest, white breeches,\nblack stockings, and shoes that \"fur the shine av 'em 'ud shame a\nlookin'-glass.\" His hat is a long cone without a brim, and is usually set\njauntily on one side of his curly head. When greatly provoked, he will\nsometimes take vengeance by suddenly ducking and poking the sharp point of\nhis hat into the eye of the offender. Such conduct is, however,\nexceptional, as he commonly contents himself with soundly abusing those at\nwhom he has taken offence, the objects of his anger hearing his voice but\nseeing nothing of his person.\n\nOne of the most marked peculiarities of the Leprechawn family is their\nintense hatred of schools and schoolmasters, arising, perhaps, from the\nridicule of them by teachers, who affect to disbelieve in the existence of\nthe Leprechawn and thus insult him, for \"it's very well beknownst, that\nonless ye belave in him an' thrate him well, he'll lave an' come back no\nmore.\" He does not even like to remain in the neighborhood where a\nnational school has been established, and as such schools are now numerous\nin Ireland, the Leprechawns are becoming scarce. \"Wan gineration of\ntaichers is enough for thim, bekase the families where the little fellys\nlive forgit to set thim out the bit an' sup, an' so they lave.\" The few\nthat remain must have a hard time keeping soul and body together for\nnowhere do they now receive any attention at meal-times, nor is the\nanxiety to see one by any means so great as in the childhood of men still\nliving. Then, to catch a Leprechawn was certain fortune to him who had the\nwit to hold the mischief-maker a captive until demands for wealth were\ncomplied with.\n\n\"Mind ye,\" said a Kerry peasant, \"the onliest time ye can ketch the little\nvagabone is whin he's settin' down, an' he niver sets down axceptin' whin\nhis brogues want mendin'. He runs about so much he wears thim out, an'\nwhin he feels his feet on the ground, down he sets undher a hidge or\nbehind a wall, or in the grass, an' takes thim aff an' mends thim. Thin\ncomes you by, as quiet as a cat an' sees him there, that ye can aisily, be\nhis red coat, an' you shlippin' up on him, catches him in yer arrums.\n\n\"'Give up yer goold,' says you.\n\n\"'Begob, I've no goold,' says he.\n\n\"'Then outs wid yer magic purse,' says you.\n\n\"But it's like pullin' a hat full av taith to get aither purse or goold av\nhim. He's got goold be the ton, an' can tell ye where ye can put yer\nfinger on it, but he wont, till ye make him, an' that ye must do be no\naisey manes. Some cuts aff his wind be chokin' him, an' some bates him,\nbut don't for the life o' ye take yer eyes aff him, fur if ye do, he's aff\nlike a flash an' the same man niver sees him agin, an' that's how it was\nwid Michael O'Dougherty.\n\n\"He was afther lookin' for wan nigh a year, fur he wanted to get married\nan' hadn't anny money, so he thought the aisiest was to ketch a Luricawne.\nSo he was lookin' an' watchin' an' the fellys makin' fun av him all the\ntime. Wan night he was comin' back afore day from a wake he'd been at, an'\non the way home he laid undher the hidge an' shlept awhile, thin riz an'\nwalked on. So as he was walkin', he seen a Luricawne in the grass be the\nroad a-mendin' his brogues. So he shlipped up an' got him fast enough, an'\nthin made him tell him where was his goold. The Luricawne tuk him to nigh\nthe place in the break o' the hills an' was goin' fur to show him, when\nall at wanst Mike heard the most outprobrious scraich over the head av him\nthat 'ud make the hairs av ye shtand up like a mad cat's tail.\n\n\"'The saints defind me,' says he, 'phat's that?' an' he looked up from the\nLuricawne that he was carryin' in his arrums. That minnit the little\nattomy wint out av his sight, fur he looked away from it an' it was gone,\nbut he heard it laugh when it wint an' he niver got the goold but died\npoor, as me father knows, an' he a boy when it happened.\"\n\nAlthough the Leprechawns are skilful in evading curious eyes, and, when\ntaken, are shrewd in escaping from their captors, their tricks are\nsometimes all in vain, and after resorting to every device in their power,\nthey are occasionally compelled to yield up their hidden stores, one\ninstance of which was narrated by a Galway peasant.\n\n\"It was Paddy Donnelly av Connemara. He was always hard at work as far as\nanny wan seen, an' bad luck to the day he'd miss, barrin' Sundays. When\nall 'ud go to the fair, sorra a fut he'd shtir to go near it, no more did\na dhrop av dhrink crass his lips. When they'd ax him why he didn't take\ndivarshun, he'd laugh an' tell thim his field was divarshun enough fur\nhim, an' by an' by he got rich, so they knewn that when they were at the\nfair or wakes or shports, it was lookin' fur a Leprechawn he was an' not\nworkin', an' he got wan too, fur how else cud he get rich at all.\"\n\nAnd so it must have been, in spite of the denials of Paddy Donnelly,\nthough, to do him justice, he stoutly affirmed that his small property was\nacquired by industry, economy, and temperance. But according to the\nopinions of his neighbors, \"bad scran to him 't was as greedy as a pig he\nwas, fur he knewn where the goold was, an' wanted it all fur himself, an'\nso lied about it like the Leprechawns, that's known to be the biggest\nliars in the world.\"\n\nThe Leprechawn is an old bachelor elf who successfully resists all efforts\nof scheming fairy mammas to marry him to young and beautiful fairies,\npersisting in single blessedness even in exile from his kind, being driven\noff as a punishment for his heterodoxy on matrimonial subjects. This is\none explanation of the fact that Leprechawns are always seen alone, though\nother authorities make the Leprechawn solitary by preference, he having\nlearned the hollowness of fairy friendship and the deceitfulness of fairy\nfemininity, and left the society of his kind in disgust at its lack of\nsincerity.\n\nIt must be admitted that the latter explanation seems the more reasonable,\nsince whenever the Leprechawn has been captured and forced to engage in\nconversation with his captor he displayed conversational powers that\nshowed an ability to please, and as woman kind, even among fairy circles,\nare, according to an Irish proverb, \"aisily caught be an oily tongue,\" the\npresumption is against the expulsion of the Leprechawn and in favor of his\nvoluntary retirement.\n\n        [Illustration: Returning the next morning with the spade]\n\nHowever this may be, one thing is certain to the minds of all wise women\nand fairy-men, that he is the \"thrickiest little divil that iver wore a\nbrogue,\" whereof abundant proof is given. There was Tim O'Donovan, of\nKerry, who captured a Leprechawn and forced him to disclose the spot where\nthe \"pot o' goold\" was concealed. Tim was going to make the little rogue\ndig up the money for him, but, on the Leprechawn advancing the plea that\nhe had no spade, released him, marking the spot by driving a stick into\nthe ground and placing his hat on it. Returning the next morning with a\nspade, the spot pointed out by the \"little ottomy av a desaver\" being in\nthe centre of a large bog, he found, to his unutterable disgust, that the\nLeprechawn was too smart for him, for in every direction innumerable\nsticks rose out of the bog, each bearing aloft an old \"caubeen\" so closely\nresembling his own that poor Tim, after long search, was forced to admit\nhimself baffled and give up the gold that, on the evening before, had been\nfairly within his grasp, if \"he'd only had the brains in his shkull to\nmake the Leprechawn dig it for him, shpade or no shpade.\"\n\nEven when caught, therefore, the captor must outwit the captive, and the\nwily little rascal, having a thousand devices, generally gets away without\ngiving up a penny, and sometimes succeeds in bringing the eager\nfortune-hunter to grief, a notable instance of which was the case of\nDennis O'Bryan, of Tipperary, as narrated by an old woman of Crusheen.\n\n\"It's well beknownst that the Leprechawn has a purse that's got the\ncharmed shillin'. Only wan shillin', but the wondher av the purse is this:\nNo matther how often ye take out a shillin' from it, the purse is niver\nempty at all, but whin ye put yer finger in agin, ye always find wan\nthere, fur the purse fills up when ye take wan from it, so ye may shtand\nall day countin' out the shillin's an' they comin', that's a thrick av the\ngood peoples an' be magic.\n\n\"Now Dinnis was a young blagg\u00e2rd that was always afther peepin' about\nundher the hidge fur to ketch a Leprechawn, though they do say that thim\nthat doesn't sarch afther thim sees thim oftener than thim that does, but\nDinnis made his mind up that if there was wan in the counthry, he'd have\nhim, fur he hated work worse than sin, an' did be settin' in a shebeen day\nin an' out till you'd think he'd grow on the sate. So wan day he was\ncomin' home, an' he seen something red over in the corner o' the field,\nan' in he goes, as quiet as a mouse, an' up on the Leprechawn an' grips\nhim be the collar an' down's him on the ground.\n\n\"'Arrah, now, ye ugly little vagabone,' says he, 'I've got ye at last. Now\ngive up yer goold, or by jakers I'll choke the life out av yer\npin-squazin' carkidge, ye owld cobbler, ye,' says he, shakin' him fit to\nmake his head dhrop aff.\n\n\"The Leprechawn begged, and scritched, an' cried, an' said he wasn't a\nrale Leprechawn that was in it, but a young wan that hadn't anny goold,\nbut Dinnis wouldn't let go av him, an' at last the Leprechawn said he'd\ntake him to the pot ov goold that was hid be the say, in a glen in Clare.\nDinnis didn't want to go so far, bein' afeared the Leprechawn 'ud get\naway, an' he thought the divilish baste was afther lyin' to him, bekase he\nknewn there was goold closter than that, an' so he was chokin' him that\nhis eyes stood out till ye cud knock 'em aff wid a shtick, an' the\nLeprechawn axed him would he lave go if he'd give him the magic purse.\nDinnis thought he'd betther do it, fur he was mortially afeared the\noudacious little villin 'ud do him some thrick an' get away, so he tuk the\npurse, afther lookin' at it to make sure it was red shilk, an' had the\nshillin' in it, but the minnit he tuk his two eyes aff the Leprechawn,\naway wint the rogue wid a laugh that Dinnis didn't like at all.\n\n\"But he was feelin' very comfortable be razon av gettin' the purse, an'\nsays to himself, 'Begorra, 'tis mesilf that'll ate the full av me\nwaistband fur wan time, an' dhrink till a stame-ingine can't squaze wan\ndhrop more down me neck,' says he, and aff he goes like a quarther-horse\nfur Miss Clooney's sheebeen, that's where he used fur to go. In he goes,\nan' there was Paddy Grogan, an' Tim O'Donovan, an' Mike Conathey, an'\nBryan Flaherty, an' a shtring more av 'em settin' on the table, an' he\npulls up a sate an' down he sets, a-callin' to Miss Clooney to bring her\nbest.\n\n\"'Where's yer money?' says she to him, fur he didn't use to have none\nbarrin' a tuppence or so.\n\n\"'Do you have no fear,' says he, 'fur the money,' says he, 'ye\npinny-schrapin' owld shkeleton,' this was beways av a shot at her, fur it\nwas the size av a load o' hay she was, an' weighed a ton. 'Do you bring\nyer best,' says he. 'I'm a gintleman av forchune, bad loock to the job o'\nwork I'll do till the life laves me. Come, jintlemin, dhrink at my\naxpinse.' An' so they did an' more than wanst, an' afther four or five\nguns apace, Dinnis ordhered dinner fur thim all, but Miss Clooney towld\nhim sorra the bit or sup more 'ud crass the lips av him till he paid fur\nthat he had. So out he pulls the magic purse fur to pay, an' to show it\nthim an' towld thim phat it was an' where he got it.\n\n\"'And was it the Leprechawn gev it ye?' says they.\n\n\"'It was,' says Dinnis, 'an' the varchew av this purse is sich, that if ye\ntake shillin's out av it be the handful all day long, they'll be comin' in\na shtrame like whishkey out av a jug,' says he, pullin' out wan.\n\n\"And thin, me jewel, he put in his fingers afther another, but it wasn't\nthere, for the Leprechawn made a ijit av him, an' instid o' givin' him the\nright purse, gev him wan just like it, so as onless ye looked clost, ye\ncudn't make out the differ betune thim. But the face on Dinnis was a holy\nshow when he seen the Leprechawn had done him, an' he wid only a shillin',\nan' half a crown av dhrink down the troats av thim.\n\n\"'To the divil wid you an' yer Leprechawns, an' purses, an' magic\nshillin's,' schreamed Miss Clooney, belavin', an' small blame to her\nthat's, that it was lyin' to her he was. 'Ye're a thafe, so ye are,\ndhrinkin' up me dhrink, wid a lie on yer lips about the purse, an'\ninsultin' me into the bargain,' says she, thinkin' how he called her a\nshkeleton, an' her a load fur a waggin. 'Yer impidince bates owld Nick, so\nit does,' says she; so she up an' hits him a power av a crack on the head\nwid a bottle; an' the other felly's, a-thinkin' sure that it was a lie he\nwas afther tellin' them, an' he laving thim to pay fur the dhrink he'd\nhad, got on him an' belted him out av the face till it was nigh onto dead\nhe was. Then a consthable comes along an' hears the phillaloo they did be\nmakin' an' comes in.\n\n\"'Tatther an' agers,' says he, 'lave aff. I command the pace. Phat's the\nmatther here?'\n\n\"So they towld him an' he consayved that Dinnis shtole the purse an' tuk\nhim be the collar.\n\n\"'Lave go,' says Dinnis. 'Sure phat's the harrum o' getting the purse av a\nLeprechawn?'\n\n\"'None at all,' says the polisman, 'av ye projuice the Leprechawn an' make\nhim teshtify he gev it ye an' that ye haven't been burglarious an'\nsarcumvinted another man's money,' says he.\n\n\"But Dinnis cudn't do it, so the cunsthable tumbled him into the jail.\nFrom that he wint to coort an' got thirty days at hard labor, that he\nniver done in his life afore, an' afther he got out, he said he'd left\nlookin' for Leprechawns, fur they were too shmart fur him entirely, an'\nit's thrue fur him, bekase I belave they were.\"\n\n                   [Illustration: \"Playing his pranks\"]\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE HENPECKED GIANT.\n\n\n            [Illustration: Initial: \"The Henpecked Giant\"]\n\nNo locality of Ireland is fuller of strange bits of fanciful legend than\nthe neighborhood of the Giant's Causeway. For miles along the coast the\ngeological strata resemble that of the Causeway, and the gradual\ndisintegration of the stone has wrought many peculiar and picturesque\neffects among the basaltic pillars, while each natural novelty has woven\nround it a tissue of traditions and legends, some appropriate, others\nforced, others ridiculous misapplications of commonplace tales. Here, a\nlong straight row of columns is known as the \"Giant's Organ,\" and\ntradition pictures the scene when the giants of old, with their gigantic\nfamilies, sat on the Causeway and listened to the music; there, a group of\nisolated pillars is called the \"Giant's Chimneys,\" since they once\nfurnished an exit for the smoke of the gigantic kitchen. A solitary\npillar, surrounded by the crumbling remains of others, bears a distant\nresemblance to a seated female figure, the \"Giant's Bride,\" who slew her\nhusband and attempted to flee, but was overtaken by the power of a\nmagician, who changed her into stone as she was seated by the shore,\nwaiting for the boat that was to carry her away. Further on, a cluster of\ncolumns forms the \"Giant's Pulpit,\" where a presumably outspoken gigantic\npreacher denounced the sins of a gigantic audience. The Causeway itself,\naccording to legend, formerly extended to Scotland, being originally\nconstructed by Finn Maccool and his friends, this notable giant having\ninvited Benandoner, a Scotch giant of much celebrity, to come over and\nfight him. The invitation was accepted, and Maccool, out of politeness,\nbuilt the Causeway the whole distance, the big Scotchman thus walking over\ndryshod to receive his beating.\n\nSome distance from the mainland is found the Ladies' Wishing Chair,\ncomposed of blocks in the Great Causeway, wishes made while seated here\nbeing certain of realization. To the west of the Wishing Chair a solitary\npillar rises from the sea, the \"Gray Man's Love.\" Look to the mainland,\nand the mountain presents a deep, narrow cleft, with perpendicular sides,\nthe \"Gray Man's Path.\" Out in the sea, but unfortunately not often in\nsight, is the \"Gray Man's Isle,\" at present inhabited only by the Gray Man\nhimself. As the island, however, appears but once in seventeen years, and\nthe Gray Man is never seen save on the eve of some awful calamity,\nvisitors to the Causeway have a very slight chance of seeing either island\nor man. There can be no doubt though of the existence of both, for\neverybody knows he was one of the greatest of the giants during his\nnatural lifetime, nor could any better evidence be asked than the facts\nthat his sweet-heart, turned into stone, still stands in sight of the\nCauseway; the precipice, from which she flung herself into the sea, is\nstill known by the name of the \"Lovers' Leap;\" and the path he made\nthrough the mountain is still used by him when he leaves his island and\ncomes on shore.\n\nIt is not surprising that so important a personage as the Gray Man should\nbe the central figure of many legends, and indeed over him the\nstory-makers seem to have had vigorous competition, for thirty or forty\nnarratives are current in the neighborhood concerning him and the\nprincipal events of his life. So great a collection of legendary lore on\none topic rendered the choice of a single tradition which should fairly\ncover the subject a matter of no little difficulty. As sometimes happens\nin grave undertakings, the issue was determined by accident. A chance boat\nexcursion led to the acquaintance of Mr. Barney O'Toole, a fisherman, and\nconversation developed the fact that this gentleman was thoroughly posted\nin the local legends, and was also the possessor of a critical faculty\nwhich enabled him to differentiate between the probable and the\nimprobable, and thus to settle the historical value of a tradition. In his\nway, he was also a philosopher, having evidently given much thought to\nsocial issues, and expressing his conclusions thereupon with the ease and\nfreedom of a master mind.\n\nUpon being informed of the variety and amount of legendary material\ncollected about the Gray Man and his doings, Barney unhesitatingly\npronounced the entire assortment worthless, and condemned all the gathered\ntreasures as the creations of petty intellects, which could not get out of\nthe beaten track, but sought in the supernatural a reason for and\nexplanation of every fact that seemed at variance with the routine of\ndaily experience. In his opinion, the Gray Man is never seen at all in our\nday and generation, having been gathered to his fathers ages ago; nor is\nthere any enchanted island; to use his own language, \"all thim shtories\nbein' made be thim blagg\u00e2rd guides that set up av a night shtringin' out\nlaigends for to enthertain the quol'ty.\"\n\n\"Now, av yer Anner wants to hear it, I can tell ye the thrue shtory av the\nGray Man, no more is there anny thing wondherful in it, but it's just as I\nhad it from me grandfather, that towld it to the childher for to entertain\nthim.\n\n\"It's very well beknownst that in thim owld days there were gionts in\nplinty hereabouts, but they didn't make the Causeway at all, for that's a\nwork o' nacher, axceptin' the Gray Man's Path, that I'm goin' to tell ye\nav. But ivery wan knows that there were gionts, bekase if there wasn't,\nhow cud we know o' thim at all, but wan thing's sartain, they were just\nlike us, axceptin' in the matther o' size, for wan ov thim 'ud make a\ndozen like the men that live now.\n\n\"Among the gionts that lived about the Causeway there was wan, a young\ngiont named Finn O'Goolighan, that was the biggest av his kind, an' none\no' thim cud hide in a kish. So Finn, for the size av him, was a livin'\nterror. His little finger was the size av yer Anner's arrum, an' his wrist\nas big as yer leg, an' so he wint, bigger an' bigger. Whin he walked he\ncarried an oak-tree for a shtick, ye cud crawl into wan av his shoes, an'\nhis caubeen 'ud cover a boat. But he was a good-humored young felly wid a\nlaugh that 'ud deefen ye, an' a plazin' word for all he met, so as if ye\nrun acrass him in the road, he'd give ye 'good morrow kindly,' so as ye'd\nfeel the betther av it all day. He'd work an' he'd play an' do aither wid\nall the might that was in him. Av a week day you'd see him in the field or\non the shore from sun to sun as busy as a hen wid a dozen chicks; an' av a\nfair-day or av a Sunday, there he'd be, palatherin' at the girls, an'\ndancin' jigs that he done wid extrame nateness, or havin' a bout wid a\nshtick on some other felly's head, an' indade, at that he was so clever\nthat it was a delight for to see him, for he'd crack a giont's shkull that\nwas as hard as a pot wid wan blow an' all the pleasure in life. So he got\nto be four or five an' twinty an' not his betther in the County Antrim.\n\n\"Wan fine day, his father, Bryan O'Goolighan, that was as big a giont as\nhimself, says to him, says he, 'Finn, me Laddybuck, I'm thinkin' ye'll\nwant to be gettin' marr'd.'\n\n\"'Not me,' says Finn.\n\n\"'An' why not?' says his father.\n\n\"'I've no consate av it,' says Finn.\n\n\"'Ye'd be the betther av it,' says his father.\n\n\"'Faix, I'm not sure o' that,' says Finn; 'gettin' marr'd is like turnin'\na corner, ye don't know phat ye're goin' to see,' says he.\n\n\"'Thrue for ye,' says owld Bryan, for he'd had axpayrience himself, 'but\nif ye'd a purty woman to make the stirabout for ye av a mornin' wid her\nown white hands, an' to watch out o' the dure for ye in the avenin,' an'\nput on a sod o' turf whin she sees ye comin', ye'd be a betther man,' says\nhe.\n\n\"'Bedad, it's not aisey for to conthravene that same,' says Finn, 'barrin'\nI mightn't git wan like that. Wimmin is like angels,' says he. 'There's\ntwo kinds av 'em, an' the wan that shmiles like a dhrame o' heaven afore\nshe's marr'd, is the wan that gits to be a tarin' divil afther her\nmarket's made an' she's got a husband.'\n\n\"Ye see Finn was a mighty smart young felly, if he was a giont, but his\nfather didn't give up hope av gettin' him marr'd, for owld folks that's\nbeen through a dale o' throuble that-a-way always thries to get the young\nwans into the same thrap, beways, says they, av taichin' thim to larn\nsomething. But Bryan was a wise owld giont, an' knewn, as the Bible says,\nthere's time enough for all things. So he quit him, an' that night he\nspake wid the owld woman an' left it wid her, as knowin' that whin it's a\nmatther o' marryin', a woman is more knowledgable an' can do more to bring\non that sort o' mis'ry in wan day than a man can in all the years God\ngives him.\n\n\"Now, in ordher that ye see the pint, I'm undher the need-cessity av\naxplainin' to yer Anner that Finn didn't be no manes have the hathred at\nwimmin that he purtinded, for indade he liked thim purty well, but he\nthought he undhershtood thim well enough to know that the more ye talk\nswate to thim, the more they don't like it, barrin' they're fools, that\nsometimes happens. So whin he talked wid 'em or about thim, he spake o'\nthim shuperskillious, lettin' on to despize the lasht wan o' thim, that\nwas a takin' way he had, for wimmin love thimselves a dale betther than\nye'd think, unless yer Anner's marr'd an' knows, an' that Finn knew, so he\nalways said o' thim the manest things he cud get out av his head, an' that\nmade thim think av him, that was phat he wanted. They purtinded to hate\nhim for it, but he didn't mind that, for he knewn it was only talk, an'\nthere wasn't wan o' thim that wouldn't give the lasht tooth out av her jaw\nto have him for a husband.\n\n\"Well, as I was sayin', afther owld Bryan give Finn up, his mother tuk him\nin hand, throwin' a hint at him wanst in a while, sighin' to him how glad\nshe'd be to have a young lady giont for a dawther, an' dhroppin' a word\nabout phat an iligant girl Burthey O'Ghallaghy was, that was the dawther\nav wan o' the naburs, that she got Finn, unbeknownst to himself, to be\nthinkin' about Burthey. She was a fine young lady giont, about tin feet\nhigh, as broad as a cassel dure, but she was good size for Finn, as ye\nknow be phat I said av him. So when Finn's mother see him takin' her home\nfrom church afther benediction, an' the nabers towld her how they obsarved\nhim lanin' on O'Ghallaghy's wall an' Burthey lightin' his pipe wid a coal,\nshe thought to herself, 'fair an' aisey goes far in a day,' an' made her\nmind up that Finn 'ud marry Burthey. An' so, belike, he'd a' done, if he\nhadn't gone over, wan onlucky day, to the village beyant, where the common\npeople like you an' me lived.\n\n\"When he got there, in he wint to the inn to get him his dhrink, for it's\na mishtake to think that thim gionts were all blood-suckin' blagg\u00e2rds as\nthe Causeway guides say, but, barrin' they were in dhrink, were as\npaceable as rabbits. So when Finn wint in, he says, 'God save ye,' to thim\nsettin', an' gev the table a big crack wid his shillaylah as for to say he\nwanted his glass. But instead o' the owld granny that used for to fetch\nhim his potheen, out shteps a nate little woman wid hair an' eyes as black\nas a crow an' two lips on her as red as a cherry an' a quick sharp way\nlike a cat in a hurry.\n\n\"'An' who are you, me Dear?' says Finn, lookin' up.\n\n\"'I'm the new barmaid, Sorr, av it's plazin' to ye,' says she, makin' a\ncurchey, an' lookin' shtrait in his face.\n\n\"'It is plazin',' says Finn. ''Tis I that's glad to be sarved be wan like\nyou. Only,' says he, 'I know be the look o' yer eye ye 've a timper.'\n\n\"'Dade I have,' says she, talkin' back at him, 'an' ye'd betther not wake\nit.'\n\n\"Finn had more to say an' so did she, that I won't throuble yer Anner wid,\nbut when he got his fill av dhrink an' said all he'd in his head, an' she\nkep' aven wid him at ivery pint, he wint away mightily plazed. The next\nSunday but wan he was back agin, an' the Sunday afther, an' afther that\nagin. By an' by, he'd come over in the avenin' afther the work was done,\nan' lane on the bar or set on the table, talkin' wid the barmaid, for she\nwas as sharp as a thornbush, an' sorra a word Finn 'ud say to her in\nimpidince or anny other way, but she'd give him his answer afore he cud\nget his mouth shut.\n\n\"Now, be this time, Finn's mother had made up her mind that Finn 'ud marry\nBurthey, an' so she sent for the match-maker, an' they talked it all over,\nan' Finn's father seen Burthey's father, an' they settled phat Burthey 'ud\nget an' phat Finn was to have, an' were come to an agraymint about the\nmatch, onbeknownst to Finn, bekase it was in thim days like it is now, the\nmatches bein' made be the owld people, an' all the young wans did was to\ngo an' be marr'd an' make the best av it. Afther all, maybe that's as good\na way as anny, for whin ye've got all the throuble on yer back ye can\nstagger undher, there's not a haporth o' differ whether ye got undher it\nyerself or whether it was put on ye, an' so it is wid gettin' marr'd, at\nlaste so I'm towld.\n\n\"Annyhow, Finn's mother was busy wid preparin' for the weddin' whin she\nheard how Finn was afther puttin' in his time at the village.\n\n\"'Sure that won't do,' she says to herself; 'he ought to know betther than\nto be spendin' ivery rap he's got in dhrink an' gostherin' at that\nblack-eyed huzzy, an' he to be marr'd to the best girl in the county.' So\nthat night, when Finn come in, she spake fair an' soft to him that he'd\ngive up goin' to the inn, an' get ready for to be marr'd at wanst. An'\nthat did well enough till she got to the marryin', when Finn riz up aff\nhis sate, an' shut his taith so hard he bruk his pipestem to smithereens.\n\n\"'Say no more, mother,' he says to her. 'Burthey's good enough, but I\nwouldn't marry her if she was made av goold. Begob, she's too big. I want\nno hogs'ead av a girl like her,' says he. 'If I'm to be marr'd, I want a\nlittle woman. They're betther o' their size, an' it don't take so much to\nbuy gowns for thim, naither do they ate so much,' says he.\n\n\"'A-a-ah, baithershin,' says his mother to him; 'phat d'ye mane be talkin'\nthat-a-way, an' me workin' me fingers to the bone clanin' the house for\nye, an' relavin' ye av all the coortin' so as ye'd not be bothered in the\nlaste wid it.'\n\n\"'Shmall thanks to ye,' says Finn, 'sure isn't the coortin' the best share\no' the job?'\n\n    [Illustration: \"AN' WHO ARE YOU, ME DEAR?\" SAYS FINN, LOOKIN' UP.]\n\n            \"AN' WHO ARE YOU, ME DEAR?\" SAYS FINN, LOOKIN' UP.\n\n\n\"'Don't ye mane to marry her?' says his mother.\n\n\"'Divil a toe will I go wid her,' says Finn.\n\n\"'Out, ye onmannerly young blagg\u00e2rd, I'd tell ye to go to the divil, but\nye're on the way fast enough, an' bad luck to the fut I'll shtir to halt\nye. Only I'm sorry for Burthey,' says she, 'wid her new gown made. When\nher brother comes back, begob 'tis he that'll be the death av ye immejitly\nafther he dhrops his two eyes on ye.'\n\n\"'Aisey now,' says Finn, 'if he opens his big mouth at me, I'll make him\nwondher why he wasn't born deef an' dumb,' says he, an' so he would, for\nall that he was so paceable.\n\n\"Afther that, phat was his mother to do but lave aff an' go to bed, that\nshe done, givin' Finn all the talk in her head an' a million curses\nbesides, for she was mightily vexed at bein' bate that way an' was in a\ndivil av a timper along o' the house-clanin', that always puts wimmin into\na shtate av mind.\n\n\"So the next day the news was towld, an' Finn got to be a holy show for\nthe nabers, bekase av not marryin' Burthey an' wantin' the barmaid. They\nwere afeared to say annything to himself about it, for he'd an arm on him\nthe thick o' yer waist, an' no wan wanted to see how well he cud use it,\nbut they'd whisper afther him, an' whin he wint along the road, they'd\npint afther him, an' by an' by a giont like himself, an uncle av him,\ntowld him he'd betther lave the counthry, an' so he thought he'd do an'\nmade ready for to shtart.\n\n\"But poor Burthey pined wid shame an' grief at the loss av him, for she\nloved him wid all the heart she had, an' that was purty big. So she fell\naff her weight, till from the size av a hogs'ead she got no bigger round\nthan a barrel an' was like to die. But all the time she kept on hopin'\nthat he'd come to her, but whin she heard for sartain he was goin' to lave\nthe counthry she let go an' jumped aff that clift into the say an'\ncommitted shooicide an' drownded herself. She wasn't turned into a pillar\nat all, that's wan o' thim guides' lies; she just drownded like annybody\nthat fell into the wather would, an' was found afther an' berrid be the\nfishermen, an' a hard job av it they had, for she weighed a ton. But they\ncalled the place the Lovers' Lape, bekase she jumped from it, an' lovin'\nFinn the way she did, the lape she tuk made the place be called afther her\nan' that's razon enough.\n\n\"Finn was showbogher enough afore, but afther that he seen it was no use\nthryin' for to live in Ireland at all, so he got the barmaid, that was\naiquel to goin' wid him, the more that ivery wan was agin him, that's\nbeway o' the conthrariness av wimmin, that are always ready for to do\nannything ye don't want thim to do, an' wint to Scotland an' wasn't heard\nav for a long time.\n\n\"About twelve years afther, there was a great talk that Finn had got back\nfrom Scotland wid his wife an' had taken the farm over be the village, the\nfirst on the left as ye go down the mountain. At first there was no end av\nthe fuss that was, for Burthey's frinds hadn't forgotten, but it all come\nto talk, so Finn settled down quite enough an' wint to work. But he was an\nalthered man. His hair an' beard were gray as a badger, so they called him\nthe Gray Man, an' he'd a look on him like a shape-stalin' dog. Everybody\nwondhered, but they didn't wondher long, for it was aisely persaived he\nhad cause enough, for the tongue o' Missis Finn wint like a stame-ingine,\nkapin' so far ahead av her branes that she'd have to shtop an' say\n'an'-uh, an'-uh,' to give the latther time for to ketch up. Jagers, but\nshe was the woman for to talk an' schold an' clack away till ye'd want to\ndie to be rid av her. When she was young she was a purty nice girl, but as\nshe got owlder her nose got sharp, her lips were as thin as the aidge av a\nsickle, an' her chin was as pinted as the bow av a boat. The way she\nmanaged Finn was beautiful to see, for he was that afeared av her tongue\nthat he darn't say his sowl belonged to him when she was by.\n\n\"When he got up airly in the mornin', she'd ax, 'Now phat are ye raisin'\nup so soon for, an' me just closin' me eyes in slape?' an' if he'd lay\nabed, she'd tell him to 'get along out o' that now, ye big gossoon; if it\nwasn't for me ye'd do nothin' at all but slape like a pig.' If he'd go\nout, she'd gosther him about where he was goin' an' phat he meant to do\nwhen he got there; if he shtayed at home, she'd raymark that he done\nnothin' but set in the cabin like a boss o' shtraw. When he thried for to\nplaze her, she'd grumble at him bekase he didn't thry sooner; when he let\nher be, she'd fall into a fury an' shtorm till his hair shtud up like it\nwas bewitched it was.\n\n\"She'd more thricks than a showman's dog. If scholdin' didn't do for Finn,\nshe'd cry at him, an' had tin childher that she larned to cry at him too,\nan' when she begun, the tin o' thim 'ud set up a yell that 'ud deefen a\nthrumpeter, so Finn 'ud give in.\n\n\"She cud fall ill on tin minnits notice, an' if Finn was obsthreperous in\nthat degray that she cudn't do him no other way, she'd let on her head\nached fit to shplit, so she'd go to bed an' shtay there till she'd got him\nundher her thumb agin. So she knew just where to find him whin she wanted\nhim; that wimmin undhershtand, for there's more divilmint in wan woman's\nhead about gettin' phat she wants than in tin men's bodies.\n\n\"Sure, if iver annybody had raison to remimber the ould song, \"When I was\nsingle,\" it was Finn.\n\n\"So, ye see, Finn, the Gray Man, was afther havin' the divil's own time,\nan' that was beways av a mishtake he made about marryin'. He thought it\nwas wan o' thim goold bands the quol'ty ladies wear on their arrums, but\nhe found it was a handcuff it was. Sure wimmin are quare craythers. Ye\nthink life wid wan o' thim is like a sunshiny day an' it's nothing but\ndrizzle an' fog from dawn to dark, an' it's my belafe that Misther O'Day\nwasn't far wrong when he said wimmin are like the owld gun he had in the\nhouse an' that wint aff an the shly wan day an' killed the footman. 'Sure\nit looked innycent enough,' says he, 'but it was loaded all the same, an'\nonly waitin' for an axcuse to go aff at some wan, an' that's like a woman,\nso it is,' he'd say, an' ivery wan 'ud laugh when he towld that joke, for\nhe was the landlord, 'that's like a woman, for she's not to be thrusted\navin when she's dead.'\n\n\"But it's me own belafe that the most sarious mishtake av Finn's was in\nmarryin' a little woman. There's thim that says all wimmin is a mishtake\nbe nacher, but there's a big differ bechuxt a little woman an' a big wan,\nthe little wans have sowls too big for their bodies, so are always lookin'\nout for a big man to marry, an' the bigger he is, the betther they like\nhim, as knowin' they can manage him all the aisier. So it was wid Finn an'\nhis little wife, for be hook an' be crook she rejuiced him in that\nobejince that if she towld him for to go an' shtand on his head in the\ncorner, he'd do it wid the risk av his life, bekase he'd wanted to die an'\ngo to heaven as he heard the priest say there was no marryin' there, an'\nthough he didn't dare to hint it, he belaved in his sowl that the rayzon\nwas the wimmin didn't get that far.\n\n                [Illustration: Music: When I Was Single.]\n\n\"Afther they'd been living here about a year, Finn thought he'd fish a bit\nan' so help along, considherin' he'd a big family an' none o' the childher\nowld enough for to work. So he got a boat an' did purty well an' his wife\nused to come acrass the hill to the shore to help him wid the catch. But\nit was far up an' down agin an' she'd get tired wid climbin' the hill an'\njawing at Finn on the way.\n\n\"So wan day as they were comin' home, they passed a cabin an' there was\nthe man that lived there, that was only a ditcher, a workin' away on the\nside av the hill down the path to the shpring wid a crowbar, movin' a big\nshtone, an' the shweat rollin' in shtrames aff his face.\n\n\"'God save ye,' says Finn to him.\n\n\"'God save ye kindly,' says he to Finn.\n\n\"'It's a bizzy man ye are,' says Finn.\n\n\"'Thrue for ye,' says the ditcher. 'It's along o' the owld woman. \"The way\nto the shpring is too stape an' shtoney,\" says she to me, an' sure, I'm\nafther makin' it aisey for her.'\n\n\"'Ye're the kind av a man to have,' says Missis Finn, shpakin' up. 'Sure\nall wimmin isn't blessed like your wife,' says she, lookin' at Finn, who\nlet on to laugh when he wanted to shwear. They had some more discoorse,\nthin Finn an' his wife wint on, but it put a big notion into her head. If\nthe bogthrotter, that was only a little ottommy, 'ud go to work like that\nan' make an aisey path for his owld woman to the shpring, phat's the\nrayzon Finn cudn't fall to an' dig a path through the mountains, so she\ncud go to the say an' to the church on the shore widout breakin' her back\nclimbin' up an' then agin climbin' down. 'T was the biggest consate iver\nin the head av her, an' she wasn't wan o' thim that 'ud let it cool aff\nfor the want o' talkin' about it, so she up an' towld it to Finn, an' got\nafther him to do it. Finn wasn't aiger for to thry, bekase it was Satan's\nown job, so he held out agin all her scholdin' an' beggin' an' cryin'.\nThen she got sick on him, wid her headache, an' wint to bed, an' whin Finn\nwas about she'd wondher out loud phat she was iver born for an' why she\ncudn't die. Then she'd pray, so as Finn 'ud hear her, to all the saints to\nwatch over her big gossoon av a husband an' not forget him just bekase he\nwas a baste, an' if Finn 'ud thry to quiet her, she'd pray all the louder,\nan' tell him it didn't matther, she was dyin' an' 'ud soon be rid av him\nan' his brutal ways, so as Finn got half crazy wid her an' was ready to do\nannything in the worruld for to get her quiet.\n\n  [Illustration: \"Finn gave in an' wint to work wid a pick an' sphade\"]\n\n\"Afther about a week av this thratemint, Finn give in an' wint to work wid\na pick an' shpade on the Gray Man's Path. But thim that says he made it in\nwan night is ignerant, for I belave it tuk him a month at laste; if not\nmore. So that's the thrue shtory av the Gray Man's Path, as me grandfather\ntowld it, an' shows that a giont's size isn't a taste av help to him in a\ncontist wid a woman's jaw.\n\n\"But to be fair wid her, I belave the onliest fault Finn's wife had was,\nshe was possist be the divil, an' there's thim that thinks that's enough.\nI mind me av a young felly wan time that was in love, an' so to be\naxcused, that wished he'd a hunderd tongues so to do justice to his\nswateheart. So afther that he marr'd her, an' whin they'd been marr'd a\nwhile an' she'd got him undher her fisht, says they to him, 'An' how about\nyer hunderd tongues?' 'Begorra,' says he to thim agin, 'wid a hunderd I'd\nget along betther av coorse than wid wan, but to be ayquel to the waggin'\nav her jaw I'd nade a hunderd t'ousand.'\n\n\"So it's a consate I have that Missis Finn was not a haporth worse nor the\nrest o' thim, an' that's phat me grandfather said too, that had been\nmarr'd twict, an' so knewn phat he was talkin' about. An' whin he towld\nthe shtory av the Gray Man, he'd always end it wid a bit av poethry:--\n\n  \"'The first rib did bring in ruin\n  As the rest have since been doin';\n  Some be wan way, some another,\n  Woman shtill is mischief's mother.\n\n  \"'Be she good or be she avil,\n  Be she saint or be she divil,\n  Shtill unaisey is his life\n  That is marr'd wid a wife.'\"\n\n\n\n\n\nSATAN AS A SCULPTOR.\n\n\n            [Illustration: Initial: \"Satan as a Sculptor\"]\n\nNear one of the fishing villages which abound on the Clare coast, a narrow\nvalley runs back from the sea into the mountains, opening between two\nprecipices that, ages ago, were rent asunder by the forces of nature. On\nentering the valley by the road leading from the sea-shore, nothing can be\nseen but barren cliffs and craggy heights, covered here and there by\npatches of the moss peculiar to the country. After making some progress,\nthe gorge narrows, the moss becomes denser on the overhanging rocks;\ntrees, growing out of clefts in the precipices, unite their branches above\nthe chasm, and shroud the depths, so that, save an hour or two at noon,\nthe rays of the sun do not penetrate to the crystal brook, rippling along\nat the bottom over its bed of moss-covered pebbles,--now flashing white as\nit leaps down a declivity, now hiding itself under the overreaching ferns,\nnow coming again into the light, but always hurrying on as though eager to\nescape from the dark, gloomy retreat, and, for a moment, enjoy the\nsunshine of the wider valley beyond before losing its life in the sea.\n\n                      [Illustration: A Barren Cliff]\n\nAt a narrow turn in the valley and immediately over the spot where the\nbrook has its origin in a spring bursting out of a crevice in the rock and\nfalling into a circular well partly scooped out, partly built up for the\nreception of the sparkling water, a cliff rises perpendicularly to the\nheight of fifty feet, surmounted, after a break in the strata, by another,\nperhaps twenty feet higher, the upper portion being curiously wrought by\nnature's chisel into the shape of a human countenance. The forehead is\nshelving, the eyebrows heavy and menacing; the nose large and hooked like\nthe beak of a hawk; the upper lip short, the chin prominent and pointed,\nwhile a thick growth of ferns in the shelter of the crag forming the nose\ngives the impression of a small mustache and goatee. Above the forehead a\nmass of tangled undergrowth and ferns bears a strong resemblance to an\nOriental turban. An eye is plainly indicated by a bit of light-colored\nstone, and altogether the face has a sinister leer, that, in an ignorant\nage, might easily inspire the fears of a superstitious people.\n\nOn a level with the chin and to the right of the face is the mouth of a\ncave, reached by a path up the hillside, rude steps in the rock rendering\neasier the steep ascent. The cave can be entered only by stooping, but\ninside a room nearly seven feet high and about twelve feet square presents\nitself. Undoubtedly the cave was once the abode of an anchorite, for on\neach side of the entrance a Latin cross is deeply carved in the rock,\nwhile within, at the further side, and opposite the door, a block of stone\nfour feet high was left for an altar. Above it, a shrine is hollowed out\nof the stone wall, and over the cavity is another cross, surmounted by the\nmystic I. H. S.\n\nThe legend of the cave was told by an old \"wise woman\" of the neighborhood\nwith a minuteness of detail that rendered the narrative more tedious than\ngraphic. A devout believer in the truth of her own story, she told it with\nwonderful earnestness, combining fluency of speech with the intonations of\noratory in such a way as to render the legend as interesting as a dramatic\nrecitation.\n\n\"'T is the cave av the saint, but phat saint I'm not rightly sartain. Some\nsay it was Saint Patrick himself, but 't is I don't belave that same. More\nsay it was the blessed Saint Kevin, him that done owld King O'Toole out av\nhis land in the bargain he made fur curin' his goose, but that's not thrue\naither, an' it's my consate they're right that say it was Saint Tigernach,\nthe same that built the big Abbey av Clones in Monaghan. His Riverince,\nFather Murphy, says that same, an' sorra a wan has a chance av knowin'\nbetther than him.\n\n                    [Illustration: THE DEVIL'S FACE.]\n\n\"An' the big head on the rock there is the divil's face that the saint\nmade him put there, the time the blessed man was too shmart fur him whin\nthe Avil Wan thried to do him.\n\n\"A quare owld shtory it is, an' the quol'ty that come down here on the\ncoast laugh if it's towld thim, an' say it's a t'underin' big lie that's\nin it, bekase they don't undhershtand it, but if men belaved nothin' they\ndidn't undhershtand, it's a short craydo they'd have. But I was afther\ntellin', Saint Tigernach lived in the cave, it bein' him an' no other;\nmorebetoken, he was a good man an' shrewder than a fox. He made the cave\nfur himself an' lived there, an' ivery day he'd say tin thousand paters,\nan' five thousand aves, an' a thousand craydos, an' thin go out among the\npoor. There wasn't manny poor thin in Ireland, Glory be to God, fur the\ntimes was betther thin, but phat there was looked up to the saint, fur he\nwas as good as a cupboard to thim, an' whin he begged fur the poor, sorra\na man 'ud get from him till he'd given him a copper or more, fur he'd\nshtick like a consthable to ye till he'd get his money. An' all that were\nparshecuted, an' the hungry, an' naked, and God's poor, wint to the saint\nlike a child to its mother an' towld him the whole o' their heart.\n\n\"While the blessed saint lived here, over acrass the hill an' beyant the\npeat-bog there was a hedger an' ditcher named O'Connor. He was only a poor\nlaborin' man, an' the owld woman helped him, while his girl, be the name\no' Kathleen, tinded the house, fur I must tell ye, they kept a boord in\nthe corner beways av a bar an' a jug wid potheen that they sowld to thim\nthat passed, fur it was afore the days av the gaugers, bad cess to thim,\nan' ivery man dhrunk phat he plazed widout payin' a pinny to the\ngovermint. So O'Connor made the potheen himself an' Kathleen sowld it to\nthe turf-cutters, an' mighty little did they buy, bekase they'd no money.\nShe was a fine girl, wid a pair av eyes that 'ud dint the hearts av owld\nan' young, an' wid a dacint gown fur the week an' a clane wan fur the\nSunday, an' just such a girl as 'ud make an owld felly feel himself young\nagin. Sorra the taste av divilmint was there in the girl at all, fur she\nwas good as the sunshine in winther an' as innycent as a shpring lamb, an'\nwint to church an' did her jooty reglar.\n\n\"She was afther fallin' in love wid a young felly that done ditchin' an'\nthey were to be marr'd whin he got his house done an' his father gev him a\ncow. He wasn't rich be no manes, but as fur feelin' poverty, he never\ndhreamt o' such a thing, fur he'd the love o' Kathleen an' thought it a\nforchune.\n\n\"In thim times the castle at the foot o' the hill was kept be a lord, that\nwid roomytisms an' panes in his jints was laid on his bed all the time,\nand the son av him, Lord Robert, was the worst man to be runnin' afther\ngirls iver seen in the County Clare. He was the dandy among thim an' broke\nthe hearts o' thim right an' lift like he was shnappin' twigs undher his\nfeet. Manny a wan he desaved an' let go to the dogs, as they did at wanst,\nfur whin the divil gets his foot on a woman's neck, she niver lifts her\nhead agin.\n\n\"Wan day, Lord Robert's father's roomytism got the betther av him an' laid\nhim out, an' they gev him an iligant wake an' berryin', an' while they\nwere at the grave Lord Robert looked up an' seen Kathleen shtandin' among\nthe people an' wondhered who she was. So he come into the eshtate an' got\na stable full av horses an' dogs, an' did a power o' huntin', an' as he\nwas a sojer, he'd a shwarm av throopers at the cassel, all the like av\nhimself. But not long afther the berryin', Lord Robert was huntin' in the\nhills, an' he come down towards the bog an' seen O'Connor's cabin, an'\nsays to his man 'Bedad, I wondher if they've a dhrop to shpare here, I'm\nmortial dhry.' So in they wint, an' axed, an' got thim their dhrink, an'\nthin he set the wicked eyes av him on the girl an' at wanst remimbered\nher.\n\n\"'It's a mighty fine girl ye are,' says he to Kathleen thin, an' fit fur\nthe house av a prince.'\n\n\"'None o' yer deludherin' talk to me, Sorr,' says Kathleen to him. 'I know\nye, an' it's no good I know av ye,' says she to him. 'Twas the good girl\nshe was an' as firm as a landlord in a bad year when she thought there was\nanny avil intinded.\n\n\"So he wint away that time an' come agin an' agin when he was huntin' an'\nalways had some impidince to say at her. She towld her parrents av it, an'\nthough they didn't like it at all, they wasn't afeared fur the girl, an'\nhe'd spind more in wan dhrinkin' than they'd take in in a week, so they\nwere not sorry to see him come, but ivery time he come he wint away more\ndetarmined to have the girl, an' whin he found he cudn't get her be fair\nmanes he shwore he'd do it be foul. So wanst, whin she'd been cowlder to\nhim than common an' wouldn't have a prisint he brought her, he says to\nher, 'Begob, I'll bring ye to terms. If ye won't accept me prisints, I'll\nmake ye bend yer will widout prisints,' an' he wint away. She got\nfrighted, an' whin she saw Tim Maccarty, she towld him av Lord Robert an'\nphat he said. Well, it made Tim mighty mad. 'Tatther an' agers,' says he,\n'be the powers, I'll break every bone in his body if he lays a finger on\nyer showldher; but, fur all that, whin Tim got to thinkin', he got skairt\nav Kathleen.\n\n\"'Sure,' says he to himself, 'ain't wimmin like glass jugs, that'll break\nwid the laste touch? I'll marry her immejitly an' take out av Clare into\nKerry,' says he, 'an' let him dare to come afther her there,' says he, for\nhe knewn that if Lord Robert came into the Kerry mountains, the boys 'ud\ncrack his shkull wid the same compuncshusness that they'd have to an egg\nshell. So he left aff the job an' convaynienced himself to go to Kathleen\nthat night an' tell her his belafe.\n\n\"'Amn't I afeared fur ye, me darlin',' says he, 'and wouldn't I dhrownd me\nin the say if anny harm 'ud come to ye, so I think we'd betther be married\nat wanst.'\n\n\"So Kathleen consinted an' made a bundle av her Sunday gown, an' they\nshtarted fur the saint's cave, that bein' the nearest place they cud be\nmarr'd at, an' bein' marr'd be him was like bein' marr'd be a priest.\n\n\"So they wint alang the road to where the foot-path laves it be the\noak-tree, then up the path an' through the boreen to where Misther\nDawson's black mare broke her leg jumpin' the hedge, an' whin they rached\nthat shpot they heard a noise on the road behint thim an' stud be the\nhedge, peepin' through to have a look at it an' see phat it was. An' there\nwas Lord Robert an' a dozen av his bad min, wid their waypons an' the\narmor on thim shinin' in the moonlight. It was ridin' to O'Connor's they\nwere, an' whin Tim an' Kathleen set their eyes on thim, they seen they'd\nmade a narrer eshcape.\n\n\"Howandiver, as soon as Lord Robert an' his min were out o' sight, they\nran wid all their shpeed, an' lavin' the path where Dennis Murphy fell\ninto the shtrame lasht winter comin' back from Blanigan's wake whin he'd\nhad too much, they tuk the rise o' the hill, an' that was a mishtake. If\nthey'd kep be the hedge an' 'round be the foot-bridge, then up the footway\nthe other side o' the brook an' ferninst the mill, they'd have kep out o'\nsight, an' been safe enough; but as they were crassin' the hill, wan av\nRobert's min saw thim, fur it was afther the girl he was sure enough, an'\nwhin he found from her father her an' Tim were gone, they rode aff here\nan' there sarchin' afther thim. Whin the sojer shpied thim on the top o'\nthe hill, he blew his thrumpet, an' here come all the rest shtreelin'\nalong on the run, round the hill as fast as their bastes 'ud take thim,\nfur they guessed where the two 'ud be goin'. An' Kathleen an' Tim come\ntumblin' down the shlope, an' bad luck to the minnit they'd to shpare whin\nthey got into the cave before here was the whole gang, wid their horses\npuffin', an' their armors rattlin' like a pedler's tins.\n\n\"The saint was on a pile av shtraw in the corner, shnorin' away out av his\nblessed nose, fur it was as sound aslape as a pig he was, bein' tired\nentirely wid a big day's job, an' didn't wake up wid their comin' in. So\nLord Robert an' his min left their horses below an' climbed up an' looked\nin, but cud see nothin' be razon av the darkness.\n\n\"'Arrah now,' says he, 'Kathleen, come along out o' that now, fur I've got\nye safe an' sound.'\n\n\"They answered him niver a word, but he heard a noise that was the saint\nturnin' over on his bed bein' onaisey in his slape.\n\n\"'Come along out o' that,' he repaited; 'an' you, Tim Maccarty, if ye come\nout, ye may go back to yer ditchin', but if ye wait fur me to fetch ye,\nthe crows 'ull be atin' ye at sunrise. Shtrike a light,' says he. So they\ndid, an' looked in an' saw Tim an' Kathleen, wan on aitch side o' the\nalthar, holdin' wid all their mights to the crass that was on it.\n\n\"'Dhrag thim out av it,' says Lord Robert, an' the min went in, but afore\nthey come near thim, Saint Tigernach shtopped shnorin', bein' wakened wid\nthe light an' jabberin', an' shtud up on the flure.\n\n\"'Howld on now,' says the blessed saint, 'phat's the matther here? Phat's\nall this murtherin' noise about?' says he.\n\n\"Lord Robert's min all dhrew back, for there was a power o' fear av the\nsaint in the county, an' Lord Robert undhertuk to axplain that the girl\nwas a sarvint av his that run away wid that thafe av a ditcher, but Saint\nTigernach seen through the whole thrick at wanst.\n\n             [Illustration: \"Her masther stood be her side\"]\n\n\"'Lave aff,' says he. 'Don't offer fur to thrape thim lies on me. Pack aff\nwid yer murtherers, or it's the curse ye'll get afore ye can count yer\nfingers,' an' wid that all the min went out, an' Lord Robert afther thim,\nan' all he cud say 'udn't pervail on the sojers to go back afther the\ngirl.\n\n\"'No, yer Anner,' says they to him; 'we ate yer Anner's mate, an' dhrink\nyer Anner's dhrink, an' 'ull do yer Anner's biddin' in all that's right.\nWe're parfectly willin' to wait till mornin' an' murther the ditcher an'\nshtale the girl whin they come out an' get away from the saint, but he\nmusn't find it out. It's riskin' too much. Begorra, we've got sowls to\nsave,' says they, so they all got on their horses an' shtarted back to the\ncassel.\n\n\"Lord Robert folly'd thim a bit, but the avil heart av him was so set on\nKathleen that he cudn't bear the thought av lettin' her go. So whin he got\nto the turn av the road, 'T'underation,' says he, ''t is the wooden head\nthat's set on me showldhers, that I didn't think av the witch afore.'\n\n\"Ye see, in the break av the mountains beyant the mill, where the rath is,\nthere was in thim times the cabin av a great witch. 'T was a dale av avil\nshe done the County Clare wid shtorms an' rainy sayzons an' cows lavin'\naff their milk, an' she'd a been dhrownded long afore, but fur fear av the\ndivil, her masther, that was at her elbow, whinever she'd crook her\nfinger. So to her Lord Robert wint, an' gev a rap on the dure, an' in.\nThere she sat wid a row av black cats on aitch side, an' the full av a\nshkillet av sarpints a-shtewin' on the fire. He knew her well, fur she'd\ndone jobs fur him afore, so he made bowld to shtate his arriant widout so\nmuch as sayin' good day to ye. The owld fagot made a charm to call her\nmasther, an' that minnit he was shtandin' be her side, bowin' an'\nschrapin' an' shmilin' like a gintleman come to tay. He an' Lord Robert\nfell to an' had a power av discoorse on the bargain, fur Robert was a\nsharp wan an' wanted the conthract onsartain-like, hopin' to chate the\ndivil at the end, as we all do, be the help av God, while Satan thried to\nmake it shtronger than a tinant's lace. Afther a dale av palatherin', they\naggrade that the divil was to do all that Lord Robert axed him fur twinty\nyears, an' then to have him sowl an' body; but if he failed, there was an\nend av the bargain. But there was a long face on the owld felly whin the\nfirst thing he was bid to do was to bring Kathleen out o' the cave an'\ncarry her to the cassel.\n\n\"'By Jayminny,' says Satan, 'it's no aisey job fur to be takin' her from\nthe power av a great saint like him,' a-scratchin' his head. 'But come on,\nwe'll thry.'\n\n       [Illustration: \"So the three av thim mounted the wan horse\"]\n\n\"So the three av thim mounted on the wan horse, Lord Robert in the saddle,\nthe divil behind, an' the witch in front av him, an' away like the wind to\nthe cave. Whin they got to the turn o' the hill, they got aff an' hid in\nthe bushes bechune the cave an' the shpring, bekase, as Satan axplained to\nLord Robert, ivery night, just at midnight, the saint wint to get him a\ndhrink av wather, bein' dhry wid the devotions, an' 'ud bring the full av\na bucket back wid him.\n\n\"'We'll shtop him be the shpring,' says the divil, 'wid the witch, an' you\nan' me'ull shtale the girl while he's talkin'.\n\n\"So while the clock was shtrikin' fur twilve, out come the saint wid the\nwather-bucket an' shtarted to the shpring. Whin he got there an' was\ntakin' his dhrink, up comes the witch an' begins tellin' him av a son she\nhad (she was purtindin', ye ondhershtand, an' lyin' to him) that was as\nlazy as a c\u00e2r-horse an' as much in the way as a sore thumb, an' axin' the\nsaint's advice phat to do wid him, while Satan an' Lord Robert ran into\nthe cave. The divil picked up Kathleen in his arrums, but he darn't have\ndone that same, only she was on the other side av the cave an' away from\nthe althar, but Tim was shtandin' by it, an' shtarted out wid her kickin'\nan' schraichin'. Tim ran to grip him, but Satan tossed him back like a\nball an' he fell on the flure.\n\n\"'Howld on till I shtick him,' says Lord Robert, pullin' out his soord.\n\n\"'Come on, ye bosthoon,' says Satan to him. 'Sure the saint 'ull be on us\nif we don't get away quick,' an' bedad, as he said thim words, the dure\nopened, an' in come Saint Tigernach wid a bucket av wather on his arrum\nan' in a hurry, fur he misthrusted something.\n\n\"'God's presince be about us,' says the blessed saint, whin he saw the\ndivil, an' the turkey-bumps begun to raise on his blessed back an' the\nshweat a-comin' on his face, fur he knewn Satan well enough, an' consaved\nthe owld felly had come fur himself be razon av a bit o' mate he ate that\nday, it bein' av a Friday; axceptin' he didn't ate the mate but only\ntasted it an' then spit it out agin to settle a quarl bechune a butcher\nan' a woman that bought the mate an' said it was bad, only he was afeared\nSatan didn't see him when he sput it out agin. 'God's presince be about\nus,' says the saint, a-crossin' himself as fast as he cud. In a minnit\nthough, he seen it wasn't him, but Kathleen, that was in it, an' let go\nthe wather an' caught the blessed crass that was hangin' on him wid his\nright hand an' gripped Satan be the throat wid his lift, a-pushin' the\ncrass in his face.\n\n\"The divil dhropped Kathleen like it was a bag av male she was, an' she\nrolled over an' over on the flure like a worrum till she raiched the\nalthar an' stuck to it as tight as the bark on a tree. An' a fine thing it\nwas to see the inimy av our sowls a-lyin' there trimblin', wid the saint's\nfut on his neck.\n\n\"'Glory be to God,' says the saint. 'Lie you there till I make an example\nav ye,' says he, an' turned to look fur Lord Robert, bekase he knewn the\ntwo o' thim 'ud be in it. But the Sassenagh naded no invitation to be\nwalkin' aff wid himself, but whin he seen phat come to the divil, he run\naway wid all the legs he had, an' the witch wid him, an' Tim afther thim\nwid a whoop an' a fishtful av shtones. But they left him complately an'\ngot away disconsarted, an' Tim come back.\n\n\"'Raise up,' says Saint Tigernach to the divil, 'an' shtand in the\ncorner,' makin' the blessed sign on the ground afore him. 'I'm afther\nmarryin' these two at wanst, widout fee or license, an' you shall be the\nwitness.'\n\n\"So he married thim there, while the divil looked on. Faix, it's no lie\nI'm tellin' ye; it's not the onliest marryin' the divil's been at, but\nhe's not aften seen at thim when he's in as low sper'ts as he was at that.\nBut it was so that they were married wid Satan fur a witness, an' some\nsays the saint thransported thim to Kerry through the air, but 't isn't\nmeself that belaves that same, but that they walked to Kilrush an' wint to\nKerry in a fisherman's boat.\n\n\"Afther they'd shtarted, the saint turns to Satan an' says, 'No more av\nyer thricks wid them two, me fine felly, fur I mane to give you a job\nthat'll kape ye out av mischief fur wan time at laste,' fur he was\nmightily vexed wid him a-comin' that-a-way right into his cave the same as\nif the place belonged to him.\n\n\"'Go you to work,' says he, 'an' put yer face on the rock over the\nshpring, so that as long as the mountain shtands min can come an' see phat\nsort av a dirthy lookin' baste ye are.'\n\n\"So Satan wint out an' looked up at the rock, shmilin', as fur to say that\nwas no great matther, an' whin the blessed man seen the grin that was on\nhim, he says, 'None av yer inchantmints will I have at all, at all. It's\nhonest work ye'll do, an' be the same token, here's me own hammer an'\nchisel that ye'll take,' an' wid that the divil looked mighty sarious, an'\nleft aff grinnin' for he parsaived the clift was granite.\n\n\"'Sure it's jokin' yer Riverince is,' says he, 'ye don't mane it. Sorra\nthe harder bit av shtone bechuxt this an' Donegal,' an' it was thrue for\nhim, fur he knewn the coast well.\n\n\"'Bad luck to the taste av a lie's in it,' says the saint. 'So take yer\nwaypons an' go at it, owld Buck-an'-Whey, fur the sooner ye begin, the\nquicker ye'll be done, an' the shtone won't soften be yer watin'. Mind ye\nkape a civil tongue in yer head while ye're at the job, or it'll be a\nholiday to the wan I'll find ye,' says he, lookin' at him very fierce.\n\n\"So wid great displazemint, Satan tuk the hammer an' chisel, an' climbed\nup an' wint to work a cuttin' his own face on the shtone, an' it was as\nhard as iron it was, an whin he'd hit it a couple av cracks, he shtopped\nan' shuck his head an' thin scratched over his year wid the chisel an'\nlooked round at the saint as fur to say somethin', but the blessed saint\nlooked at him agin so fayroshus, that he made no raimark at all, but\nturned back to the clift quick an' begun to hammer away in airnest till\nthe shweat shtud on his haythenish face like the dhrops on a wather-jug.\n\n\"On the next day, Lord Robert thought he'd call the owld Inimy, an' remind\nhim that, bein' as he'd failed to get Kathleen, their bargain was aff. So\nhe made the charm Satan gev him, but he didn't come fur anny thrial he'd\nmake.\n\n\"'Bad scran to the Imp,' says he. 'Sure he must be mighty busy or maybe\nhe's forgot entirely.'\n\n\"So he out an' wint to see the witch, but she wasn't in, an' while he was\nwaitin' for her, bein' not far away from the saint's cave, he thought he'd\nhave a peep, an' see if Tim an' Kathleen were shtill there. So he crawled\nover the top o' the hill beyant the cave like the sarpint that he was, an'\nwhin he come down a little, he seen the owld Pooka on the clift, wid the\nhammer in wan hand an' the chisel in the other a poundin' away at the rock\nan' hangin' on be his tail to a tree. Lord Robert thought the eyes 'ud\nlave his head, fur he seen it was the divil sure enough, but he cudn't\nrightly make out phat he was doin'. So he crawled down till he seen, an'\nthin, whin he undhershtood, he riz an' come an' took a sate on a big\nshtone ferninst the clift, a shlappin' his legs wid his hands, an' roarin'\nan' the wather bilin' out av his eyes wid laughin'.\n\n\"'Hilloo Nickey,' says he, when he'd got his breath agin an' cud shpake.\n'Is it yerself that's in it?' Mind the impidince av him, shpakin' that\nfamiliar to the inimy av our sowls, but faix, he'd a tongue like a\njewsharp, an' cud use it too.\n\n\"'Kape from me,' says Satan to him agin, as crass as two shticks, an'\nwidout turnin' his head fur to raig\u00e2rd him. 'Lave me! Begorra, I'll wipe\nthe clift aff wid yer carkidge if ye come anny closter,' says he.\n\n\"'A-a-a-h, woorroo, now. Aisey, ye desayvin' owld blagg\u00e2rd,' says Lord\nRobert, as bowld as a ram, fur he knewn that Satan daren't lave the job to\ncome at him. 'Will ye kape yer timper? Sure ye haven't the manners av a\ngoat, to be shpakin' to a gintleman like that. I've just come to tell ye\nthat bein' ye failed, our bargain 's aff,' says he.\n\n\"'Out wid ye,' says the divil, turnin' half round an' howldin' be wan hand\nto the big shtone nose he'd just done, an' shakin' the other fist wid the\nchisel in it at Lord Robert. 'D' ye think I want to be aggervated wid the\nlikes av ye, ye whey-faced shpalpeen, an' me losin' the whole day, an'\nbusiness pressin' at this saison, an' breakin' me back on the job, an' me\nfingers sore wid the chisel, an' me tail shkinned wid howldin' on? Bad\nluck to the shtone, it's harder than a Scotchman's head, it is, so it is,'\nsays he, turnin' back agin when he seen the saint at the dure av the cave.\nAn' thin he begun a peckin' away at the clift fur dear life, shwearin' to\nhimself, so the saint cudn't hear him, every time he give his knuckles an\nonlucky crack wid the hammer.\n\n\"'Ye're not worth the throuble,' says he to Lord Robert; he was that full\nav rage he cudn't howld in. 'It's a paltherin' gossoon I was fur thriflin'\nwid ye whin I was sure av ye annyhow.'\n\n\"'Yer a liar,' says Lord Robert, 'ye desaivin' nagurly Haythen. If ye was\nsure o' me phat did ye want to make a bargain fur?'\n\n\"'Yer another,' says Satan. 'Isn't a sparrer in yer hand betther than a\ngoose on a shtring?'\n\n\"So they were goin' on wid the blagg\u00e2rdin' match, whin the blessed saint,\nthat come out whin he heard thim begin, an' thin set on the dure\na-watchin', to see that owld Nick didn't schamp the job, interfared.\n\n\"'Howld yer pace, Satan, an' kape at yer work,' says he. 'An' for you, ye\nblatherin', milk-faced villin, wid the heart as black as a crow, walk aff\nwid ye an' go down on yer hard-hearted onbelavin' knees, or it's no good\n'ull come o' ye.' An' so he did.\n\n\"Do I belave the shtory? Troth, I dunno. It's quare things happened in\nthem owld days, an' there's the face on the clift as ugly as the divil cud\nbe an' the hammer an' chisel are in the church an' phat betther proof cud\nye ax?\n\n\"Phat come av the lovers? No more do I know that, barrin' they grew owld\nan' shtayed poor an' forgot the shpring-time av youth in the winter av\nage, but if they lived a hunderd years, they niver forgot the marryin' in\nthe saint's cave, wid the black face av the Avil Wan lookin' on from the\ndark corner.\"\n\n             [Illustration: \"'Kape from me,' says the divil\"]\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEFEAT OF THE WIDOWS.\n\n\n         [Illustration: Initial: \"The Defeat of the Widows\"]\n\nWhen superstitions have not yet been banished from any other part of the\nworld it is not wonderful that they should still be found in the country\ndistricts of Ireland, rural life being especially favorable to the\nperpetuation of old ways of living and modes of thought, since in an\nagricultural district less change takes place in a century than may, in a\ncity, be observed in a single decade. Country people preserve their old\nlegends with their antique styles of apparel, and thus the relics of the\npagan ages of Ireland have come down from father to son, altered and\nadapted to the changes in the country and its population. Thus, for\ninstance, the old-fashioned witch is no longer found in any part of\nIreland, her memory lingering only as a tradition, but her modern\nsuccessor is frequently met with, and in many parishes a retired hovel in\na secluded lane is a favorite resort of the neighboring peasants, for it\nis the home of the Pishogue, or wise woman, who collects herbs, and, in\nher way, doctors her patients, sometimes with simple medicinal remedies,\nsometimes with charms, according to their gullibility and the nature of\ntheir ailments.\n\nNot far from Ballinahinch, a fishing village on Birterbuy Bay, in the\nCounty Galway, and in the most lonely valley of the neighborhood, there\ndwells one of these wise women who supplant the ancient witches. The hovel\nwhich shelters her bears every indication of wretched poverty; the floor\nis mud, the smoke escapes through a hole in the thatch in default of a\nchimney; the bed is a scanty heap of straw in the corner, and two rude\nshelves, bearing a small assortment of cracked jars and broken bottles,\nconstitute Moll's stock in trade.\n\nThe misery of her household surroundings, however, furnished to the minds\nof her patients no argument against the efficiency of her remedies, Moll\nbeing commonly believed to have \"a power av goold,\" though no one had ever\nseen any portion thereof. But with all her reputed riches she had no fear\nof robbers, for \"she could aisily do for thim did they but come as many as\nthe shtraws in the thatch,\" and would-be robbers, no doubt understanding\nthat fact, prudently consulted their own safety by staying away from the\nvicinity of her cabin.\n\n\"Owld Moll,\" as she was known, was a power in the parish, and her help was\nsought in many emergencies. Did a cow go dry, Moll knew the reason and\nmight possibly remove the spell; if a baby fell ill, Moll had an\nexplanation of its ailment, and could tell at a glance whether the little\none was or was not affected by the evil eye of a secret enemy. If a pig\nwas stolen, she was shrewd in her conjectures as to the direction its\nwrathful owner must take in the search. But her forte lay in bringing\nabout love-matches. Many were the charms at her command for this purpose,\nand equally numerous the successes with which she was accredited. Some\nparticulars of her doings in this direction were furnished by Jerry\nMagwire, a jolly car-man of Galway, who had himself been benefited by her\nservices.\n\n\"Sure I was married meself be her manes,\" stated Jerry, \"an' this is the\nway it was. Forty-nine years ago come next Mickelmas, I was a good-lookin'\nyoung felly, wid a nate cabin on the road from Ballinasloe to Ballinamore,\nhavin' a fine c\u00e2r an' a mare an' her colt, that was as good as two horses\nwhin the colt grew up. I was afther payin' coort to Dora O'Callighan, that\nwas the dawther av Misther O'Callighan that lived in the County Galway,\nan', be the same token, was a fine man. In thim times I used be comin'\nover here twict or three times a year wid a bagman, commercial thraveller,\nyou'd call him, an' I heard say av Owld Moll, an' she wasn't owld thin,\nan' the next time I come, I wint to her an' got an inchantmint. Faix, some\nav it is gone from me, but I mind that I was to change me garthers, an'\ntie on me thumb a bit o' bark she gev me, an' go to the churchyard on\nHalloween, an' take the first chilla-ca-pooka (snail) I found on a\ntombshtone, an' begob, it was that same job that was like to be the death\no' me, it bein' dark an' I bendin' to look clost, a hare jumped in me face\nfrom undher the shtone. 'Jagers,' says I, an' me fallin' on me back on the\nairth an' the life lavin' me. 'Presince o' God be about me,' says I, for I\nknewn the inchantmint wasn't right, no more I oughtn't to be at it, but\nthe hare was skairt like meself an' run, an' I found the shnail an' run\ntoo wid the shweat pourin' aff me face in shtrames.\n\n\"So I put the shnail in a plate that I covered wid another, an' av the\nSunday, I opened it fur to see phat letters it writ, an' bad luck to the\nwan o' thim cud I rade at all, fur in thim days I cudn't tell A from any\nother letther. I tuk the plate to Misther O'Callighan, fur he was a fine\nscholar an' cud rade both books an' writin', an' axed him phat the letters\nwas.\n\n\"'A-a-ah, ye ignerant gommoch,' says he to me, 'yer head's as empty as a\ndrum. Sure here's no writin' at all, only marks that the shnail's afther\nmakin' an' it crawlin' on the plate.'\n\n\"So I axplained the inchantmint to him, an' he looked a little closter,\nan' thin jumped wid shurprise.\n\n\"'Oh,' says he. 'Is that thrue?' says he. 'Ye must axqueeze me, Misther\nMagwire. Sure the shnails does n't write a good hand, an' I'm an owld man\nan' me eyes dim, but I see it betther now. Faith, the first letter's a D,'\nsays he, an' thin he shtudied awhile. 'An' the next is a O, an' thin\nthere's a C,' says he, 'only the D an' the C is bigger than the O, an'\nthat's all the letters there is,' says he.\n\n\"'An' phat does thim letters shpell?' says I, bekase I did n't know.\n\n\"'Ah, bad scran to 'em,' says he; 'there's thim cows in me field agin,'\nsays he. 'Ax Dora, here she comes,' an' away he wint as she come in, an' I\naxed her phat D. O. C. shpelt; an' she towld me her name, an' I go bail\nshe was surprised to find the shnail had writ thim letters on the plate,\nso we marr'd the next Sunday.\n\n\"But Owld Moll is a knowledgeable woman an' has a power av shpells an'\ncharms. There's Tim Gallagher, him as dhrives the public c\u00e2r out o'\nGalway, he's bought his luck av her be the month, fur nigh on twinty year,\nbarrin' wan month, that he forgot, an' that time he shpilt his load in the\nditch an' kilt a horse, bein' too dhrunk to dhrive.\n\n\"Whin me dawther Dora, that was named afther her mother, was ill afther\nshe'd been to the dance, whin O'Hoolighan's Peggy was married to Paddy\nNoonan (she danced too hard in the cabin an' come home in the rain), me\nowld woman wint to Moll an' found that Dora had been cast wid an avil eye.\nSo she gev her a tay to dhrink an' a charm to wear agin it, an' afther\nshe'd dhrunk the tay an' put on the charm the faver lift her, an' she was\nwell entirely.\n\n            [Illustration: AN' PHAT DOES THIM LETTERS SHPELL?]\n\n                    AN' PHAT DOES THIM LETTERS SHPELL?\n\n\n\"Sure Moll towld me wan magpie manes sorrow, two manes luck, three manes a\nweddin', an' four manes death; an' didn't I see four o' thim the day o'\nthe fair in Ennis whin O'Dougherty was laid out? An' whin O'Riley cut his\narrum wid a bill-hook, an' the blood was runnin', didn't she tie a shtring\non the arrum an' dip a raven's feather into the blood av a black cat's\ntail, an' shtop the bleedin'? An' didn't she bid me take care o' meself\nthe day I met a red-headed woman afore dinner, an' it wasn't six months\ntill I met the woman in the mornin', it a-rainin' an' ivery dhrop the full\no' yer hat, an' me top-coat at home, an' that same night was I tuk wid the\nroomytics an' didn't shtir a toe fur a fortnight. Faix, she's an owld wan\nis Moll; phat she can't do isn't worth thryin'. If she goes fur to make a\nmatch, all the fathers in Ireland cudn't purvint it, an' it's no use o'\ntheir settin' theirselves agin her, fur her head's as long as a summer day\nan' as hard as a shillalee.\n\n\"Did iver ye hear how she got a husband for owld Miss Rooney, the same\nthat married Misther Dooley that kapes the Aygle Inn in Lisdoon Varna, an'\ntuk him clane away from the Widdy Mulligan an' two more widdys that were\ncomin' down upon him like kites on a young rabbit?\n\n\"Well, it's a mighty improvin' shtory, fur it shows that widdys can be\nbaten whin they're afther a husband, that some doesn't belave, but they do\nsay it takes a witch, the divil, an' an owld maid to do it, an' some think\nthat all o' thim isn't aiquel to a widdy, aven if there's three o' thim\nan' but wan av her.\n\n\"The razon av it is this. Widdy wimmin are like lobsthers, whin they wanst\nketch holt, begob, they've no consate av lettin' go at all, but will\nshtick to ye tighter than a toe-nail, till ye've aither to marry thim or\nmurther thim, that's the wan thing in the end; fur if ye marry thim ye're\ntalked to death, an' if ye murther thim ye 're only dacintly hanged out o'\nthe front dure o' the jail. Whin they're afther a husband, they're as busy\nas owld Nick, an' as much in airnest as a dog in purshoot av a flea.\nMore-be-token, they're always lookin' fur the proper man, an' if they see\nwan that they think will shuit, bedad, they go afther him as strait as an\narrer, an' if he doesn't take the alarum an' run like a shape-thief, the\nwiddy 'ull have him afore the althar an' married fast an' tight while he'd\nbe sayin' a Craydo.\n\n\"They know so much be wan axpayrience av marryin', that, barrin' it's a\nwiddy man that's in it, an' he knows as much as thimselves, they'll do for\nhim at wanst, bekase it's well undhershtood that a bach'ler, aither young\nor owld, has as much show av outshtrappin' a widdy as a mouse agin a\nweasel.\n\n\"Now, this Misther Dooley was an owld bach'ler, nigh on five an' thirty,\nan' about fifteen years ago, come next Advint, he come from Cork wid a bit\no' money, an' tuk the farm beyant Misther McCoole's on the lift as ye come\nout o' Galway. He wasn't a bad lookin' felly, an' liked the ladies, an'\nthe first time he was in chapel afther takin' the farm, aitch widdy an'\nowld maid set the two eyes av her on him, an' the Widdy Mulligan says to\nherself, says she, 'Faix, that's just the man to take the place av me dear\nDinnis,' fur, ye see, the widdys always do spake that-a-way av their\nhusbands, a-givin' thim the good word afther they're dead, so as to make\nup fur the tongue lashin's they give 'em whin they're alive. It's quare,\nso it is, phat widdys are like. Whin ye see a widdy at the wake schraimin'\nfit to shplit yer head wid the noise, an' flingin' herself acrass the\ngrave at the berryin' like it was a bag o' male she was, an' thin spakin'\nall the time av 'me poor dear hushband,' I go bail they lived together as\npaceful as a barrel full o' cats an' dogs; no more is it sorrow that's in\nit, but raimorse that's tarin' at her, an' the shquailin' an' kickin' is\nbeways av a pinnance fur the gostherin' she done him whin he was livin',\nfur the more there's in a jug, the less noise it makes runnin' out, an'\nwhin ye've a heavy load to carry, ye nade all yer breath, an' so have none\nto waste tellin' how it's breakin' yer back.\n\n                    [Illustration: The Widdy Mulligan]\n\n\"So it was wid the Widdy Mulligan, that kept the Shamrock Inn, for her\nDinnis was a little ottomy av a gossoon, an' her the full av a dure, an'\nthe arrum on her like a smith an' the fut like a leg o' mutton. Och, she\nwas big enough thin, but she's a horse entirely now, wid the walk av a\nduck, an' the cheeks av her shakin' like a bowl av shtirabout whin she\ngoes. Her poor Dinnis dar n't say his sowl belonged to him, but was\nconthrolled be her, an' they do say his last words were, 'I'll have pace,'\nthat was phat he niver had afther he married her, fur she was wan that 'ud\nbe shmilin' an' shmilin' an' the tongue av her like a razer. She'd a good\nbit o' property in the inn, siven beds in the house fur thravellers, an'\nsix childher, the oldest nigh onto twelve, an' from him on down in reg'lar\nsteps like thim in front o' the coort-house.\n\n                   [Illustration: The Widdy O'Donnell]\n                     [Illustration: Missis McMurthry]\n\n\"Now, a bit up the shtrate from the Shamrock there was a little shop kept\nbe Missis O'Donnell, the widdy av Tim O'Donnell, that died o' bein'\nmortified in his legs that broke be his fallin' aff his horse wan night\nwhin he was comin' back from Athlone, where he'd been to a fair. Missis\nO'Donnell was a wapin' widdy, that's got eyes like a hydrant, where ye can\nturn on the wather whin ye plaze. Begorra, thim's the widdys that 'ull do\nfur anny man, fur no more can ye tell phat's in their minds be lookin' at\ntheir faces than phat kind av close they've got on be lookin' at their\nshadders, an' whin they corner a man that's tinder-hearted, an' give a shy\nlook at him up out o' their eyes, an' thin look down an' sind two or three\ndhrops o' wather from undher their eye-lashers, the only salvation fur him\nis to get up an' run like it was a bag o' gunpowdher she was. So Missis\nO'Donnell, whin she seen Misther Dooley, tuk the same notion into her head\nthat the Widdy Mulligan did, fur she'd two childher, a boy an' a gurrul,\nthat were growin' up, an' the shop wasn't payin' well.\n\n\"There was another widdy in it, the Widdy McMurthry, that aftherwards\nmarried a sargeant av the polis, an' lives in Limerick. She was wan o'\nthim frishky widdys that shtruts an' wears fine close an' puts on more\nairs than a paycock. She was a fine-lookin' woman thim times, an' had\nmoney in plinty that she got be marryin' McMurthry, that was owld enough\nto be a father to her an' died o' dhrinkin' too much whishkey at first,\nan' thin too much sulphur-wather at Lisdoon Varna to set him right agin.\nShe was always ready wid an answer to ye, fur it was quick witted she was,\nwid slathers o' talk that didn't mane annything, an' a giggle that she\ndidn't nade to hunt fur whin she wanted it to make a show wid. An' she'd a\ndawther that was a fine child, about siventeen, a good dale like her\nmother.\n\n\"Now, Misther Dooley had a kind heart in his body fur wimmin in gineral,\nan' as he liked a bit o' chaff wid thim on all occashuns, he wasn't long\nin gettin' acquainted wid all the wimmin o' the parish, an' was well liked\nbe thim, an', be the same token, wasn't be the men, fur men, be nacher,\ndoesn't like a woman's man anny more than wimmin like a men's woman. But,\nafther a bit, he begun to centher himself on the three widdys, an' sorra\nthe day' ud go by whin he come to town but phat he'd give wan or another\no' thim a pace av his comp'ny that was very plazin' to thim. Bedad, he\ndone that same very well, for he made a round av it for to kape thim in\nsuspince. He'd set in the ale room o' the Shamrock an hour in the\nafthernoon an' chat wid the Widdy Mulligan as she was sarvin' the dhrink,\nan' shtop in the Widdy O'Donnell's shop as he was goin' by, to get a\nthrifle or a bit av shwates an' give to her childher beways av a\ncomplimint, an' thin go to Missis McMurthry's to tay, an' so got on well\nwid thim all. An' it's me belafe he'd be doin' that same to this blessed\nday only that the widdys begun to be pressin' as not likin' fur to wait\nanny longer. Fur, mind ye, a widdy's not like a young wan that'll wait fur\nye to spake, an' if ye don't do it, 'ull go on foriver, or till she gets\ntired av waitin' an' takes some wan else that does spake, widout sayin' a\nword to ye at all; but the widdy 'ull be hintin' an' hintin', an' her\nhints 'ull be as shtrong as a donkey's kick, so that the head o' ye has to\nbe harder than a pavin'-shtone if ye don't undhershtand, an' ye've got to\nhave more impidince than a monkey if ye don't spake up an' say something\nabout marryin'.\n\n\"Well, as I was afther sayin', the widdys begun to be pressin' him clost:\nthe Widdy Mulligan tellin' him how good her business was an' phat a savin'\nthere'd be if a farm an' a public were put together; the Widdy O'Donnell\na-lookin' at him out av her tears an' sighin' an' tellin' him how lonely\nhe must be out on a farm an' nobody but a man wid him in the house, fur\nshe was lonesome in town, an' it wasn't natheral at all, so it wasn't, fur\naither man or woman to be alone; an' the Widdy McMurthry a palatherin' to\nhim that if he'd a fine, good-lookin' woman that loved him, he'd be a\nbetther man an' a changed man entirely. So they wint on, the widdys\na-comin' at him, an' he thryin' to kape wid thim all, as he might have\nknewn he couldn't do (barrin' he married the three o' thim like a Turk),\nuntil aitch wan got to undhershtand, be phat he said to her, that he was\ngoin' to marry her, an' the minnit they got this in their heads, aitch\nbegged him that he'd shtay away from the other two, fur aitch knewn he\nwint to see thim all. By jayminy, it bothered him thin, fur he liked to\ntalk to thim all aiquelly, an' didn't want to confine his agrayble comp'ny\nto anny wan o' thim. So he got out av it thish-a-way. He promised the\nWiddy McMurthry that he'd not go to the Shamrock more than wanst in the\nweek, nor into the Widdy O'Donnell's barrin' he naded salt fur his cow;\nan' said to the Widdy Mulligan that he'd not more than spake to Missis\nO'Donnell whin he wint in, an' that he'd go no more at all to Missis\nMcMurthry's; an' he towld Missis O'Donnell that whin he wint to the\nShamrock he'd get his sup an' thin lave at wanst, an' not go to the Widdy\nMcMurthry's axceptin' whin his horse wanted to be shod, the blacksmith's\nbein' ferninst her dure that it 'ud be convaynient fur him to wait at. So\nhe shmiled wid himself thinkin' he'd done thim complately, an' made up his\nmind that whin his pitaties were dug he'd give up the farm an' get over\ninto County Clare, away from the widdys.\n\n\"But thim that think widdys are fools are desaved entirely, an' so was\nMisther Dooley, fur instead av his throubles bein' inded, begob, they were\njust begun. Ivery time he wint into the Shamrock Missis O'Donnell heard av\nit an' raymonshtrated wid him, an' 'ud cry at him beways it was dhrinkin'\nhimself to death he was; afther lavin' the Shamrock, the Widdy Mulligan\n'ud set wan av her boys to watch him up the strate an' see if he shtopped\nin the shop. Av coorse he cudn't go by, an' whin he come agin, the Widdy\nMulligan 'ud gosther him about it, an' thin he'd promise not to do it\nagin. No more cud he go in the Widdy O'Donnell's shop widout meetin'\nMissis McMurthry's dawther that was always shtreelin' on the strate, an'\nthin her mother 'ud say to him it was a power o' salt his cow was atin',\nan' the Widdy O'Donnell towld him his horse must be an axpensive baste fur\nto nade so much shooin'.\n\n\"Thin he'd tell thim a lot o' lies that they purtinded to belave an'\ndidn't, bekase they're such desavers thimselves that it isn't aisey fur to\ndo thim, but Dooley begun to think if it got anny hotter fur him he'd lave\nthe pitaties to the widdys to divide bechune thim as a raytribution fur\nthe loss av himself, an' go to Clare widout delay.\n\n\"While he'd this bother on him he got to know owld Miss Rooney, that lived\nwid her mother an' father on the farm next but wan to his own, but on the\nother side o' the way, an' the manes be which he got to know her was this.\nWan mornin', whin Dooley's man, Paddy, wint to milk the cow, bad scran to\nthe dhrop she'd to shpare, an' he pullin' an' pullin', like it was ringin'\nthe chapel bell he was, an' she kickin', an' no milk comin', faix not as\nmuch as 'ud blind the eye av a midge. So he wint an' towld Misther Dooley.\n\n\"'I can get no milk,' says he. 'Begorra the cow's as dhry as a fiddler's\ntroat,' says he.\n\n\"'Musha, thin,' says Misther Dooley, 'it's the lazy omadhawn ye are. I\ndon't belave it. Can ye milk at all?' says he.\n\n\"'I can,' says Paddy, 'as well as a calf,' says he. 'But phat's the use ov\npullin'? Ye'd get the same quantity from a rope,' says he.\n\n\"So Dooley wint out an' thried himself an' didn't get as much as a shmell\nof milk.\n\n\"'Phat's the matther wid the baste?' says he, 'an' her on the grass from\nsun to sun.'\n\n\"'Be jakers,' says Paddy, 'it's my consate that she's bewitched.'\n\n\"'It's thrue fur ye,' says Dooley, as the like was aften knewn. 'Go you to\nMisther Rooney's wid the pail an' get milk fur the calf, an' ax if there's\na Pishogue hereabouts.'\n\n\"So Paddy wint an' come back sayin' that the young lady towld him there\nwas.\n\n\"'So there's a young lady in it,' thinks Dooley. Faix, the love av\ncoortin' was shtrong on him. 'Did ye ax her how to raich the woman?'\n\n\"'Bedad, I didn't. I forgot,' says Paddy.\n\n\"'That's yerself entirely,' says Dooley to him agin. 'I'd betther thrust\nme arriants to a four-legged jackass as to wan wid two. He'd go twict as\nfast an' remimber as much. I'll go meself,' says he, only wantin' an\naxcuse, an' so he did. He found Miss Rooney thried to be plazin', an' it\nbein' convainient, he wint agin, an' so it was ivery day whin he'd go fur\nthe calf's milk he'd have a chat wid her, an' sometimes come over in the\navenin', bekase it wasn't healthy fur him in town just thin.\n\n\"But he wint to Owld Moll about the cow, an' the charm she gev him soon\nmade the baste all right agin, but, be that time, he'd got used to goin'\nto Rooney's an' liked it betther than the town, bekase whinever he wint to\ntown he had to make so many axcuses he was afeared the widdys 'ud ketch\nhim in a lie.\n\n\"So he shtayed at home most times and wint over to Rooney's the rest, fur\nit wasn't a bad job at all, though she was about one an' forty, an' had\ngive up the fight fur a husband an' so saiced strugglin'. As long as\nthey've anny hope, owld maids are the most praypostherous craythers alive,\nfur they'll fit thimselves wid the thrappin's av a young gurrul an' look\nas onaisey in thim as a boy wid his father's britches on. But whin they've\nconsinted to the sitiwation an' saiced to struggle, thin they begin to be\nhappy an' enjoy life a bit, but there's no aise in the worruld fur thim\ntill thin. Now Miss Rooney had gev up the contist an' plasthered her hair\ndown on aitch side av her face so smooth ye'd shwear it was ironed it was,\nan' begun to take the worruld aisey.\n\n\"But there's thim that says an owld maid niver does give up her hope, only\nlets on to be continted so as to lay in amboosh fur anny onsuspishus man\nthat happens to shtray along, an' faix, it looks that-a-way from phat I'm\ngoin' to tell ye, bekase as soon as Misther Dooley begun to come over an'\npalather his fine talk to her an' say shwate things, thin she up an'\nbegins shtrugglin' harder nor iver, bekase it was afther she'd let go, an'\ncomin' onexpected-like she thought it was a dispinsation av Providence,\nwhin rayly it was only an accident it was, beways av Dooley's cow goin'\ndhry an' the calf too young to lave suckin' an' ate grass.\n\n\"Annyhow, wan day, afther Misther Dooley had talked purty nice the avenin'\nafore, she put an her cloak, an' wint to Owld Moll an' in an' shut the\ndure.\n\n\"'Now, Moll,' she says to the owld cuillean, 'it's a long time since I've\nbeen to ye, barrin' the time the goat was lost, fur, sure, I lost me\nconfidince in ye. Ye failed me twict, wanst whin John McCune forgot me\nwhin he wint to Derry an' thin come back an' married that Mary O'Niel, the\nimpidint young shtrap, wid the hair av her as red as a glowin' coal; an'\nwanst whin Misther McFinnigan walked aff from me an' married the Widdy\nBryan. Now ye must do yer besht, fur I'm thinkin' that, wid a little\nindusthry, I cud get Misther Dooley, the same that the town widdys is so\nflusthrated wid.'\n\n\"'An' does he come to see ye, at all?' says Moll.\n\n\"'Faith he does, an' onless I'm mishtaken is mightily plazed wid his\ncomp'ny whin it's me that's in it,' says Miss Rooney.\n\n\"'An' phat widdys is in it,' says Moll, as she didn't know, bekase sorra a\nstep did the widdys go to her wid their love doin's, as they naded no\nhelp, an' cud thransact thim affairs thimselves as long as their tongues\nheld out.\n\n\"So Miss Rooney towld her, an' Moll shuk her head. 'Jagers,' says she,\n'I'm afeared yer goose is cooked if all thim widdys is afther him. I won't\nthry,' says she.\n\n\"But Miss Rooney was as much in airnest as the widdys, troth, I'm\nthinkin', more, bekase she was fairly aitchin' fur a husband now she'd got\nher mind on it.\n\n\"'Sure, Moll,' says she, 'ye wouldn't desart me now an' it me last show.\nThim widdys can marry who they plaze, bad scran to 'em, but if Misther\nDooley gets from me, divil fly wid the husband I'll get at all, at all,'\nbeginnin' to cry.\n\n\"So, afther a dale av palatherin', Moll consinted to thry, bein' it was\nthe third time Miss Rooney had been to her, besides, she wanted to save\nher charackther for a knowledgeable woman. So she aggrade to do her best,\nan' gev her a little bag to carry wid 'erbs in it, an' writ some words on\ntwo bits av paper an' the same in Latin. It was an awful charm, no more do\nI remimber it, fur it was niver towld me, nor to anny wan else, fur it was\ntoo dreadful to say axceptin' in Latin an' in a whisper fur fear the avil\nsper'ts 'ud hear it, that don't undhershtand thim dape langwidges.\n\n\"'Now, darlint,' says owld Moll, a-givin' her wan, 'take you this charm\nan' kape it on you an' the bag besides, an' ye must manage so as this\nother paper 'ull be on Misther Dooley, an' if it fails an' he don't marry\nye I'll give ye back yer money an' charge ye nothing at all,' says she.\n\n\"So Miss Rooney tuk the charms an' paid Owld Moll one pound five, an' was\nto give her fifteen shillins more afther she was married to Dooley.\n\n\"She wint home, bothered entirely how she'd get the charm on Dooley, an'\nthe avenin' come, an' he wid it, an' shtill she didn't know. So he set an'\ntalked an' talked, an' by an' by he dhrunk up the rest av the whiskey an'\nwather in his glass an' got up to go.\n\n\"'Why, Misther Dooley,' says she, bein' all at wanst shtruck be an idee.\n'Was iver the like seen av yer coat?' says she. 'Sure it's tore in the\nback. Sit you down agin wan minnit an' I'll mend it afore ye can light yer\npipe. Take it aff,' says she.\n\n\"'Axqueeze me,' says Dooley. 'I may be a bigger fool than I look, or I may\nlook a bigger fool than I am, but I know enough to kape the coat on me\nback whin I'm wid a lady,' says he.\n\n\"'Then take a sate an' I'll sow it on ye,' says she to him agin, so he set\ndown afore the fire, an' she, wid a pair av shizzors an' a nadle, wint\nbehind him an' at the coat. 'Twas a sharp thrick av her, bekase she took\nthe shizzors, an' whin she was lettin' on to cut aff the t'reads that she\nsaid were hangin', she ripped the collar, an' shlipped in the bit o'\npaper, an' sowed it up as nate as a samesthress in less than no time.\n\n\"'It's much beholden to ye I am,' says Dooley, risin' wid his pipe lit.\n'An' it's a happy man I'd be if I'd a young woman av yer size to do the\nlike to me ivery day.'\n\n\"'Glory be to God,' says Miss Rooney to herself, fur she thought the charm\nwas beginnin' to work. But she says to him, 'Oh, it's talkin' ye are. A\nfine man like you can marry who he plazes.'\n\n\"So Dooley wint home, an' she, thinkin' the business as good as done,\ntowld her mother that night she was to marry Misther Dooley. The owld lady\ncudn't contain herself or the saycret aither, so the next mornin' towld it\nto her sister, an' she to her dawther that wint to school wid Missis\nMcMurthry's gurrul. Av coorse the young wan cudn't howld her jaw anny more\nthan the owld wans, an' up an' towld the widdy's dawther an' she her\nmother an' the rest o' the town, so be the next day ivery wan knew that\nDooley was goin' to marry Miss Rooney: that shows, if ye want to shpread a\nbit o' news wid a quickness aiquel to the tellygraph, ye've only to tell\nit to wan woman as a saycret.\n\n\"Well, me dear, the noise the widdys made 'ud shtun a dhrummer. Dooley\nhadn't been in town fur a week, an' widdys bein' nacherly suspishus, they\nmisthrusted that somethin' was wrong, but divil a wan o' thim thought he'd\ndo such an onmannerly thrick as that. But they all belaved it, bekase\nwiddys judge iverybody be themselves, so they were mighty mad.\n\n\"The Widdy McMurthry was first to hear the news, as her dawther towld her,\nan' she riz in a fury. 'Oh the owdashus villin,' says she; 'to think av\nhim comin' here an' me listenin' at him that was lyin' fasther than a\nhorse 'ud throt. But I'll have justice, so I will, an' see if there's law\nfor a lone widdy. I'll go to the judge,' fur, I forgot to tell ye, it was\njail delivery an' the coort was settin' an' the judge down from Dublin wid\na wig on him the size av a bar'l.\n\n\"Whin they towld Missis O'Donnell, she bust out cryin' an' says, 'Sure it\ncan't be thrue. It isn't in him to desave a poor widdy wid only two\nchildher, an' me thrustin' on him,' so she wint into the back room an'\nlaid on the bed.\n\n\"But whin the Widdy Mulligan learned it, they thought she'd take a fit,\nthe face av her got so red an' she chokin' wid rage. 'Tatther an' agers,'\nsays she. 'If I only had that vagabone here five minnits, it's a long day\nit 'ud be afore he'd desave another tinder-hearted faymale.'\n\n\"'Oh, be aisey,' says wan to her, 'faix, you're not the onliest wan that's\nin it. Sure there's the Widdy O'Donnell an' Missis McMurthry that he's\ndesaved aiquelly wid yerself.'\n\n\"'Is that thrue?' says she; 'by this an' by that I'll see thim an' we'll\ngo to the judge an' have him in the prision. Sure the Quane's a widdy\nherself an' knows how it feels, an' her judge 'ull take the part av widdys\nthat's misconshtrewed be a nagurly blagg\u00e2rd like owld Dooley. Bad luck to\nthe seed, breed, an' generation av him. I cud mop up the flure wid him,\nthe divil roast him, an' if I lay me hands on him, I'll do it,' says she,\nan' so she would; an' a blessing it was to Misther Dooley he was not in\ntown just thin, but at home, diggin' pitaties as fast as he cud, an'\nchucklin' to himself how he'd send the pitaties to town be Paddy, an'\nhimself go to Clare an' get away from the whole tribe av widdys an' owld\nmaids.\n\n\"So the Widdy Mulligan wint afther the Widdy O'Donnell an' tuk her along,\nan' they towld thim av the Widdy McMurthry an' how she was done be him,\nan' they got her too, fur they all said, 'Sure we wouldn't marry him fur\nhim, but only want to see him punished fur misconshtructing phat we said\nto him an' lying to us.' Be this time half the town was ready an' aiger to\ngo wid thim to the coort, an' so they did, an' in, wid the offishers\nthryin' to kape thim out, an' the wimmin shovin' in, an' all their frinds\nwid 'em, an' the shur'f callin' out 'Ordher in the coort,' an' the judge\nlookin' over his shpectacles at thim.\n\n\"'Phat's this at all?' says the judge, wid a solemnious voice. 'Is it a\nriat it is, or a faymale convulsion?'--whin he seen all the wimmin.\n'Phat's the matther?' says he, an' wid that all the wimmin begun at wanst,\nso as the noise av thim was aiquel to a 'viction.\n\n\"'Marcy o' God,' says the judge, 'phat's in the faymales at all? Are they\ndishtracted entirely, or bewitched, or only dhrunk?' says he.\n\n\"'We're crazy wid graif, yer Lordshap,' they schraimed at him at wanst.\n'It's justice we want agin the uppresser.'\n\n\"'Phat's the uppresser been a-doin'?' axed the judge.\n\n\"'Disthroyin' our pace, an' that av our families,' they said to him.\n\n\"'Who is the uppresser?' he axed.\n\n\"'Owld Dooley,' they all shouted at him at the wan time, like it was\nbiddin' at an auction they were.\n\n\"So at first the judge cudn't undhershtand at all, till some wan\nwhishpered the truth to him an' thin he scrotched his chin wid a pen.\n\n\"'Is it a man fur to marry all thim widdys? By me wig, he's a bowld wan.\nGo an' fetch him,' he says to a consthable. 'Be sated, ladies, an' ye'll\nhave justice,' he says to the widdys, very p'lite. 'Turn out thim other\nblagg\u00e2rds,' he says to the shur'f, an' away wint the polisman afther\nDooley.\n\n\"He found him at home, wid his coat aff, an' him an' Paddy diggin' away at\nthe pitaties for dear life, bekase he wanted to get thim done.\n\n\"'Misther Dooley,' says the consthable to him, 'ye're me prish'ner. Come\nalong, ye must go wid me at wanst.'\n\n\"At first, Dooley was surprised in that degray he thought the life 'ud\nlave him, as the consthable come up behind him on the quiet, so as to give\nhim no show to run away.\n\n\"'Phat for?' says Dooley to him, whin he'd got his wind agin.\n\n\"'Faix, I'm not sartain,' says the polisman, that wasn't a bad felly; 'but\nI belave it's along o' thim widdys that are so fond o' ye. The three o'\nthim's in the coort an' all the faymales in town, an' the judge sint me\nafther ye, an' ye must come at wanst, so make ready to go immejitly.'\n\n\"'Don't go wid him,' says Paddy, wid his sleeves rowled up an' spitting in\nhis hands. 'Lave me at him,' says he, but Dooley wouldn't, bekase he was a\npaceable man. But he wasn't anxshus to go to the coort at all; begob, he'd\nall the coortin' he naded, but bein' there was no help fur it, he got his\ncoat, the same that Miss Rooney sowed the charm in, an' shtarted wid the\nconsthable.\n\n\"Now, it was that mornin' that owld Rooney was in town, thryin' to sell a\ngoat he had, that gev him no end o' throuble be losin' itself part of the\ntime an' the rest be jumpin' on the thatch an' stickin' its feet through.\nBut he cudn't sell it, as ivery wan knew the baste as well as himself, an'\nso he was sober, that wasn't common wid him. Whin he seen the widdys an'\nthe other wimmin wid thim shtravigerin' through the strate on the way to\nthe coort an' heard the phillaloo they were afther makin', he axed phat\nthe matther was. So they towld him, an' says he, 'Be the powers, if it's a\nquestion av makin' him marry some wan, me dawther has an inthrust in the\nmatther,' so he dhropped the goat's shtring an' shtarted home in a\nlamplighter's throt to fetch her, an' got there about the time the\npolisman nabbed Dooley.\n\n\"'There, they're afther goin' now,' says he to her. 'Make haste, or we'll\nlose thim,' an' aff they run, she wid her charm an' he widout his coat,\ngrippin' a shillalee in his fisht, an' caught up wid Paddy that was\nfollerin' the polisman an' Dooley.\n\n\"So they jogged along, comfortable enough, the polisman an' Dooley in the\nlade, afther thim owld Rooney an' Paddy, blagg\u00e2rdin' the consthable ivery\nfut o' the way, an' offerin' fur to bate him so as he wouldn't know\nhimself be lookin' in the glass, an' Miss Rooney in the rare, wondherin'\nif the charm 'ud work right. But Dooley didn't let a word out av his jaw,\nas knowin' he'd nade all his breath afther gettin' into the coort.\n\n\"At the rise o' the hill the pursesshun was met be about a hunderd o' the\ntown boys that come out fur to view thim, an' that yelled at Dooley how\nthe widdys were waitin' to tare him in paces, an' that he was as good as a\ndead man a'ready, so he was; an' whin they got into town, all the men\njined the show, roarin' wid laughter an' shoutin' at Dooley that the judge\ncudn't do anny more than hang him at wanst, an' to shtand it like a hayro,\nbekase they'd all be at the hangin' an' come to the wake besides an' have\na tundherin' big time. But he answered thim niver a word, so they all wint\non to the coort, an' in, bringin' the other half o' the town wid 'em, the\nfaymale half bein' there kapin' comp'ny wid the widdys.\n\n\"The minnit they come nie the dure, all the widdys an' wimmin begun in wan\nbreath to make raimarks on thim.\n\n\"'A-a-a-ah, the hang-dog face he has,' says Missis McMurthry. 'Sure hasn't\nhe the look av a shape-thief on the road to the gallus?'\n\n\"'See the haythen vagabone,' says the Widdy Mulligan. 'If I had me tin\nfingers on him for five minnits, it's all the satiswhackshun I'd ax. Bad\ncess to the hair I'd lave on the head av him or in his whushkers aither.'\n\n\"But the Widdy O'Donnell only cried, an' all the wimmin turned their noses\nup whin they seen Miss Rooney comin' in.\n\n[Illustration: \"OULD ROONEY AN' PADDY BLAGGARDIN' THE CONSTHABLE IVERY FUT\n                              O' THE WAY.\"]\n\n \"OULD ROONEY AN' PADDY BLAGGARDIN' THE CONSTHABLE IVERY FUT O' THE WAY.\"\n\n\n\"'Look at that owld thing,' says they. 'Phat a power av impidince! Mind\nthe consate av her to be comin' here wid him. Sure she hasn't the shame av\na shtone monkey,' says they av her.\n\n\"'Silence in the coort,' says the shur'f. 'Stop that laughin' be the dure.\nGit along down out o' thim windys,' says he to the mob that Dooley an' the\nconsthable brought wid thim.\n\n\"'Misther Dooley,' says the judge, 'I'm axed to b'lave ye're thryin' to\nmarry four wimmin at wanst, three av the same aforeshed bein' widdys an'\nthe other wan not. Is it thrue, or do ye plade not guilty?' says he.\n\n\"'It's not thrue, yer Lordshap,' says Dooley, shpakin' up, bekase he seen\nhe was in for it an' put on a bowld face. 'Thim widdys is crazy to get a\nhusband, an' misconsayved the manin' o' me words,' says he, an' that\nminnit you'd think a faymale lunattic ashylum broke loose in the coort.\n\n\"They all gabbled at wanst like a field av crows. They said he was a\nhaythen, a Toork, a vulgar shpalpeen, a lyin' blagg\u00e2rd, a uppresser av the\nwiddy, a robber av the orphin, he was worse than a nagur, he was, so he\nwas, an' they niver thought av belavin' him, nor av marryin' him aither\ntill he axed thim, an' so on.\n\n\"The judge was a married man himself an' knewn it was no use thryin' to\nshtop the gostherin,' for it was a joke av him to say that the differ\nbechuxt a woman an' a book was you cud shut up a book, so he let thim go\non till they were spint an' out o' breath an' shtopped o' thimselves like\nan owld clock that's run down.\n\n\"'The sintince av this coort, Misther Dooley, is, that ye marry wan av 'em\nan' make compinsation to the other wans in a paycoonyary way be payin'\nthim siven poun' aitch.'\n\n\"'Have marcy, yer Lordshap,' says Dooley, bekase he seen himself shtripped\nav all he had. 'Make it five poun', an' that's more than I've got in\nmoney.'\n\n\"'Siven pound, not a haporth less,' says the judge. 'If ye haven't the\nmoney ye can pay it in projuice. An' make yer chice bechune the wimmin who\nye'll marry, as it's married ye'll be this blessed day, bekase ye've gone\ntoo long a'ready,' says the judge, very starn, an' thin the widdys all got\nquite, an' begun to be sorry they gev him so many hard names.\n\n\"'Is it wan o' the widdys must I marry?' says Dooley, axin' the judge, an'\nthe charm in his coller beginnin' to work hard an' remind him av Miss\nRooney, that was settin' on wan side, trimblin'.\n\n\"'Tare an' 'ouns,' says the judge. 'Bad luck to ye, ye onmannerly idjit,'\nas he was gettin' vexed wid Dooley, that was shtandin', scrotchin' the\nhead av him like he was thryin' to encourage his brains. 'Wasn't it wan o'\nthe wimmin that I tould ye to take?' says he.\n\n\"'If that's phat yer Lordshap says, axin' yer pardin an' not misdoubtin'\nye, if it's plazin' to ye, bedad, I'll take the owld maid, bekase thim\nwiddys have got a sight av young wans, an' childher are like toothpicks,\nivery man wants his own an' not another felly's.' But he had another razon\nthat he towld to me afther; says he, 'If I've got to have a famly, be\njakers, I want to have the raisin' av it meself,' an' my blessin' on him\nfor that same.\n\n\"But whin he was spakin' an' said he'd take Miss Rooney, wid that word she\nfainted away fur dead, an' was carried out o' the coort be her father an'\nPaddy.\n\n\"So it was settled, an' as Dooley didn't have the money, the widdys\naggrade to take their pay some other way. The Widdy Mulligan tuk the\npitaties he was diggin' whin the polisman gripped him, as she said they'd\nkape the inn all winter. The Widdy McMurthry got his hay, which come\nconvaynient, bekase her brother kep post horses an' tuk the hay av her at\ntwo shillins undher the market. Missis O'Donnell got the cow that made all\nthe throuble be goin' dhry at the wrong time, an' bein' it was a good cow\nwas vally'd at tin poun'; so she gev him three poun', an' was to sind him\nthe calf whin it was weaned. So the widdys were all paid for bein' wounded\nin their hearts be Misther Dooley, an' a good bargain they made av it,\nbekase a widdy's affections are like g\u00e2rden weeds, the more ye thrample\nthim the fasther they grow.\n\n\"Misther Dooley got Miss Rooney, an' she a husband, fur they pulled her\nout av her faint wid a bucket o' wather, an' the last gossoon in town wint\nfrom the coort to the chapel wid Miss Rooney an' Misther Dooley, the\nlatther crassin' himself ivery minnit an' blessin' God ivery step he tuk\nthat it wasn't the jail he was goin' to, an' they were married there wid a\nroarin' crowd waitin' in the strate fur to show thim home. But they\nsarcumvinted thim, bekase they wint out the back way an' through Father\nO'Donohue's g\u00e2rden, an' so home, lavin' the mob howlin' before the chapel\ndure like wild Ingines.\n\n\"An' that's the way the owld maid defated three widdys, that isn't often\ndone, no more would she have done it but for owld Moll an' the charm in\nDooley's coat. But he's very well plazed, an' that I know, for afther me\nfirst wife died, her I was tellin' ye av, I got the roomytics in me back\nlike tin t'ousand divils clawin' at me backbone, an' I made me mind up\nthat I'd get another wife, bekase I wanted me back rubbed, sence it 'ull\nbe chaper, says I, to marry some wan to rub it than to pay a boy to do\nthat same. So I was lookin' roun' an' met Misther Dooley an' spake av it\nto him, an' good luck it 'ud have been if I'd tuk his advice, but I\ndidn't, bein' surrounded be a widdy afther, that's rubbed me back well fur\nme only wid a shtick. But says he to me, 'Take you my advice Misther\nMagwire, an' whin ye marry, get you an owld maid, if there's wan to be had\nin the counthry. Gurruls is flighty an' axpectin' too much av ye, an'\nwiddys is greedy buzzards as ye've seen be my axpayrience, but owld maids\nis humble, an' thankful for gettin' a husband at all, God bless 'em, so\nthey shtrive to plaze an' do as ye bid thim widout grumblin' or axin'\nthroublesome questions.'\"\n\n             [Illustration: \"A good bargain they made av it\"]","title":"Irish Wonders: The Ghosts, Giants, Pooka, Demons, Leprechawns, Banshees, Fairies, Witches, Widows, Old Maids, and other Marvels of the Emerald Isle","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":60567}