{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_33887/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_33887","id":"gutenberg_33887","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/33887","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Nobel Prizes in Literature","Tales -- Ireland"],"text":"\n\n\n\nProduced by Larry B. Harrison, Brian Foley and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This\nfile was produced from images generously made available\nby The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n FAIRY AND FOLK TALES OF THE\n IRISH PEASANTRY. EDITED AND\n SELECTED BY W. B. YEATS.\n\n THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD.\n LONDON AND FELLING-ON-TYNE.\n NEW YORK: 3 EAST 14TH STREET.\n\n\n\n\n INSCRIBED\n TO MY MYSTICAL FRIEND,\n G. R.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n THE TROOPING FAIRIES-- PAGE\n\n The Fairies 3\n Frank Martin and the Fairies 5\n The Priest's Supper 9\n The Fairy Well of Lagnanay 13\n Teig O'Kane and the Corpse 16\n Paddy Corcoran's Wife 31\n Cusheen Loo 33\n The White Trout; A Legend of Cong 35\n The Fairy Thorn 38\n The Legend of Knockgrafton 40\n A Donegal Fairy 46\n\n CHANGELINGS--\n\n The Brewery of Egg-shells 48\n The Fairy Nurse 51\n Jamie Freel and the Young Lady 52\n The Stolen Child 59\n\n THE MERROW--\n The Soul Cages 61\n Flory Cantillon's Funeral 75\n\n\n THE SOLITARY FAIRIES--\n\n The Lepracaun; or, Fairy Shoemaker 81\n Master and Man 84\n Far Darrig in Donegal 90\n The Piper and the Puca 95\n Daniel O'Rourke 97\n The Kildare Pooka 105\n How Thomas Connolly met the Banshee 108\n A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald 112\n The Banshee of the MacCarthys 113\n\n\n GHOSTS--\n\n A Dream 129\n Grace Connor 130\n A Legend of Tyrone 132\n The Black Lamb 134\n The Radiant Boy 136\n The Fate of Frank M'Kenna 139\n\n\n WITCHES, FAIRY DOCTORS--\n\n Bewitched Butter (Donegal) 149\n A Queen's County Witch 151\n The Witch Hare 154\n Bewitched Butter (Queen's County) 155\n The Horned Women 165\n The Witches' Excursion 168\n The Confessions of Tom Bourke 170\n The Pudding Bewitched 185\n\n\n T'YEER-NA-N-OGE--\n\n The Legend of O'Donoghue 201\n Rent-Day 203\n Loughleagh (Lake of Healing) 206\n Hy-Brasail.--The Isle of the Blest 212\n The Phantom Isle 213\n\n\n SAINTS, PRIESTS--\n\n The Priest's Soul 215\n The Priest of Coloony 220\n The Story of the Little Bird 222\n Conversion of King Laoghaire's Daughters 224\n King O'Toole and his Goose 224\n\n\n THE DEVIL--\n\n The Demon Cat 229\n The Long Spoon 231\n The Countess Kathleen O'Shea 232\n The Three Wishes 235\n\n\n GIANTS--\n\n The Giant's Stairs 260\n A Legend of Knockmany 266\n\n\n KINGS, QUEENS, PRINCESSES, EARLS, ROBBERS--\n\n The Twelve Wild Geese 280\n The Lazy Beauty and her Aunts 286\n The Haughty Princess 290\n The Enchantment of Gearoidh Iarla 294\n Munachar and Manachar 296\n Donald and his Neighbours 299\n The Jackdaw 303\n The Story of Conn-eda 306\n\n\n NOTES 319\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nDr. Corbett, Bishop of Oxford and Norwich, lamented long ago the\ndeparture of the English fairies. \"In Queen Mary's time\" he wrote--\n\n \"When Tom came home from labour,\n Or Cis to milking rose,\n Then merrily, merrily went their tabor,\n And merrily went their toes.\"\n\nBut now, in the times of James, they had all gone, for \"they were of the\nold profession,\" and \"their songs were Ave Maries.\" In Ireland they are\nstill extant, giving gifts to the kindly, and plaguing the surly. \"Have\nyou ever seen a fairy or such like?\" I asked an old man in County Sligo.\n\"Amn't I annoyed with them,\" was the answer. \"Do the fishermen along\nhere know anything of the mermaids?\" I asked a woman of a village in\nCounty Dublin. \"Indeed, they don't like to see them at all,\" she\nanswered, \"for they always bring bad weather.\" \"Here is a man who\nbelieves in ghosts,\" said a foreign sea-captain, pointing to a pilot of\nmy acquaintance. \"In every house over there,\" said the pilot, pointing\nto his native village of Rosses, \"there are several.\" Certainly that now\nold and much respected dogmatist, the Spirit of the Age, has in no\nmanner made his voice heard down there. In a little while, for he has\ngotten a consumptive appearance of late, he will be covered over\ndecently in his grave, and another will grow, old and much respected, in\nhis place, and never be heard of down there, and after him another and\nanother and another. Indeed, it is a question whether any of these\npersonages will ever be heard of outside the newspaper offices and\nlecture-rooms and drawing-rooms and eel-pie houses of the cities, or if\nthe Spirit of the Age is at any time more than a froth. At any rate,\nwhole troops of their like will not change the Celt much. Giraldus\nCambrensis found the people of the western islands a trifle paganish.\n\"How many gods are there?\" asked a priest, a little while ago, of a man\nfrom the Island of Innistor. \"There is one on Innistor; but this seems a\nbig place,\" said the man, and the priest held up his hands in horror, as\nGiraldus had, just seven centuries before. Remember, I am not blaming\nthe man; it is very much better to believe in a number of gods than in\nnone at all, or to think there is only one, but that he is a little\nsentimental and impracticable, and not constructed for the nineteenth\ncentury. The Celt, and his cromlechs, and his pillar-stones, these will\nnot change much--indeed, it is doubtful if anybody at all changes at any\ntime. In spite of hosts of deniers, and asserters, and wise-men, and\nprofessors, the majority still are averse to sitting down to dine\nthirteen at table, or being helped to salt, or walking under a ladder,\nor seeing a single magpie flirting his chequered tail. There are, of\ncourse, children of light who have set their faces against all this,\nthough even a newspaper man, if you entice him into a cemetery at\nmidnight, will believe in phantoms, for every one is a visionary, if you\nscratch him deep enough. But the Celt is a visionary without scratching.\n\nYet, be it noticed, if you are a stranger, you will not readily get\nghost and fairy legends, even in a western village. You must go adroitly\nto work, and make friends with the children, and the old men, with those\nwho have not felt the pressure of mere daylight existence, and those\nwith whom it is growing less, and will have altogether taken itself off\none of these days. The old women are most learned, but will not so\nreadily be got to talk, for the fairies are very secretive, and much\nresent being talked of; and are there not many stories of old women who\nwere nearly pinched into their graves or numbed with fairy blasts?\n\nAt sea, when the nets are out and the pipes are lit, then will some\nancient hoarder of tales become loquacious, telling his histories to\nthe tune of the creaking of the boats. Holy-eve night, too, is a great\ntime, and in old days many tales were to be heard at wakes. But the\npriests have set faces against wakes.\n\nIn the Parochial Survey of Ireland it is recorded how the\nstory-tellers used to gather together of an evening, and if any had a\ndifferent version from the others, they would all recite theirs and\nvote, and the man who had varied would have to abide by their verdict.\nIn this way stories have been handed down with such accuracy, that the\nlong tale of Dierdre was, in the earlier decades of this century, told\nalmost word for word, as in the very ancient MSS. in the Royal Dublin\nSociety. In one case only it varied, and then the MS. was obviously\nwrong--a passage had been forgotten by the copyist. But this accuracy\nis rather in the folk and bardic tales than in the fairy legends, for\nthese vary widely, being usually adapted to some neighbouring village\nor local fairy-seeing celebrity. Each county has usually some family,\nor personage, supposed to have been favoured or plagued, especially by\nthe phantoms, as the Hackets of Castle Hacket, Galway, who had for\ntheir ancestor a fairy, or John-o'-Daly of Lisadell, Sligo, who wrote\n\"Eilleen Aroon,\" the song the Scotch have stolen and called \"Robin\nAdair,\" and which Handel would sooner have written than all his\noratorios,[1] and the \"O'Donahue of Kerry.\" Round these men stories\ntended to group themselves, sometimes deserting more ancient heroes\nfor the purpose. Round poets have they gathered especially, for poetry\nin Ireland has always been mysteriously connected with magic.\n\nThese folk-tales are full of simplicity and musical occurrences, for\nthey are the literature of a class for whom every incident in the old\nrut of birth, love, pain, and death has cropped up unchanged for\ncenturies: who have steeped everything in the heart: to whom\neverything is a symbol. They have the spade over which man has leant\nfrom the beginning. The people of the cities have the machine, which\nis prose and a _parvenu_. They have few events. They can turn over the\nincidents of a long life as they sit by the fire. With us nothing has\ntime to gather meaning, and too many things are occurring for even a\nbig heart to hold. It is said the most eloquent people in the world\nare the Arabs, who have only the bare earth of the desert and a sky\nswept bare by the sun. \"Wisdom has alighted upon three things,\" goes\ntheir proverb; \"the hand of the Chinese, the brain of the Frank, and\nthe tongue of the Arab.\" This, I take it, is the meaning of that\nsimplicity sought for so much in these days by all the poets, and not\nto be had at any price.\n\nThe most notable and typical story-teller of my acquaintance is one\nPaddy Flynn, a little, bright-eyed, old man, living in a leaky\none-roomed cottage of the village of B----, \"The most gentle--_i.e._,\nfairy--place in the whole of the County Sligo,\" he says, though\nothers claim that honour for Drumahair or for Drumcliff. A very pious\nold man, too! You may have some time to inspect his strange figure and\nragged hair, if he happen to be in a devout humour, before he comes to\nthe doings of the gentry. A strange devotion! Old tales of Columkill,\nand what he said to his mother. \"How are you to-day, mother?\" \"Worse!\"\n\"May you be worse to-morrow;\" and on the next day, \"How are you\nto-day, mother?\" \"Worse!\" \"May you be worse to-morrow;\" and on the\nnext, \"How are you to-day, mother?\" \"Better, thank God.\" \"May you be\nbetter to-morrow.\" In which undutiful manner he will tell you\nColumkill inculcated cheerfulness. Then most likely he will wander off\ninto his favourite theme--how the Judge smiles alike in rewarding the\ngood and condemning the lost to unceasing flames. Very consoling does\nit appear to Paddy Flynn, this melancholy and apocalyptic cheerfulness\nof the Judge. Nor seems his own cheerfulness quite earthly--though a\nvery palpable cheerfulness. The first time I saw him he was cooking\nmushrooms for himself; the next time he was asleep under a hedge,\nsmiling in his sleep. Assuredly some joy not quite of this steadfast\nearth lightens in those eyes--swift as the eyes of a rabbit--among so\nmany wrinkles, for Paddy Flynn is very old. A melancholy there is in\nthe midst of their cheerfulness--a melancholy that is almost a portion\nof their joy, the visionary melancholy of purely instinctive natures\nand of all animals. In the triple solitude of age and eccentricity and\npartial deafness he goes about much pestered by children.\n\nAs to the reality of his fairy and spirit-seeing powers, not all are\nagreed. One day we were talking of the Banshee. \"I have seen it,\" he\nsaid, \"down there by the water 'batting' the river with its hands.\"\nHe it was who said the fairies annoyed him.\n\nNot that the Sceptic is entirely afar even from these western\nvillages. I found him one morning as he bound his corn in a merest\npocket-handkerchief of a field. Very different from Paddy\nFlynn--Scepticism in every wrinkle of his face, and a travelled man,\ntoo!--a foot-long Mohawk Indian tatooed on one of his arms to evidence\nthe matter. \"They who travel,\" says a neighbouring priest, shaking his\nhead over him, and quoting Thomas \u00c1'Kempis, \"seldom come home holy.\" I\nhad mentioned ghosts to this Sceptic. \"Ghosts,\" said he; \"there are no\nsuch things at all, at all, but the gentry, they stand to reason; for\nthe devil, when he fell out of heaven, took the weak-minded ones with\nhim, and they were put into the waste places. And that's what the\ngentry are. But they are getting scarce now, because their time's\nover, ye see, and they're going back. But ghosts, no! And I'll tell ye\nsomething more I don't believe in--the fire of hell;\" then, in a low\nvoice, \"that's only invented to give the priests and the parsons\nsomething to do.\" Thereupon this man, so full of enlightenment,\nreturned to his corn-binding.\n\nThe various collectors of Irish folk-lore have, from our point of\nview, one great merit, and from the point of view of others, one great\nfault. They have made their work literature rather than science, and\ntold us of the Irish peasantry rather than of the primitive religion\nof mankind, or whatever else the folk-lorists are on the gad after. To\nbe considered scientists they should have tabulated all their tales in\nforms like grocers' bills--item the fairy king, item the queen.\nInstead of this they have caught the very voice of the people, the\nvery pulse of life, each giving what was most noticed in his day.\nCroker and Lover, full of the ideas of harum-scarum Irish gentility,\nsaw everything humorised. The impulse of the Irish literature of their\ntime came from a class that did not--mainly for political\nreasons--take the populace seriously, and imagined the country as a\nhumorist's Arcadia; its passion, its gloom, its tragedy, they knew\nnothing of. What they did was not wholly false; they merely magnified\nan irresponsible type, found oftenest among boatmen, carmen, and\ngentlemen's servants, into the type of a whole nation, and created the\nstage Irishman. The writers of 'Forty-eight, and the famine combined,\nburst their bubble. Their work had the dash as well as the shallowness\nof an ascendant and idle class, and in Croker is touched everywhere\nwith beauty--a gentle Arcadian beauty. Carleton, a peasant born, has\nin many of his stories--I have been only able to give a few of the\nslightest--more especially in his ghost stories, a much more serious\nway with him, for all his humour. Kennedy, an old bookseller in\nDublin, who seems to have had a something of genuine belief in the\nfairies, came next in time. He has far less literary faculty, but is\nwonderfully accurate, giving often the very words the stories were\ntold in. But the best book since Croker is Lady Wilde's _Ancient\nLegends_. The humour has all given way to pathos and tenderness. We\nhave here the innermost heart of the Celt in the moments he has grown\nto love through years of persecution, when, cushioning himself about\nwith dreams, and hearing fairy-songs in the twilight, he ponders on\nthe soul and on the dead. Here is the Celt, only it is the Celt\ndreaming.\n\nBesides these are two writers of importance, who have published, so\nfar, nothing in book shape--Miss Letitia Maclintock and Mr. Douglas\nHyde. Miss Maclintock writes accurately and beautifully the half\nScotch dialect of Ulster; and Mr. Douglas Hyde is now preparing a\nvolume of folk tales in Gaelic, having taken them down, for the most\npart, word for word among the Gaelic speakers of Roscommon and Galway.\nHe is, perhaps, most to be trusted of all. He knows the people\nthoroughly. Others see a phase of Irish life; he understands all its\nelements. His work is neither humorous nor mournful; it is simply\nlife. I hope he may put some of his gatherings into ballads, for he is\nthe last of our ballad-writers of the school of Walsh and\nCallanan--men whose work seems fragrant with turf smoke. And this\nbrings to mind the chap-books. They are to be found brown with turf\nsmoke on cottage shelves, and are, or were, sold on every hand by the\npedlars, but cannot be found in any library of this city of the\nSassanach. \"The Royal Fairy Tales,\" \"The Hibernian Tales,\" and \"The\nLegends of the Fairies\" are the fairy literature of the people.\n\nSeveral specimens of our fairy poetry are given. It is more like the\nfairy poetry of Scotland than of England. The personages of English\nfairy literature are merely, in most cases, mortals beautifully\nmasquerading. Nobody ever believed in such fairies. They are romantic\nbubbles from Provence. Nobody ever laid new milk on their doorstep for\nthem.\n\nAs to my own part in this book, I have tried to make it\nrepresentative, as far as so few pages would allow, of every kind of\nIrish folk-faith. The reader will perhaps wonder that in all my notes\nI have not rationalised a single hobgoblin. I seek for shelter to the\nwords of Socrates.[2]\n\n\"_Ph\u00e6drus._ I should like to know, Socrates, whether the place is not\nsomewhere here at which Boreas is said to have carried off Orithyia\nfrom the banks of the Ilissus?\n\n\"_Socrates._ That is the tradition.\n\n\"_Ph\u00e6drus._ And is this the exact spot? The little stream is\ndelightfully clear and bright; I can fancy that there might be maidens\nplaying near.\n\n\"_Socrates._ I believe the spot is not exactly here, but about a\nquarter-of-a-mile lower down, where you cross to the temple of\nArtemis, and I think that there is some sort of an altar of Boreas at\nthe place.\n\n\"_Ph\u00e6drus._ I do not recollect; but I beseech you to tell me,\nSocrates, do you believe this tale?\n\n\"_Socrates._ The wise are doubtful, and I should not be singular if,\nlike them, I also doubted. I might have a rational explanation that\nOrithyia was playing with Pharmacia, when a northern gust carried her\nover the neighbouring rocks; and this being the manner of her death,\nshe was said to have been carried away by Boreas. There is a\ndiscrepancy, however, about the locality. According to another version\nof the story, she was taken from the Areopagus, and not from this\nplace. Now I quite acknowledge that these allegories are very nice,\nbut he is not to be envied who has to invent them; much labour and\ningenuity will be required of him; and when he has once begun, he must\ngo on and rehabilitate centaurs and chimeras dire. Gorgons and winged\nsteeds flow in apace, and numberless other inconceivable and\nportentous monsters. And if he is sceptical about them, and would fain\nreduce them one after another to the rules of probability, this sort\nof crude philosophy will take up all his time. Now, I have certainly\nnot time for such inquiries. Shall I tell you why? I must first know\nmyself, as the Delphian inscription says; to be curious about that\nwhich is not my business, while I am still in ignorance of my own\nself, would be ridiculous. And, therefore, I say farewell to all this;\nthe common opinion is enough for me. For, as I was saying, I want to\nknow not about this, but about myself. Am I, indeed, a wonder more\ncomplicated and swollen with passion than the serpent Typho, or a\ncreature of gentler and simpler sort, to whom nature has given a\ndiviner and lowlier destiny?\"\n\n * * * * *\n\nI have to thank Messrs Macmillan, and the editors of _Belgravia_, _All\nthe Year Round_, and _Monthly Packet_, for leave to quote from Patrick\nKennedy's _Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts_, and Miss\nMaclintock's articles respectively; Lady Wilde, for leave to give what\nI would from her _Ancient Legends of Ireland_ (Ward & Downey); and Mr.\nDouglas Hyde, for his three unpublished stories, and for valuable and\nvalued assistance in several ways; and also Mr. Allingham, and other\ncopyright holders, for their poems. Mr. Allingham's poems are from\n_Irish Songs and Poems_ (Reeves and Turner); Fergusson's, from Sealey,\nBryers, & Walker's shilling reprint; my own and Miss O'Leary's from\n_Ballads and Poems of Young Ireland_, 1888, a little anthology\npublished by Gill & Sons, Dublin.\n\n W. B. YEATS.\n\n[Footnote 1: He lived some time in Dublin, and heard it then.]\n\n[Footnote 2: _Ph\u00e6drus._ Jowett's translation. (Clarendon Press.)]\n\n\n\n\nFAIRY AND FOLK TALES.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TROOPING FAIRIES.\n\n\nThe Irish word for fairy is _sheehogue_ [_sidhe\u00f3g_], a diminutive of\n\"shee\" in _banshee_. Fairies are _deenee shee_ [_daoine sidhe_] (fairy\npeople).\n\nWho are they? \"Fallen angels who were not good enough to be saved, nor\nbad enough to be lost,\" say the peasantry. \"The gods of the earth,\"\nsays the Book of Armagh. \"The gods of pagan Ireland,\" say the Irish\nantiquarians, \"the _Tuatha De Dan[=a]n_, who, when no longer\nworshipped and fed with offerings, dwindled away in the popular\nimagination, and now are only a few spans high.\"\n\nAnd they will tell you, in proof, that the names of fairy chiefs are\nthe names of old _Dan[=a]n_ heroes, and the places where they\nespecially gather together, _Dan[=a]n_ burying-places, and that the\n_Tuath De Dan[=a]n_ used also to be called the _slooa-shee_ [_sheagh\nsidhe_] (the fairy host), or _Marcra shee_ (the fairy cavalcade).\n\nOn the other hand, there is much evidence to prove them fallen angels.\nWitness the nature of the creatures, their caprice, their way of being\ngood to the good and evil to the evil, having every charm but\nconscience--consistency. Beings so quickly offended that you must not\nspeak much about them at all, and never call them anything but the\n\"gentry,\" or else _daoine maithe_, which in English means good people,\nyet so easily pleased, they will do their best to keep misfortune away\nfrom you, if you leave a little milk for them on the window-sill over\nnight. On the whole, the popular belief tells us most about them,\ntelling us how they fell, and yet were not lost, because their evil\nwas wholly without malice.\n\nAre they \"the gods of the earth?\" Perhaps! Many poets, and all mystic\nand occult writers, in all ages and countries, have declared that\nbehind the visible are chains on chains of conscious beings, who are\nnot of heaven but of the earth, who have no inherent form but change\naccording to their whim, or the mind that sees them. You cannot lift\nyour hand without influencing and being influenced by hoards. The\nvisible world is merely their skin. In dreams we go amongst them, and\nplay with them, and combat with them. They are, perhaps, human souls\nin the crucible--these creatures of whim.\n\nDo not think the fairies are always little. Everything is capricious\nabout them, even their size. They seem to take what size or shape\npleases them. Their chief occupations are feasting, fighting, and\nmaking love, and playing the most beautiful music. They have only one\nindustrious person amongst them, the _lepra-caun_--the shoemaker.\nPerhaps they wear their shoes out with dancing. Near the village of\nBallisodare is a little woman who lived amongst them seven years. When\nshe came home she had no toes--she had danced them off.\n\nThey have three great festivals in the year--May Eve, Midsummer Eve,\nNovember Eve. On May Eve, every seventh year, they fight all round,\nbut mostly on the \"Plain-a-Bawn\" (wherever that is), for the harvest,\nfor the best ears of grain belong to them. An old man told me he saw\nthem fight once; they tore the thatch off a house in the midst of it\nall. Had anyone else been near they would merely have seen a great\nwind whirling everything into the air as it passed. When the wind\nmakes the straws and leaves whirl as it passes, that is the fairies,\nand the peasantry take off their hats and say, \"God bless them.\"\n\nOn Midsummer Eve, when the bonfires are lighted on every hill in\nhonour of St. John, the fairies are at their gayest, and sometime\nsteal away beautiful mortals to be their brides.\n\nOn November Eve they are at their gloomiest, for, according to the old\nGaelic reckoning, this is the first night of winter. This night they\ndance with the ghosts, and the _pooka_ is abroad, and witches make\ntheir spells, and girls set a table with food in the name of the\ndevil, that the fetch of their future lover may come through the\nwindow and eat of the food. After November Eve the blackberries are no\nlonger wholesome, for the _pooka_ has spoiled them.\n\nWhen they are angry they paralyse men and cattle with their fairy darts.\n\nWhen they are gay they sing. Many a poor girl has heard them, and\npined away and died, for love of that singing. Plenty of the old\nbeautiful tunes of Ireland are only their music, caught up by\neavesdroppers. No wise peasant would hum \"The Pretty Girl milking the\nCow\" near a fairy rath, for they are jealous, and do not like to hear\ntheir songs on clumsy mortal lips. Carolan, the last of the Irish\nbards, slept on a rath, and ever after the fairy tunes ran in his\nhead, and made him the great man he was.\n\nDo they die? Blake saw a fairy's funeral; but in Ireland we say they\nare immortal.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRIES.\n\nWILLIAM ALLINGHAM.\n\n\n Up the airy mountain,\n Down the rushy glen,\n We daren't go a-hunting\n For fear of little men;\n Wee folk, good folk,\n Trooping all together;\n Green jacket, red cap,\n And white owl's feather!\n\n Down along the rocky shore\n Some make their home,\n They live on crispy pancakes\n Of yellow tide-foam;\n Some in the reeds\n Of the black mountain lake,\n With frogs for their watch-dogs\n All night awake.\n\n High on the hill-top\n The old King sits;\n He is now so old and gray\n He's nigh lost his wits.\n With a bridge of white mist\n Columbkill he crosses,\n On his stately journeys\n From Slieveleague to Rosses;\n Or going up with music\n On cold starry nights,\n To sup with the Queen\n Of the gay Northern Lights.\n\n They stole little Bridget\n For seven years long;\n When she came down again\n Her friends were all gone.\n They took her lightly back,\n Between the night and morrow,\n They thought that she was fast asleep,\n But she was dead with sorrow.\n They have kept her ever since\n Deep within the lake,\n On a bed of flag-leaves,\n Watching till she wake.\n\n By the craggy hill-side,\n Through the mosses bare,\n They have planted thorn-trees\n For pleasure here and there.\n Is any man so daring\n As dig them up in spite,\n He shall find their sharpest thorns\n In his bed at night.\n\n Up the airy mountain,\n Down the rushy glen,\n We daren't go a-hunting\n For fear of little men;\n Wee folk, good folk,\n Trooping all together;\n Green jacket, red cap,\n And white owl's feather!\n\n\n\n\nFRANK MARTIN AND THE FAIRIES.\n\nWILLIAM CARLETON.\n\n\nMartin was a thin pale man, when I saw him, of a sickly look, and a\nconstitution naturally feeble. His hair was a light auburn, his beard\nmostly unshaven, and his hands of a singular delicacy and whiteness,\nowing, I dare say, as much to the soft and easy nature of his\nemployment as to his infirm health. In everything else he was as\nsensible, sober, and rational as any other man; but on the topic of\nfairies, the man's mania was peculiarly strong and immovable. Indeed,\nI remember that the expression of his eyes was singularly wild and\nhollow, and his long narrow temples sallow and emaciated.\n\nNow, this man did not lead an unhappy life, nor did the malady he\nlaboured under seem to be productive of either pain or terror to him,\nalthough one might be apt to imagine otherwise. On the contrary, he\nand the fairies maintained the most friendly intimacy, and their\ndialogues--which I fear were wofully one-sided ones--must have been a\nsource of great pleasure to him, for they were conducted with much\nmirth and laughter, on his part at least.\n\n\"Well, Frank, when did you see the fairies?\"\n\n\"Whist! there's two dozen of them in the shop (the weaving shop) this\nminute. There's a little ould fellow sittin' on the top of the sleys,\nan' all to be rocked while I'm weavin'. The sorrow's in them, but\nthey're the greatest little skamers alive, so they are. See, there's\nanother of them at my dressin' noggin.[3] Go out o' that, you\n_shingawn_; or, bad cess to me, if you don't, but I'll lave you a\nmark. Ha! cut, you thief you!\"\n\n\"Frank, arn't you afeard o' them?\"\n\n\"Is it me! Arra, what ud' I be afeard o' them for? Sure they have no\npower over me.\"\n\n\"And why haven't they, Frank?\"\n\n\"Because I was baptized against them.\"\n\n\"What do you mean by that?\"\n\n\"Why, the priest that christened me was tould by my father, to put in\nthe proper prayer against the fairies--an' a priest can't refuse it\nwhen he's asked--an' he did so. Begorra, it's well for me that he\ndid--(let the tallow alone, you little glutton--see, there's a weeny\nthief o' them aitin' my tallow)--becaise, you see, it was their\nintention to make me king o' the fairies.\"\n\n\"Is it possible?\"\n\n\"Devil a lie in it. Sure you may ax them, an' they'll tell you.\"\n\n\"What size are they, Frank?\"\n\n\"Oh, little wee fellows, with green coats, an' the purtiest little shoes\never you seen. There's two of them--both ould acquaintances o'\nmine--runnin' along the yarn-beam. That ould fellow with the bob-wig is\ncalled Jim Jam, an' the other chap, with the three-cocked hat, is called\nNickey Nick. Nickey plays the pipes. Nickey, give us a tune, or I'll\nmalivogue you--come now, 'Lough Erne Shore.' Whist, now--listen!\"\n\nThe poor fellow, though weaving as fast as he could all the time, yet\nbestowed every possible mark of attention to the music, and seemed to\nenjoy it as much as if it had been real.\n\nBut who can tell whether that which we look upon as a privation may\nnot after all be a fountain of increased happiness, greater, perhaps,\nthan any which we ourselves enjoy? I forget who the poet is who says--\n\n \"Mysterious are thy laws;\n The vision's finer than the view;\n Her landscape Nature never drew\n So fair as Fancy draws.\"\n\nMany a time, when a mere child, not more than six or seven years of\nage, have I gone as far as Frank's weaving-shop, in order, with a\nheart divided between curiosity and fear, to listen to his\nconversation with the good people. From morning till night his tongue\nwas going almost as incessantly as his shuttle; and it was well known\nthat at night, whenever he awoke out of his sleep, the first thing he\ndid was to put out his hand, and push them, as it were, off his bed.\n\n\"Go out o' this, you thieves, you--go out o' this now, an' let me\nalone. Nickey, is this any time to be playing the pipes, and me wants\nto sleep? Go off, now--troth if yez do, you'll see what I'll give yez\nto-morrow. Sure I'll be makin' new dressin's; and if yez behave\ndecently, maybe I'll lave yez the scrapin' o' the pot. There now. Och!\npoor things, they're dacent crathurs. Sure they're all gone, barrin'\npoor Red-cap, that doesn't like to lave me.\" And then the harmless\nmonomaniac would fall back into what we trust was an innocent slumber.\n\nAbout this time there was said to have occurred a very remarkable\ncircumstance, which gave poor Frank a vast deal of importance among\nthe neighbours. A man named Frank Thomas, the same in whose house\nMickey M'Rorey held the first dance at which I ever saw him, as\ndetailed in a former sketch; this man, I say, had a child sick, but\nof what complaint I cannot now remember, nor is it of any importance.\nOne of the gables of Thomas's house was built against, or rather into,\na Forth or Rath, called Towny, or properly Tonagh Forth. It was said\nto be haunted by the fairies, and what gave it a character peculiarly\nwild in my eyes was, that there were on the southern side of it two or\nthree little green mounds, which were said to be the graves of\nunchristened children, over which it was considered dangerous and\nunlucky to pass. At all events, the season was mid-summer; and one\nevening about dusk, during the illness of the child, the noise of a\nhand-saw was heard upon the Forth. This was considered rather strange,\nand, after a little time, a few of those who were assembled at Frank\nThomas's went to see who it could be that was sawing in such a place,\nor what they could be sawing at so late an hour, for every one knew\nthat nobody in the whole country about them would dare to cut down the\nfew white-thorns that grew upon the Forth. On going to examine,\nhowever, judge of their surprise, when, after surrounding and\nsearching the whole place, they could discover no trace of either saw\nor sawyer. In fact, with the exception of themselves, there was no\none, either natural or supernatural, visible. They then returned to\nthe house, and had scarcely sat down, when it was heard again within\nten yards of them. Another examination of the premises took place, but\nwith equal success. Now, however, while standing on the Forth, they\nheard the sawing in a little hollow, about a hundred and fifty yards\nbelow them, which was completely exposed to their view, but they could\nsee nobody. A party of them immediately went down to ascertain, if\npossible, what this singular noise and invisible labour could mean;\nbut on arriving at the spot, they heard the sawing, to which were now\nadded hammering, and the driving of nails upon the Forth above, whilst\nthose who stood on the Forth continued to hear it in the hollow. On\ncomparing notes, they resolved to send down to Billy Nelson's for\nFrank Martin, a distance of only about eighty or ninety yards. He was\nsoon on the spot, and without a moment's hesitation solved the enigma.\n\n\"'Tis the fairies,\" said he. \"I see them, and busy crathurs they are.\"\n\n\"But what are they sawing, Frank?\"\n\n\"They are makin' a child's coffin,\" he replied; \"they have the body\nalready made, an' they're now nailin' the lid together.\"\n\nThat night the child died, and the story goes that on the second\nevening afterwards, the carpenter who was called upon to make the\ncoffin brought a table out from Thomas's house to the Forth, as a\ntemporary bench; and, it is said, that the sawing and hammering\nnecessary for the completion of his task were precisely the same which\nhad been heard the evening but one before--neither more nor less. I\nremember the death of the child myself, and the making of its coffin,\nbut I think the story of the supernatural carpenter was not heard in\nthe village for some months after its interment.\n\nFrank had every appearance of a hypochondriac about him. At the time I\nsaw him, he might be about thirty-four years of age, but I do not\nthink, from the debility of his frame and infirm health, that he has\nbeen alive for several years. He was an object of considerable\ninterest and curiosity, and often have I been present when he was\npointed out to strangers as \"the man that could see the good people.\"\n\n[Footnote 3: The dressings are a species of sizy flummery, which is\nbrushed into the yarn to keep the thread round and even, and to\nprevent it from being frayed by the friction of the reed.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRIEST'S SUPPER.\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nIt is said by those who ought to understand such things, that the good\npeople, or the fairies, are some of the angels who were turned out of\nheaven, and who landed on their feet in this world, while the rest of\ntheir companions, who had more sin to sink them, went down farther to\na worse place. Be this as it may, there was a merry troop of the\nfairies, dancing and playing all manner of wild pranks, on a bright\nmoonlight evening towards the end of September. The scene of their\nmerriment was not far distant from Inchegeela, in the west of the\ncounty Cork--a poor village, although it had a barrack for soldiers;\nbut great mountains and barren rocks, like those round about it, are\nenough to strike poverty into any place: however, as the fairies can\nhave everything they want for wishing, poverty does not trouble them\nmuch, and all their care is to seek out unfrequented nooks and places\nwhere it is not likely any one will come to spoil their sport.\n\nOn a nice green sod by the river's side were the little fellows\ndancing in a ring as gaily as may be, with their red caps wagging\nabout at every bound in the moonshine, and so light were these bounds\nthat the lobs of dew, although they trembled under their feet, were\nnot disturbed by their capering. Thus did they carry on their gambols,\nspinning round and round, and twirling and bobbing and diving, and\ngoing through all manner of figures, until one of them chirped out,\n\n \"Cease, cease, with your drumming,\n Here's an end to our mumming;\n By my smell\n I can tell\n A priest this way is coming!\"\n\nAnd away every one of the fairies scampered off as hard as they could,\nconcealing themselves under the green leaves of the lusmore, where, if\ntheir little red caps should happen to peep out, they would only look\nlike its crimson bells; and more hid themselves at the shady side of\nstones and brambles, and others under the bank of the river, and in\nholes and crannies of one kind or another.\n\nThe fairy speaker was not mistaken; for along the road, which was\nwithin view of the river, came Father Horrigan on his pony, thinking\nto himself that as it was so late he would make an end of his journey\nat the first cabin he came to. According to this determination, he\nstopped at the dwelling of Dermod Leary, lifted the latch, and entered\nwith \"My blessing on all here.\"\n\nI need not say that Father Horrigan was a welcome guest wherever he\nwent, for no man was more pious or better beloved in the country. Now\nit was a great trouble to Dermod that he had nothing to offer his\nreverence for supper as a relish to the potatoes, which \"the old\nwoman,\" for so Dermod called his wife, though she was not much past\ntwenty, had down boiling in a pot over the fire; he thought of the net\nwhich he had set in the river, but as it had been there only a short\ntime, the chances were against his finding a fish in it. \"No matter,\"\nthought Dermod, \"there can be no harm in stepping down to try; and\nmaybe, as I want the fish for the priest's supper, that one will be\nthere before me.\"\n\nDown to the river-side went Dermod, and he found in the net as fine a\nsalmon as ever jumped in the bright waters of \"the spreading Lee;\" but\nas he was going to take it out, the net was pulled from him, he could\nnot tell how or by whom, and away got the salmon, and went swimming\nalong with the current as gaily as if nothing had happened.\n\nDermod looked sorrowfully at the wake which the fish had left upon the\nwater, shining like a line of silver in the moonlight, and then, with\nan angry motion of his right hand, and a stamp of his foot, gave vent\nto his feelings by muttering, \"May bitter bad luck attend you night\nand day for a blackguard schemer of a salmon, wherever you go! You\nought to be ashamed of yourself, if there's any shame in you, to give\nme the slip after this fashion! And I'm clear in my own mind you'll\ncome to no good, for some kind of evil thing or other helped you--did\nI not feel it pull the net against me as strong as the devil himself?\"\n\n\"That's not true for you,\" said one of the little fairies who had\nscampered off at the approach of the priest, coming up to Dermod Leary\nwith a whole throng of companions at his heels; \"there was only a\ndozen and a half of us pulling against you.\"\n\nDermod gazed on the tiny speaker with wonder, who continued, \"Make\nyourself noways uneasy about the priest's supper; for if you will go\nback and ask him one question from us, there will be as fine a supper\nas ever was put on a table spread out before him in less than no time.\"\n\n\"I'll have nothing at all to do with you,\" replied Dermod in a tone of\ndetermination; and after a pause he added, \"I'm much obliged to you\nfor your offer, sir, but I know better than to sell myself to you, or\nthe like of you, for a supper; and more than that, I know Father\nHorrigan has more regard for my soul than to wish me to pledge it for\never, out of regard to anything you could put before him--so there's\nan end of the matter.\"\n\nThe little speaker, with a pertinacity not to be repulsed by Dermod's\nmanner, continued, \"Will you ask the priest one civil question for us?\"\n\nDermod considered for some time, and he was right in doing so, but he\nthought that no one could come to harm out of asking a civil question.\n\"I see no objection to do that same, gentlemen,\" said Dermod; \"but I\nwill have nothing in life to do with your supper--mind that.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said the little speaking fairy, whilst the rest came crowding\nafter him from all parts, \"go and ask Father Horrigan to tell us\nwhether our souls will be saved at the last day, like the souls of\ngood Christians; and if you wish us well, bring back word what he says\nwithout delay.\"\n\nAway went Dermod to his cabin, where he found the potatoes thrown out\non the table, and his good woman handing the biggest of them all, a\nbeautiful laughing red apple, smoking like a hard-ridden horse on a\nfrosty night, over to Father Horrigan.\n\n\"Please your reverence,\" said Dermod, after some hesitation, \"may I\nmake bold to ask your honour one question?\"\n\n\"What may that be?\" said Father Horrigan.\n\n\"Why, then, begging your reverence's pardon for my freedom, it is, If\nthe souls of the good people are to be saved at the last day?\"\n\n\"Who bid you ask me that question, Leary?\" said the priest, fixing his\neyes upon him very sternly, which Dermod could not stand before at all.\n\n\"I'll tell no lies about the matter, and nothing in life but the\ntruth,\" said Dermod. \"It was the good people themselves who sent me to\nask the question, and there they are in thousands down on the bank of\nthe river, waiting for me to go back with the answer.\"\n\n\"Go back by all means,\" said the priest, \"and tell them, if they want\nto know, to come here to me themselves, and I'll answer that or any\nother question they are pleased to ask with the greatest pleasure in\nlife.\"\n\nDermod accordingly returned to the fairies, who came swarming round\nabout him to hear what the priest had said in reply; and Dermod spoke\nout among them like a bold man as he was: but when they heard that\nthey must go to the priest, away they fled, some here and more there,\nand some this way and more that, whisking by poor Dermod so fast and\nin such numbers that he was quite bewildered.\n\nWhen he came to himself, which was not for a long time, back he went\nto his cabin, and ate his dry potatoes along with Father Horrigan, who\nmade quite light of the thing; but Dermod could not help thinking it a\nmighty hard case that his reverence, whose words had the power to\nbanish the fairies at such a rate, should have no sort of relish to\nhis supper, and that the fine salmon he had in the net should have\nbeen got away from him in such a manner.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY.\n\nBY SAMUEL FERGUSON.\n\n\n Mournfully, sing mournfully--\n \"O listen, Ellen, sister dear:\n Is there no help at all for me,\n But only ceaseless sigh and tear?\n Why did not he who left me here,\n With stolen hope steal memory?\n O listen, Ellen, sister dear,\n (Mournfully, sing mournfully)--\n I'll go away to Sleamish hill,\n I'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree,\n And let the spirits work their will;\n I care not if for good or ill,\n So they but lay the memory\n Which all my heart is haunting still!\n (Mournfully, sing mournfully)--\n The Fairies are a silent race,\n And pale as lily flowers to see;\n I care not for a blanched face,\n For wandering in a dreaming place,\n So I but banish memory:--\n I wish I were with Anna Grace!\"\n Mournfully, sing mournfully!\n\n Hearken to my tale of woe--\n 'Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con,\n Her sister said in accents low,\n Her only sister, Una bawn:\n 'Twas in their bed before the dawn,\n And Ellen answered sad and slow,--\n \"Oh Una, Una, be not drawn\n (Hearken to my tale of woe)--\n To this unholy grief I pray,\n Which makes me sick at heart to know,\n And I will help you if I may:\n --The Fairy Well of Lagnanay--\n Lie nearer me, I tremble so,--\n Una, I've heard wise women say\n (Hearken to my tale of woe)--\n That if before the dews arise,\n True maiden in its icy flow\n With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice,\n Three lady-brackens pluck likewise,\n And three times round the fountain go,\n She straight forgets her tears and sighs.\"\n Hearken to my tale of woe!\n\n All, alas! and well-away!\n \"Oh, sister Ellen, sister sweet,\n Come with me to the hill I pray,\n And I will prove that blessed freet!\"\n They rose with soft and silent feet,\n They left their mother where she lay,\n Their mother and her care discreet,\n (All, alas! and well-away!)\n And soon they reached the Fairy Well,\n The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and grey,\n Wide open in the dreary fell:\n How long they stood 'twere vain to tell,\n At last upon the point of day,\n Bawn Una bares her bosom's swell,\n (All, alas! and well-away!)\n Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she laves\n Of subtly-streaming fairy waves:--\n And now the charm three brackens craves,\n She plucks them in their fring'd array:--\n Now round the well her fate she braves,\n All, alas! and well-away!\n\n Save us all from Fairy thrall!\n Ellen sees her face the rim\n Twice and thrice, and that is all--\n Fount and hill and maiden swim\n All together melting dim!\n \"Una! Una!\" thou may'st call,\n Sister sad! but lith or limb\n (Save us all from Fairy thrall!)\n Never again of Una bawn,\n Where now she walks in dreamy hall,\n Shall eye of mortal look upon!\n Oh! can it be the guard was gone,\n The better guard than shield or wall?\n Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune?\n (Save us all from Fairy thrall!)\n Behold the banks are green and bare,\n No pit is here wherein to fall:\n Aye--at the fount you well may stare,\n But nought save pebbles smooth is there,\n And small straws twirling one and all.\n Hie thee home, and be thy pray'r,\n Save us all from Fairy thrall.\n\n\n\n\nTEIG O'KANE (TADHG O C\u00c1TH\u00c1N) AND THE CORPSE.[4]\n\nLITERALLY TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH BY DOUGLAS HYDE.\n\n\n [I found it hard to place Mr. Douglas Hyde's magnificent story.\n Among the ghosts or the fairies? It is among the fairies on the\n grounds that all these ghosts and bodies were in no manner ghosts\n and bodies, but _pishogues_--fairy spells. One often hears of\n these visions in Ireland. I have met a man who had lived a wild\n life like the man in the story, till a vision came to him in\n County ---- one dark night--in no way so terrible a vision as\n this, but sufficient to change his whole character. He will not\n go out at night. If you speak to him suddenly he trembles. He has\n grown timid and strange. He went to the bishop and was sprinkled\n with holy water. \"It may have come as a warning,\" said the\n bishop; \"yet great theologians are of opinion that no man ever\n saw an apparition, for no man would survive it.\"--ED.]\n\nThere was once a grown-up lad in the County Leitrim, and he was strong\nand lively, and the son of a rich farmer. His father had plenty of\nmoney, and he did not spare it on the son. Accordingly, when the boy\ngrew up he liked sport better than work, and, as his father had no\nother children, he loved this one so much that he allowed him to do in\neverything just as it pleased himself. He was very extravagant, and he\nused to scatter the gold money as another person would scatter the\nwhite. He was seldom to be found at home, but if there was a fair, or\na race, or a gathering within ten miles of him, you were dead certain\nto find him there. And he seldom spent a night in his father's house,\nbut he used to be always out rambling, and, like Shawn Bwee long ago,\nthere was\n\n \"gr\u00e1dh gach cailin i mbrollach a l\u00e9ine,\"\n\n\"the love of every girl in the breast of his shirt,\" and it's many's\nthe kiss he got and he gave, for he was very handsome, and there\nwasn't a girl in the country but would fall in love with him, only for\nhim to fasten his two eyes on her, and it was for that someone made\nthis _rann_ on him--\n\n \"Feuch an r\u00f3gaire 'g iarraidh p\u00f3ige,\n Ni h-iongantas m\u00f3r \u00e9 a bheith mar at\u00e1\n Ag leanamhaint a gc\u00f3mhnuidhe d'\u00e1rn\u00e1n na gr\u00e1ine\u00f3ige\n Anuas 's anios 's nna chodladh 'sa' l\u00e1.\"\n\n _i.e._--\"Look at the rogue, its for kisses he's rambling,\n It isn't much wonder, for that was his way;\n He's like an old hedgehog, at night he'll be scrambling\n From this place to that, but he'll sleep in the day.\"\n\nAt last he became very wild and unruly. He wasn't to be seen day nor\nnight in his father's house, but always rambling or going on his\n_kailee_ (night-visit) from place to place and from house to house, so\nthat the old people used to shake their heads and say to one another,\n\"it's easy seen what will happen to the land when the old man dies;\nhis son will run through it in a year, and it won't stand him that\nlong itself.\"\n\nHe used to be always gambling and card-playing and drinking, but his\nfather never minded his bad habits, and never punished him. But it\nhappened one day that the old man was told that the son had ruined the\ncharacter of a girl in the neighbourhood, and he was greatly angry,\nand he called the son to him, and said to him, quietly and\nsensibly--\"Avic,\" says he, \"you know I loved you greatly up to this,\nand I never stopped you from doing your choice thing whatever it was,\nand I kept plenty of money with you, and I always hoped to leave you\nthe house and land, and all I had after myself would be gone; but I\nheard a story of you to-day that has disgusted me with you. I cannot\ntell you the grief that I felt when I heard such a thing of you, and I\ntell you now plainly that unless you marry that girl I'll leave house\nand land and everything to my brother's son. I never could leave it to\nanyone who would make so bad a use of it as you do yourself, deceiving\nwomen and coaxing girls. Settle with yourself now whether you'll marry\nthat girl and get my land as a fortune with her, or refuse to marry\nher and give up all that was coming to you; and tell me in the morning\nwhich of the two things you have chosen.\"\n\n\"Och! _Domnoo Sheery!_ father, you wouldn't say that to me, and I such\na good son as I am. Who told you I wouldn't marry the girl?\" says he.\n\nBut his father was gone, and the lad knew well enough that he would\nkeep his word too; and he was greatly troubled in his mind, for as\nquiet and as kind as the father was, he never went back of a word that\nhe had once said, and there wasn't another man in the country who was\nharder to bend than he was.\n\nThe boy did not know rightly what to do. He was in love with the girl\nindeed, and he hoped to marry her sometime or other, but he would much\nsooner have remained another while as he was, and follow on at his old\ntricks--drinking, sporting, and playing cards; and, along with that,\nhe was angry that his father should order him to marry, and should\nthreaten him if he did not do it.\n\n\"Isn't my father a great fool,\" says he to himself. \"I was ready\nenough, and only too anxious, to marry Mary; and now since he\nthreatened me, faith I've a great mind to let it go another while.\"\n\nHis mind was so much excited that he remained between two notions as\nto what he should do. He walked out into the night at last to cool his\nheated blood, and went on to the road. He lit a pipe, and as the night\nwas fine he walked and walked on, until the quick pace made him begin\nto forget his trouble. The night was bright, and the moon half full.\nThere was not a breath of wind blowing, and the air was calm and mild.\nHe walked on for nearly three hours, when he suddenly remembered that\nit was late in the night, and time for him to turn. \"Musha! I think I\nforgot myself,\" says he; \"it must be near twelve o'clock now.\"\n\nThe word was hardly out of his mouth, when he heard the sound of many\nvoices, and the trampling of feet on the road before him. \"I don't\nknow who can be out so late at night as this, and on such a lonely\nroad,\" said he to himself.\n\nHe stood listening, and he heard the voices of many people talking\nthrough other, but he could not understand what they were saying. \"Oh,\nwirra!\" says he, \"I'm afraid. It's not Irish or English they have; it\ncan't be they're Frenchmen!\" He went on a couple of yards further, and\nhe saw well enough by the light of the moon a band of little people\ncoming towards him, and they were carrying something big and heavy\nwith them. \"Oh, murder!\" says he to himself, \"sure it can't be that\nthey're the good people that's in it!\" Every _rib_ of hair that was on\nhis head stood up, and there fell a shaking on his bones, for he saw\nthat they were coming to him fast.\n\nHe looked at them again, and perceived that there were about twenty\nlittle men in it, and there was not a man at all of them higher than\nabout three feet or three feet and a half, and some of them were grey,\nand seemed very old. He looked again, but he could not make out what\nwas the heavy thing they were carrying until they came up to him, and\nthen they all stood round about him. They threw the heavy thing down\non the road, and he saw on the spot that it was a dead body.\n\nHe became as cold as the Death, and there was not a drop of blood\nrunning in his veins when an old little grey _maneen_ came up to him\nand said, \"Isn't it lucky we met you, Teig O'Kane?\"\n\nPoor Teig could not bring out a word at all, nor open his lips, if he\nwere to get the world for it, and so he gave no answer.\n\n\"Teig O'Kane,\" said the little grey man again, \"isn't it timely you\nmet us?\"\n\nTeig could not answer him.\n\n\"Teig O'Kane,\" says he, \"the third time, isn't it lucky and timely\nthat we met you?\"\n\nBut Teig remained silent, for he was afraid to return an answer, and\nhis tongue was as if it was tied to the roof of his mouth.\n\nThe little grey man turned to his companions, and there was joy in his\nbright little eye. \"And now,\" says he, \"Teig O'Kane hasn't a word, we\ncan do with him what we please. Teig, Teig,\" says he, \"you're living a\nbad life, and we can make a slave of you now, and you cannot withstand\nus, for there's no use in trying to go against us. Lift that corpse.\"\n\nTeig was so frightened that he was only able to utter the two words,\n\"I won't;\" for as frightened as he was, he was obstinate and stiff,\nthe same as ever.\n\n\"Teig O'Kane won't lift the corpse,\" said the little _maneen_, with a\nwicked little laugh, for all the world like the breaking of a _lock_\nof dry _kippeens_, and with a little harsh voice like the striking of\na cracked bell. \"Teig O'Kane won't lift the corpse--make him lift it;\"\nand before the word was out of his mouth they had all gathered round\npoor Teig, and they all talking and laughing through other.\n\nTeig tried to run from them, but they followed him, and a man of them\nstretched out his foot before him as he ran, so that Teig was thrown in\na heap on the road. Then before he could rise up the fairies caught him,\nsome by the hands and some by the feet, and they held him tight, in a\nway that he could not stir, with his face against the ground. Six or\nseven of them raised the body then, and pulled it over to him, and left\nit down on his back. The breast of the corpse was squeezed against\nTeig's back and shoulders, and the arms of the corpse were thrown around\nTeig's neck. Then they stood back from him a couple of yards, and let\nhim get up. He rose, foaming at the mouth and cursing, and he shook\nhimself, thinking to throw the corpse off his back. But his fear and his\nwonder were great when he found that the two arms had a tight hold round\nhis own neck, and that the two legs were squeezing his hips firmly, and\nthat, however strongly he tried, he could not throw it off, any more\nthan a horse can throw off its saddle. He was terribly frightened then,\nand he thought he was lost. \"Ochone! for ever,\" said he to himself,\n\"it's the bad life I'm leading that has given the good people this power\nover me. I promise to God and Mary, Peter and Paul, Patrick and Bridget,\nthat I'll mend my ways for as long as I have to live, if I come clear\nout of this danger--and I'll marry the girl.\"\n\nThe little grey man came up to him again, and said he to him, \"Now,\nTeig_een_,\" says he, \"you didn't lift the body when I told you to lift\nit, and see how you were made to lift it; perhaps when I tell you to\nbury it you won't bury it until you're made to bury it!\"\n\n\"Anything at all that I can do for your honour,\" said Teig, \"I'll do\nit,\" for he was getting sense already, and if it had not been for the\ngreat fear that was on him, he never would have let that civil word\nslip out of his mouth.\n\nThe little man laughed a sort of laugh again. \"You're getting quiet\nnow, Teig,\" says he. \"I'll go bail but you'll be quiet enough before\nI'm done with you. Listen to me now, Teig O'Kane, and if you don't\nobey me in all I'm telling you to do, you'll repent it. You must carry\nwith you this corpse that is on your back to Teampoll-D\u00e9mus, and you\nmust bring it into the church with you, and make a grave for it in the\nvery middle of the church, and you must raise up the flags and put\nthem down again the very same way, and you must carry the clay out of\nthe church and leave the place as it was when you came, so that no one\ncould know that there had been anything changed. But that's not all.\nMaybe that the body won't be allowed to be buried in that church;\nperhaps some other man has the bed, and, if so, it's likely he won't\nshare it with this one. If you don't get leave to bury it in\nTeampoll-D\u00e9mus, you must carry it to Carrick-fhad-vic-Orus, and bury\nit in the churchyard there; and if you don't get it into that place,\ntake it with you to Teampoll-Ronan; and if that churchyard is closed\non you, take it to Imlogue-Fada; and if you're not able to bury it\nthere, you've no more to do than to take it to Kill-Breedya, and you\ncan bury it there without hindrance. I cannot tell you what one of\nthose churches is the one where you will have leave to bury that\ncorpse under the clay, but I know that it will be allowed you to bury\nhim at some church or other of them. If you do this work rightly, we\nwill be thankful to you, and you will have no cause to grieve; but if\nyou are slow or lazy, believe me we shall take satisfaction of you.\"\n\nWhen the grey little man had done speaking, his comrades laughed and\nclapped their hands together. \"Glic! Glic! Hwee! Hwee!\" they all cried;\n\"go on, go on, you have eight hours before you till daybreak, and if you\nhaven't this man buried before the sun rises, you're lost.\" They struck\na fist and a foot behind on him, and drove him on in the road. He was\nobliged to walk, and to walk fast, for they gave him no rest.\n\nHe thought himself that there was not a wet path, or a dirty _boreen_,\nor a crooked contrary road in the whole county, that he had not walked\nthat night. The night was at times very dark, and whenever there would\ncome a cloud across the moon he could see nothing, and then he used\noften to fall. Sometimes he was hurt, and sometimes he escaped, but he\nwas obliged always to rise on the moment and to hurry on. Sometimes\nthe moon would break out clearly, and then he would look behind him\nand see the little people following at his back. And he heard them\nspeaking amongst themselves, talking and crying out, and screaming\nlike a flock of sea-gulls; and if he was to save his soul he never\nunderstood as much as one word of what they were saying.\n\nHe did not know how far he had walked, when at last one of them cried\nout to him, \"Stop here!\" He stood, and they all gathered round him.\n\n\"Do you see those withered trees over there?\" says the old boy to him\nagain. \"Teampoll-D\u00e9mus is among those trees, and you must go in there\nby yourself, for we cannot follow you or go with you. We must remain\nhere. Go on boldly.\"\n\nTeig looked from him, and he saw a high wall that was in places half\nbroken down, and an old grey church on the inside of the wall, and\nabout a dozen withered old trees scattered here and there round it.\nThere was neither leaf nor twig on any of them, but their bare crooked\nbranches were stretched out like the arms of an angry man when he\nthreatens. He had no help for it, but was obliged to go forward. He\nwas a couple of hundred yards from the church, but he walked on, and\nnever looked behind him until he came to the gate of the churchyard.\nThe old gate was thrown down, and he had no difficulty in entering. He\nturned then to see if any of the little people were following him, but\nthere came a cloud over the moon, and the night became so dark that he\ncould see nothing. He went into the churchyard, and he walked up the\nold grassy pathway leading to the church. When he reached the door, he\nfound it locked. The door was large and strong, and he did not know\nwhat to do. At last he drew out his knife with difficulty, and stuck\nit in the wood to try if it were not rotten, but it was not.\n\n\"Now,\" said he to himself, \"I have no more to do; the door is shut,\nand I can't open it.\"\n\nBefore the words were rightly shaped in his own mind, a voice in his\near said to him, \"Search for the key on the top of the door, or on the\nwall.\"\n\nHe started. \"Who is that speaking to me?\" he cried, turning round; but\nhe saw no one. The voice said in his ear again, \"Search for the key\non the top of the door, or on the wall.\"\n\n\"What's that?\" said he, and the sweat running from his forehead; \"who\nspoke to me?\"\n\n\"It's I, the corpse, that spoke to you!\" said the voice.\n\n\"Can you talk?\" said Teig.\n\n\"Now and again,\" said the corpse.\n\nTeig searched for the key, and he found it on the top of the wall. He\nwas too much frightened to say any more, but he opened the door wide,\nand as quickly as he could, and he went in, with the corpse on his\nback. It was as dark as pitch inside, and poor Teig began to shake and\ntremble.\n\n\"Light the candle,\" said the corpse.\n\nTeig put his hand in his pocket, as well as he was able, and drew out\na flint and steel. He struck a spark out of it, and lit a burnt rag he\nhad in his pocket. He blew it until it made a flame, and he looked\nround him. The church was very ancient, and part of the wall was\nbroken down. The windows were blown in or cracked, and the timber of\nthe seats was rotten. There were six or seven old iron candlesticks\nleft there still, and in one of these candlesticks Teig found the\nstump of an old candle, and he lit it. He was still looking round him\non the strange and horrid place in which he found himself, when the\ncold corpse whispered in his ear, \"Bury me now, bury me now; there is\na spade and turn the ground.\" Teig looked from him, and he saw a spade\nlying beside the altar. He took it up, and he placed the blade under a\nflag that was in the middle of the aisle, and leaning all his weight\non the handle of the spade, he raised it. When the first flag was\nraised it was not hard to raise the others near it, and he moved three\nor four of them out of their places. The clay that was under them was\nsoft and easy to dig, but he had not thrown up more than three or four\nshovelfuls, when he felt the iron touch something soft like flesh. He\nthrew up three or four more shovelfuls from around it, and then he saw\nthat it was another body that was buried in the same place.\n\n\"I am afraid I'll never be allowed to bury the two bodies in the same\nhole,\" said Teig, in his own mind. \"You corpse, there on my back,\"\nsays he, \"will you be satisfied if I bury you down here?\" But the\ncorpse never answered him a word.\n\n\"That's a good sign,\" said Teig to himself. \"Maybe he's getting\nquiet,\" and he thrust the spade down in the earth again. Perhaps he\nhurt the flesh of the other body, for the dead man that was buried\nthere stood up in the grave, and shouted an awful shout. \"Hoo! hoo!!\nhoo!!! Go! go!! go!!! or you're a dead, dead, dead man!\" And then he\nfell back in the grave again. Teig said afterwards, that of all the\nwonderful things he saw that night, that was the most awful to him.\nHis hair stood upright on his head like the bristles of a pig, the\ncold sweat ran off his face, and then came a tremour over all his\nbones, until he thought that he must fall.\n\nBut after a while he became bolder, when he saw that the second corpse\nremained lying quietly there, and he threw in the clay on it again, and\nhe smoothed it overhead and he laid down the flags carefully as they had\nbeen before. \"It can't be that he'll rise up any more,\" said he.\n\nHe went down the aisle a little further, and drew near to the door,\nand began raising the flags again, looking for another bed for the\ncorpse on his back. He took up three or four flags and put them aside,\nand then he dug the clay. He was not long digging until he laid bare\nan old woman without a thread upon her but her shirt. She was more\nlively than the first corpse, for he had scarcely taken any of the\nclay away from about her, when she sat up and began to cry, \"Ho, you\n_bodach_ (clown)! Ha, you _bodach_! Where has he been that he got no\nbed?\"\n\nPoor Teig drew back, and when she found that she was getting no answer,\nshe closed her eyes gently, lost her vigour, and fell back quietly and\nslowly under the clay. Teig did to her as he had done to the man--he\nthrew the clay back on her, and left the flags down overhead.\n\nHe began digging again near the door, but before he had thrown up\nmore than a couple of shovelfuls, he noticed a man's hand laid bare by\nthe spade. \"By my soul, I'll go no further, then,\" said he to himself;\n\"what use is it for me?\" And he threw the clay in again on it, and\nsettled the flags as they had been before.\n\nHe left the church then, and his heart was heavy enough, but he shut\nthe door and locked it, and left the key where he found it. He sat\ndown on a tombstone that was near the door, and began thinking. He was\nin great doubt what he should do. He laid his face between his two\nhands, and cried for grief and fatigue, since he was dead certain at\nthis time that he never would come home alive. He made another attempt\nto loosen the hands of the corpse that were squeezed round his neck,\nbut they were as tight as if they were clamped; and the more he tried\nto loosen them, the tighter they squeezed him. He was going to sit\ndown once more, when the cold, horrid lips of the dead man said to\nhim, \"Carrick-fhad-vic-Orus,\" and he remembered the command of the\ngood people to bring the corpse with him to that place if he should be\nunable to bury it where he had been.\n\nHe rose up, and looked about him. \"I don't know the way,\" he said.\n\nAs soon as he had uttered the word, the corpse stretched out suddenly\nits left hand that had been tightened round his neck, and kept it\npointing out, showing him the road he ought to follow. Teig went in\nthe direction that the fingers were stretched, and passed out of the\nchurchyard. He found himself on an old rutty, stony road, and he stood\nstill again, not knowing where to turn. The corpse stretched out its\nbony hand a second time, and pointed out to him another road--not the\nroad by which he had come when approaching the old church. Teig\nfollowed that road, and whenever he came to a path or road meeting it,\nthe corpse always stretched out its hand and pointed with its fingers,\nshowing him the way he was to take.\n\nMany was the cross-road he turned down, and many was the crooked\n_boreen_ he walked, until he saw from him an old burying-ground at\nlast, beside the road, but there was neither church nor chapel nor any\nother building in it. The corpse squeezed him tightly, and he stood.\n\"Bury me, bury me in the burying-ground,\" said the voice.\n\nTeig drew over towards the old burying-place, and he was not more than\nabout twenty yards from it, when, raising his eyes, he saw hundreds\nand hundreds of ghosts--men, women, and children--sitting on the top\nof the wall round about, or standing on the inside of it, or running\nbackwards and forwards, and pointing at him, while he could see their\nmouths opening and shutting as if they were speaking, though he heard\nno word, nor any sound amongst them at all.\n\nHe was afraid to go forward, so he stood where he was, and the moment\nhe stood, all the ghosts became quiet, and ceased moving. Then Teig\nunderstood that it was trying to keep him from going in, that they\nwere. He walked a couple of yards forwards, and immediately the whole\ncrowd rushed together towards the spot to which he was moving, and\nthey stood so thickly together that it seemed to him that he never\ncould break through them, even though he had a mind to try. But he had\nno mind to try it. He went back broken and dispirited, and when he had\ngone a couple of hundred yards from the burying-ground, he stood\nagain, for he did not know what way he was to go. He heard the voice\nof the corpse in his ear, saying \"Teampoll-Ronan,\" and the skinny hand\nwas stretched out again, pointing him out the road.\n\nAs tired as he was, he had to walk, and the road was neither short nor\neven. The night was darker than ever, and it was difficult to make his\nway. Many was the toss he got, and many a bruise they left on his\nbody. At last he saw Teampoll-Ronan from him in the distance, standing\nin the middle of the burying-ground. He moved over towards it, and\nthought he was all right and safe, when he saw no ghosts nor anything\nelse on the wall, and he thought he would never be hindered now from\nleaving his load off him at last. He moved over to the gate, but as\nhe was passing in, he tripped on the threshold. Before he could\nrecover himself, something that he could not see seized him by the\nneck, by the hands, and by the feet, and bruised him, and shook him,\nand choked him, until he was nearly dead; and at last he was lifted\nup, and carried more than a hundred yards from that place, and then\nthrown down in an old dyke, with the corpse still clinging to him.\n\nHe rose up, bruised and sore, but feared to go near the place again,\nfor he had seen nothing the time he was thrown down and carried away.\n\n\"You corpse, up on my back,\" said he, \"shall I go over again to the\nchurchyard?\"--but the corpse never answered him. \"That's a sign you\ndon't wish me to try it again,\" said Teig.\n\nHe was now in great doubt as to what he ought to do, when the corpse\nspoke in his ear, and said \"Imlogue-Fada.\"\n\n\"Oh, murder!\" said Teig, \"must I bring you there? If you keep me long\nwalking like this, I tell you I'll fall under you.\"\n\nHe went on, however, in the direction the corpse pointed out to him.\nHe could not have told, himself, how long he had been going, when the\ndead man behind suddenly squeezed him, and said, \"There!\"\n\nTeig looked from him, and he saw a little low wall, that was so broken\ndown in places that it was no wall at all. It was in a great wide\nfield, in from the road; and only for three or four great stones at\nthe corners, that were more like rocks than stones, there was nothing\nto show that there was either graveyard or burying-ground there.\n\n\"Is this Imlogue-Fada? Shall I bury you here?\" said Teig.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the voice.\n\n\"But I see no grave or gravestone, only this pile of stones,\" said Teig.\n\nThe corpse did not answer, but stretched out its long fleshless hand,\nto show Teig the direction in which he was to go. Teig went on\naccordingly, but he was greatly terrified, for he remembered what had\nhappened to him at the last place. He went on, \"with his heart in his\nmouth,\" as he said himself afterwards; but when he came to within\nfifteen or twenty yards of the little low square wall, there broke out\na flash of lightning, bright yellow and red, with blue streaks in it,\nand went round about the wall in one course, and it swept by as fast\nas the swallow in the clouds, and the longer Teig remained looking at\nit the faster it went, till at last it became like a bright ring of\nflame round the old graveyard, which no one could pass without being\nburnt by it. Teig never saw, from the time he was born, and never saw\nafterwards, so wonderful or so splendid a sight as that was. Round\nwent the flame, white and yellow and blue sparks leaping out from it\nas it went, and although at first it had been no more than a thin,\nnarrow line, it increased slowly until it was at last a great broad\nband, and it was continually getting broader and higher, and throwing\nout more brilliant sparks, till there was never a colour on the ridge\nof the earth that was not to be seen in that fire; and lightning never\nshone and flame never flamed that was so shining and so bright as that.\n\nTeig was amazed; he was half dead with fatigue, and he had no courage\nleft to approach the wall. There fell a mist over his eyes, and there\ncame a _soorawn_ in his head, and he was obliged to sit down upon a\ngreat stone to recover himself. He could see nothing but the light,\nand he could hear nothing but the whirr of it as it shot round the\npaddock faster than a flash of lightning.\n\nAs he sat there on the stone, the voice whispered once more in his\near, \"Kill-Breedya;\" and the dead man squeezed him so tightly that he\ncried out. He rose again, sick, tired, and trembling, and went\nforwards as he was directed. The wind was cold, and the road was bad,\nand the load upon his back was heavy, and the night was dark, and he\nhimself was nearly worn out, and if he had had very much farther to go\nhe must have fallen dead under his burden.\n\nAt last the corpse stretched out its hand, and said to him, \"Bury me\nthere.\"\n\n\"This is the last burying-place,\" said Teig in his own mind; \"and the\nlittle grey man said I'd be allowed to bury him in some of them, so it\nmust be this; it can't be but they'll let him in here.\"\n\nThe first faint streak of the _ring of day_ was appearing in the east,\nand the clouds were beginning to catch fire, but it was darker than\never, for the moon was set, and there were no stars.\n\n\"Make haste, make haste!\" said the corpse; and Teig hurried forward as\nwell as he could to the graveyard, which was a little place on a bare\nhill, with only a few graves in it. He walked boldly in through the\nopen gate, and nothing touched him, nor did he either hear or see\nanything. He came to the middle of the ground, and then stood up and\nlooked round him for a spade or shovel to make a grave. As he was\nturning round and searching, he suddenly perceived what startled him\ngreatly--a newly-dug grave right before him. He moved over to it, and\nlooked down, and there at the bottom he saw a black coffin. He\nclambered down into the hole and lifted the lid, and found that (as he\nthought it would be) the coffin was empty. He had hardly mounted up\nout of the hole, and was standing on the brink, when the corpse, which\nhad clung to him for more than eight hours, suddenly relaxed its hold\nof his neck, and loosened its shins from round his hips, and sank down\nwith a _plop_ into the open coffin.\n\nTeig fell down on his two knees at the brink of the grave, and gave\nthanks to God. He made no delay then, but pressed down the coffin lid\nin its place, and threw in the clay over it with his two hands; and\nwhen the grave was filled up, he stamped and leaped on it with his\nfeet, until it was firm and hard, and then he left the place.\n\nThe sun was fast rising as he finished his work, and the first thing\nhe did was to return to the road, and look out for a house to rest\nhimself in. He found an inn at last, and lay down upon a bed there,\nand slept till night. Then he rose up and ate a little, and fell\nasleep again till morning. When he awoke in the morning he hired a\nhorse and rode home. He was more than twenty-six miles from home where\nhe was, and he had come all that way with the dead body on his back in\none night.\n\nAll the people at his own home thought that he must have left the\ncountry, and they rejoiced greatly when they saw him come back.\nEveryone began asking him where he had been, but he would not tell\nanyone except his father.\n\nHe was a changed man from that day. He never drank too much; he never\nlost his money over cards; and especially he would not take the world\nand be out late by himself of a dark night.\n\nHe was not a fortnight at home until he married Mary, the girl he had\nbeen in love with; and it's at their wedding the sport was, and it's\nhe was the happy man from that day forward, and it's all I wish that\nwe may be as happy as he was.\n\n GLOSSARY.--_Rann_, a stanza; _kailee (c\u00e9ilidhe)_, a visit in the\n evening; _wirra (a mhuire)_, \"Oh, Mary!\" an exclamation like the\n French _dame_; _rib_, a single hair (in Irish, _ribe_); _a lock\n (glac)_, a bundle or wisp, or a little share of anything;\n _kippeen (cip\u00edn)_, a rod or twig; _boreen (b\u00f3ithr\u00edn)_ a lane;\n _bodach_, a clown; _soorawn (suar\u00e1n)_, vertigo. _Avic (a Mhic)_ =\n son, or rather, Oh, son. Mic is the vocative of Mac.\n\n[Footnote 4: None of Mr. Hyde's stories here given have been published\nbefore. They will be printed in the original Irish in his forthcoming\n_Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta_ (Gill, Dublin).]\n\n\n\n\nPADDY CORCORAN'S WIFE.\n\nWilliam Carleton.\n\n\nPaddy Corcoran's wife was for several years afflicted with a kind of\ncomplaint which nobody could properly understand. She was sick, and she\nwas not sick; she was well, and she was not well; she was as ladies wish\nto be who love their lords, and she was not as such ladies wish to be.\nIn fact nobody could tell what the matter with her was. She had a\ngnawing at the heart which came heavily upon her husband; for, with the\nhelp of God, a keener appetite than the same gnawing amounted to could\nnot be met with of a summer's day. The poor woman was delicate beyond\nbelief, and had no appetite at all, so she hadn't, barring a little\nrelish for a mutton-chop, or a \"staik,\" or a bit o' mait, anyway; for\nsure, God help her! she hadn't the laist inclination for the dhry\npratie, or the dhrop o' sour buttermilk along wid it, especially as she\nwas so poorly; and, indeed, for a woman in her condition--for, sick as\nshe was, poor Paddy always was made to believe her in _that_\ncondition--but God's will be done! she didn't care. A pratie an' a grain\no' salt was a welcome to her--glory be to his name!--as the best roast\nan' boiled that ever was dressed; and why not? There was one comfort:\nshe wouldn't be long wid him--long troublin' him; it matthered little\nwhat she got; but sure she knew herself, that from the gnawin' at her\nheart, she could never do good widout the little bit o' mait now and\nthen; an', sure, if her own husband begridged it to her, who else had\nshe a better right to expect it from?\n\nWell, as we have said, she lay a bedridden invalid for long enough,\ntrying doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes, and sizes, and all\nwithout a farthing's benefit, until, at the long run, poor Paddy was\nnearly brought to the last pass, in striving to keep her in \"the bit\no' mait.\" The seventh year was now on the point of closing, when, one\nharvest day, as she lay bemoaning her hard condition, on her bed\nbeyond the kitchen fire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in a neat red\ncloak, comes in, and, sitting down by the hearth, says:--\n\n\"Well, Kitty Corcoran, you've had a long lair of it there on the broad\no' yer back for seven years, an' you're jist as far from bein' cured\nas ever.\"\n\n\"Mavrone, ay,\" said the other; \"in throth that's what I was this\nminnit thinkin' ov, and a sorrowful thought it's to me.\"\n\n\"It's yer own fau't, thin,\" says the little woman; \"an', indeed, for\nthat matter, it's yer fau't that ever you wor there at all.\"\n\n\"Arra, how is that?\" asked Kitty; \"sure I wouldn't be here if I could\nhelp it? Do you think it's a comfort or a pleasure to me to be sick\nand bedridden?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the other, \"I do not; but I'll tell you the truth: for the\nlast seven years you have been annoying us. I am one o' the good\npeople; an' as I have a regard for you, I'm come to let you know the\nraison why you've been sick so long as you are. For all the time\nyou've been ill, if you'll take the thrubble to remimber, your\nchildhre threwn out yer dirty wather afther dusk an' before sunrise,\nat the very time we're passin' yer door, which we pass twice a-day.\nNow, if you avoid this, if you throw it out in a different place, an'\nat a different time, the complaint you have will lave you: so will the\ngnawin' at the heart; an' you'll be as well as ever you wor. If you\ndon't follow this advice, why, remain as you are, an' all the art o'\nman can't cure you.\" She then bade her good-bye, and disappeared.\n\nKitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, immediately\ncomplied with the injunction of the fairy; and the consequence was,\nthat the next day she found herself in as good health as ever she\nenjoyed during her life.\n\n\n\n\nCUSHEEN LOO.\n\nTRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH BY J. J. CALLANAN.\n\n\n [This song is supposed to have been sung by a young bride, who\n was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common\n in Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of\n resorting. Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she\n retired to the outside margin of the fort, and addressed the\n burthen of her song to a young woman whom she saw at a short\n distance, and whom she requested to inform her husband of her\n condition, and to desire him to bring the steel knife to dissolve\n the enchantment.]\n\n Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,\n Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze,\n And fairy songs of sweetest note,\n Around us gently float.\n\n Sleep! for the weeping flowers have shed\n Their fragrant tears upon thy head,\n The voice of love hath sooth'd thy rest,\n And thy pillow is a mother's breast.\n Sleep, my child!\n\n Weary hath pass'd the time forlorn,\n Since to your mansion I was borne,\n Tho' bright the feast of its airy halls,\n And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls.\n Sleep, my child!\n\n Full many a maid and blooming bride\n Within that splendid dome abide,--\n And many a hoar and shrivell'd sage,\n And many a matron bow'd with age.\n Sleep, my child!\n\n Oh! thou who hearest this song of fear,\n To the mourner's home these tidings bear.\n Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade,\n At whose lightning-flash the charm will fade.\n Sleep, my child!\n\n Haste! for to-morrow's sun will see\n The hateful spell renewed for me;\n Nor can I from that home depart,\n Till life shall leave my withering heart.\n Sleep, my child!\n\n Sleep, my child! for the rustling trees,\n Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze,\n And fairy songs of sweetest note,\n Around us gently float.\n\n\n\n\nTHE WHITE TROUT; A LEGEND OF CONG.\n\nBY S. LOVER.\n\n\nThere was wanst upon a time, long ago, a beautiful lady that lived in\na castle upon the lake beyant, and they say she was promised to a\nking's son, and they wor to be married, when all of a sudden he was\nmurthered, the crathur (Lord help us), and threwn into the lake above,\nand so, of course, he couldn't keep his promise to the fair lady,--and\nmore's the pity.\n\nWell, the story goes that she went out iv her mind, bekase av loosin'\nthe king's son--for she was tendher-hearted, God help her, like the rest\niv us!--and pined away after him, until at last, no one about seen her,\ngood or bad; and the story wint that the fairies took her away.\n\nWell, sir, in coorse o' time, the White Throut, God bless it, was seen\nin the sthrame beyant, and sure the people didn't know what to think\nav the crathur, seein' as how a _white_ throut was never heard av\nafor, nor since; and years upon years the throut was there, just where\nyou seen it this blessed minit, longer nor I can tell--aye throth, and\nbeyant the memory o' th' ouldest in the village.\n\nAt last the people began to think it must be a fairy; for what else\ncould it be?--and no hurt nor harm was iver put an the white throut,\nuntil some wicked sinners of sojers kem to these parts, and laughed at\nall the people, and gibed and jeered them for thinkin' o' the likes;\nand one o' them in partic'lar (bad luck to him; God forgi' me for\nsaying it!) swore he'd catch the throut and ate it for his dinner--the\nblackguard!\n\nWell, what would you think o' the villainy of the sojer? Sure enough\nhe cotch the throut, and away wid him home, and puts an the\nfryin'-pan, and into it he pitches the purty little thing. The throut\nsqueeled all as one as a christian crathur, and, my dear, you'd think\nthe sojer id split his sides laughin'--for he was a harden'd villain;\nand when he thought one side was done, he turns it over to fry the\nother; and, what would you think, but the divil a taste of a burn was\nan it at all at all; and sure the sojer thought it was a _quare_\nthrout that could not be briled. \"But,\" says he, \"I'll give it another\nturn by-and-by,\" little thinkin' what was in store for him, the\nhaythen.\n\nWell, when he thought that side was done he turns it agin, and lo and\nbehould you, the divil a taste more done that side was nor the other.\n\"Bad luck to me,\" says the sojer, \"but that bates the world,\" says he;\n\"but I'll thry you agin, my darlint,\" says he, \"as cunnin' as you\nthink yourself;\" and so with that he turns it over and over, but not a\nsign of the fire was on the purty throut. \"Well,\" says the desperate\nvillain--(for sure, sir, only he was a desperate villain _entirely_,\nhe might know he was doing a wrong thing, seein' that all his\nendeavours was no good)--\"Well,\" says he, \"my jolly little throut,\nmaybe you're fried enough, though you don't seem over well dress'd;\nbut you may be better than you look, like a singed cat, and a tit-bit\nafther all,\" says he; and with that he ups with his knife and fork to\ntaste a piece o' the throut; but, my jew'l, the minit he puts his\nknife into the fish, there was a murtherin' screech, that you'd think\nthe life id lave you if you hurd it, and away jumps the throut out av\nthe fryin'-pan into the middle o' the flure; and an the spot where it\nfell, up riz a lovely lady--the beautifullest crathur that eyes ever\nseen, dressed in white, and a band o' goold in her hair, and a sthrame\no' blood runnin' down her arm.\n\n\"Look where you cut me, you villain,\" says she, and she held out her\narm to him--and, my dear, he thought the sight id lave his eyes.\n\n\"Couldn't you lave me cool and comfortable in the river where you\nsnared me, and not disturb me in my duty?\" says she.\n\nWell, he thrimbled like a dog in a wet sack, and at last he stammered\nout somethin', and begged for his life, and ax'd her ladyship's\npardin, and said he didn't know she was on duty, or he was too good a\nsojer not to know betther nor to meddle wid her.\n\n\"I _was_ on duty, then,\" says the lady; \"I was watchin' for my true love\nthat is comin' by wather to me,\" says she, \"an' if he comes while I'm\naway, an' that I miss iv him, I'll turn you into a pinkeen, and I'll\nhunt you up and down for evermore, while grass grows or wather runs.\"\n\nWell the sojer thought the life id lave him, at the thoughts iv his\nbein' turned into a pinkeen, and begged for mercy; and with that says\nthe lady--\n\n\"Renounce your evil coorses,\" says she, \"you villain, or you'll repint\nit too late; be a good man for the futhur, and go to your duty[5]\nreg'lar, and now,\" says she, \"take me back and put me into the river\nagain, where you found me.\"\n\n\"Oh, my lady,\" says the sojer, \"how could I have the heart to drownd a\nbeautiful lady like you?\"\n\nBut before he could say another word, the lady was vanished, and there\nhe saw the little throut an the ground. Well he put it in a clean plate,\nand away he runs for the bare life, for fear her lover would come while\nshe was away; and he run, and he run, even till he came to the cave\nagin, and threw the throut into the river. The minit he did, the wather\nwas as red as blood for a little while, by rayson av the cut, I suppose,\nuntil the sthrame washed the stain away; and to this day there's a\nlittle red mark an the throut's side, where it was cut.[6]\n\nWell, sir, from that day out the sojer was an altered man, and\nreformed his ways, and went to his duty reg'lar, and fasted three\ntimes a-week--though it was never fish he tuk an fastin' days, for\nafther the fright he got, fish id never rest an his stomach--savin'\nyour presence.\n\nBut anyhow, he was an altered man, as I said before, and in coorse o'\ntime he left the army, and turned hermit at last; and they say he\n_used to pray evermore for the soul of the White Throut_.\n\n [These trout stories are common all over Ireland. Many holy wells\n are haunted by such blessed trout. There is a trout in a well on\n the border of Lough Gill, Sligo, that some paganish person put\n once on the gridiron. It carries the marks to this day. Long ago,\n the saint who sanctified the well put that trout there. Nowadays\n it is only visible to the pious, who have done due penance.]\n\n[Footnote 5: The Irish peasant calls his attendance at the\nconfessional \"going to his duty.\"]\n\n[Footnote 6: The fish has really a red spot on its side.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRY THORN.\n\n_An Ulster Ballad._\n\nSIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.\n\n\n \"Get up, our Anna dear, from the weary spinning-wheel;\n For your father's on the hill, and your mother is asleep;\n Come up above the crags, and we'll dance a highland-reel\n Around the fairy thorn on the steep.\"\n\n At Anna Grace's door 'twas thus the maidens cried,\n Three merry maidens fair in kirtles of the green;\n And Anna laid the rock and the weary wheel aside,\n The fairest of the four, I ween.\n\n They're glancing through the glimmer of the quiet eve,\n Away in milky wavings of neck and ankle bare;\n The heavy-sliding stream in its sleepy song they leave,\n And the crags in the ghostly air:\n\n And linking hand in hand, and singing as they go,\n The maids along the hill-side have ta'en their fearless way,\n Till they come to where the rowan trees in lonely beauty grow\n Beside the Fairy Hawthorn grey.\n\n The Hawthorn stands between the ashes tall and slim,\n Like matron with her twin grand-daughters at her knee;\n The rowan berries cluster o'er her low head grey and dim\n In ruddy kisses sweet to see.\n\n The merry maidens four have ranged them in a row,\n Between each lovely couple a stately rowan stem,\n And away in mazes wavy, like skimming birds they go,\n Oh, never caroll'd bird like them!\n\n But solemn is the silence of the silvery haze\n That drinks away their voices in echoless repose,\n And dreamily the evening has still'd the haunted braes,\n And dreamier the gloaming grows.\n\n And sinking one by one, like lark-notes from the sky\n When the falcon's shadow saileth across the open shaw,\n Are hush'd the maiden's voices, as cowering down they lie\n In the flutter of their sudden awe.\n\n For, from the air above, and the grassy ground beneath,\n And from the mountain-ashes and the old Whitethorn between,\n A Power of faint enchantment doth through their beings breathe,\n And they sink down together on the green.\n\n They sink together silent, and stealing side by side,\n They fling their lovely arms o'er their drooping necks so fair,\n Then vainly strive again their naked arms to hide,\n For their shrinking necks again are bare.\n\n Thus clasp'd and prostrate all, with their heads together bow'd,\n Soft o'er their bosom's beating--the only human sound--\n They hear the silky footsteps of the silent fairy crowd,\n Like a river in the air, gliding round.\n\n No scream can any raise, no prayer can any say,\n But wild, wild, the terror of the speechless three--\n For they feel fair Anna Grace drawn silently away,\n By whom they dare not look to see.\n\n They feel their tresses twine with her parting locks of gold,\n And the curls elastic falling as her head withdraws;\n They feel her sliding arms from their tranced arms unfold,\n But they may not look to see the cause:\n\n For heavy on their senses the faint enchantment lies\n Through all that night of anguish and perilous amaze;\n And neither fear nor wonder can ope their quivering eyes,\n Or their limbs from the cold ground raise,\n\n Till out of night the earth has roll'd her dewy side,\n With every haunted mountain and streamy vale below;\n When, as the mist dissolves in the yellow morning tide,\n The maidens' trance dissolveth so.\n\n Then fly the ghastly three as swiftly as they may,\n And tell their tale of sorrow to anxious friends in vain--\n They pined away and died within the year and day,\n And ne'er was Anna Grace seen again.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON.\n\nT. CROFTON CROCKER.\n\n\nThere was once a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of Aherlow, at\nthe foot of the gloomy Galtee mountains, and he had a great hump on\nhis back: he looked just as if his body had been rolled up and placed\nupon his shoulders; and his head was pressed down with the weight so\nmuch that his chin, when he was sitting, used to rest upon his knees\nfor support. The country people were rather shy of meeting him in any\nlonesome place, for though, poor creature, he was as harmless and as\ninoffensive as a newborn infant, yet his deformity was so great that\nhe scarcely appeared to be a human creature, and some ill-minded\npersons had set strange stories about him afloat. He was said to have\na great knowledge of herbs and charms; but certain it was that he had\na mighty skilful hand in plaiting straws and rushes into hats and\nbaskets, which was the way he made his livelihood.\n\nLusmore, for that was the nickname put upon him by reason of his\nalways wearing a sprig of the fairy cap, or lusmore (the foxglove), in\nhis little straw hat, would ever get a higher penny for his plaited\nwork than any one else, and perhaps that was the reason why some one,\nout of envy, had circulated the strange stories about him. Be that as\nit may, it happened that he was returning one evening from the pretty\ntown of Cahir towards Cappagh, and as little Lusmore walked very\nslowly, on account of the great hump upon his back, it was quite dark\nwhen he came to the old moat of Knockgrafton, which stood on the\nright-hand side of his road. Tired and weary was he, and noways\ncomfortable in his own mind at thinking how much farther he had to\ntravel, and that he should be walking all the night; so he sat down\nunder the moat to rest himself, and began looking mournfully enough\nupon the moon, which--\n\n \"Rising in clouded majesty, at length\n Apparent Queen, unveil'd her peerless light,\n And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw.\"\n\nPresently there rose a wild strain of unearthly melody upon the ear of\nlittle Lusmore; he listened, and he thought that he had never heard\nsuch ravishing music before. It was like the sound of many voices,\neach mingling and blending with the other so strangely that they\nseemed to be one, though all singing different strains, and the words\nof the song were these--\n\n _Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort;_\n\nwhen there would be a moment's pause, and then the round of melody\nwent on again.\n\nLusmore listened attentively, scarcely drawing his breath lest he might\nlose the slightest note. He now plainly perceived that the singing was\nwithin the moat; and though at first it had charmed him so much, he\nbegan to get tired of hearing the same round sung over and over so often\nwithout any change; so availing himself of the pause when _Da Luan, Da\nMort_, had been sung three times, he took up the tune, and raised it\nwith the words _augus Da Dardeen_, and then went on singing with the\nvoices inside of the moat, _Da Luan, Da Mort_, finishing the melody,\nwhen the pause again came, with _augus Da Dardeen_.\n\nThe fairies within Knockgrafton, for the song was a fairy melody, when\nthey heard this addition to the tune, were so much delighted that,\nwith instant resolve, it was determined to bring the mortal among\nthem, whose musical skill so far exceeded theirs, and little Lusmore\nwas conveyed into their company with the eddying speed of a whirlwind.\n\nGlorious to behold was the sight that burst upon him as he came down\nthrough the moat, twirling round and round, with the lightness of a\nstraw, to the sweetest music that kept time to his motion. The\ngreatest honour was then paid him, for he was put above all the\nmusicians, and he had servants tending upon him, and everything to his\nheart's content, and a hearty welcome to all; and, in short, he was\nmade as much of as if he had been the first man in the land.\n\nPresently Lusmore saw a great consultation going forward among the\nfairies, and, notwithstanding all their civility, he felt very much\nfrightened, until one stepping out from the rest came up to him and\nsaid--\n\n \"Lusmore! Lusmore!\n Doubt not, nor deplore,\n For the hump which you bore\n On your back is no more;\n Look down on the floor,\n And view it, Lusmore!\"\n\nWhen these words were said, poor little Lusmore felt himself so light,\nand so happy, that he thought he could have bounded at one jump over\nthe moon, like the cow in the history of the cat and the fiddle; and\nhe saw, with inexpressible pleasure, his hump tumble down upon the\nground from his shoulders. He then tried to lift up his head, and he\ndid so with becoming caution, fearing that he might knock it against\nthe ceiling of the grand hall, where he was; he looked round and round\nagain with the greatest wonder and delight upon everything, which\nappeared more and more beautiful; and, overpowered at beholding such a\nresplendent scene, his head grew dizzy, and his eyesight became dim.\nAt last he fell into a sound sleep, and when he awoke he found that it\nwas broad daylight, the sun shining brightly, and the birds singing\nsweetly; and that he was lying just at the foot of the moat of\nKnockgrafton, with the cows and sheep grazing peaceably round about\nhim. The first thing Lusmore did, after saying his prayers, was to put\nhis hand behind to feel for his hump, but no sign of one was there on\nhis back, and he looked at himself with great pride, for he had now\nbecome a well-shaped dapper little fellow, and more than that, found\nhimself in a full suit of new clothes, which he concluded the fairies\nhad made for him.\n\nTowards Cappagh he went, stepping out as lightly, and springing up at\nevery step as if he had been all his life a dancing-master. Not a\ncreature who met Lusmore knew him without his hump, and he had a great\nwork to persuade every one that he was the same man--in truth he was\nnot, so far as the outward appearance went.\n\nOf course it was not long before the story of Lusmore's hump got\nabout, and a great wonder was made of it. Through the country, for\nmiles round, it was the talk of every one, high and low.\n\nOne morning, as Lusmore was sitting contented enough at his cabin\ndoor, up came an old woman to him, and asked him if he could direct\nher to Cappagh.\n\n\"I need give you no directions, my good woman,\" said Lusmore, \"for\nthis is Cappagh; and whom may you want here?\"\n\n\"I have come,\" said the woman, \"out of Decie's country, in the county\nof Waterford, looking after one Lusmore, who, I have heard tell, had\nhis hump taken off by the fairies; for there is a son of a gossip of\nmine who has got a hump on him that will be his death; and maybe, if\nhe could use the same charm as Lusmore, the hump may be taken off him.\nAnd now I have told you the reason of my coming so far: 'tis to find\nout about this charm, if I can.\"\n\nLusmore, who was ever a good-natured little fellow, told the woman all\nthe particulars, how he had raised the tune for the fairies at\nKnockgrafton, how his hump had been removed from his shoulders, and\nhow he had got a new suit of clothes into the bargain.\n\nThe woman thanked him very much, and then went away quite happy and\neasy in her own mind. When she came back to her gossip's house, in the\ncounty of Waterford, she told her everything that Lusmore had said,\nand they put the little hump-backed man, who was a peevish and cunning\ncreature from his birth, upon a car, and took him all the way across\nthe country. It was a long journey, but they did not care for that, so\nthe hump was taken from off him; and they brought him, just at\nnightfall, and left him under the old moat of Knockgrafton.\n\nJack Madden, for that was the humpy man's name, had not been sitting\nthere long when he heard the tune going on within the moat much sweeter\nthan before; for the fairies were singing it the way Lusmore had settled\ntheir music for them, and the song was going on: _Da Luan, Da Mort, Da\nLuan, Da Mort, Da Luan, Da Mort, augus Da Dardeen_, without ever\nstopping. Jack Madden, who was in a great hurry to get quit of his hump,\nnever thought of waiting until the fairies had done, or watching for a\nfit opportunity to raise the tune higher again than Lusmore had; so\nhaving heard them sing it over seven times without stopping, out he\nbawls, never minding the time or the humour of the tune, or how he\ncould bring his words in properly, _augus Da Dardeen, augus Da Hena_,\nthinking that if one day was good, two were better; and that if Lusmore\nhad one new suit of clothes given him, he should have two.\n\nNo sooner had the words passed his lips than he was taken up and\nwhisked into the moat with prodigious force; and the fairies came\ncrowding round about him with great anger, screeching and screaming,\nand roaring out, \"Who spoiled our tune? who spoiled our tune?\" and one\nstepped up to him above all the rest, and said--\n\n \"Jack Madden! Jack Madden!\n Your words came so bad in\n The tune we felt glad in;--\n This castle you're had in,\n That your life we may sadden;\n Here's two humps for Jack Madden!\"\n\nAnd twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore's hump, and put it\ndown upon poor Jack's back, over his own, where it became fixed as\nfirmly as if it was nailed on with twelve-penny nails, by the best\ncarpenter that ever drove one. Out of their castle they then kicked him;\nand in the morning, when Jack Madden's mother and her gossip came to\nlook after their little man, they found him half dead, lying at the foot\nof the moat, with the other hump upon his back. Well to be sure, how\nthey did look at each other! but they were afraid to say anything, lest\na hump might be put upon their own shoulders. Home they brought the\nunlucky Jack Madden with them, as downcast in their hearts and their\nlooks as ever two gossips were; and what through the weight of his other\nhump, and the long journey, he died soon after, leaving, they say, his\nheavy curse to any one who would go to listen to fairy tunes again.\n\n\n\n\nA DONEGAL FAIRY.\n\nLETITIA MACLINTOCK.\n\n\nAy, it's a bad thing to displeasure the gentry, sure enough--they can\nbe unfriendly if they're angered, an' they can be the very best o'\ngude neighbours if they're treated kindly.\n\nMy mother's sister was her lone in the house one day, wi' a' big pot\no' water boiling on the fire, and ane o' the wee folk fell down the\nchimney, and slipped wi' his leg in the hot water.\n\nHe let a terrible squeal out o' him, an' in a minute the house was\nfull o' wee crathurs pulling him out o' the pot, an' carrying him\nacross the floor.\n\n\"Did she scald you?\" my aunt heard them saying to him.\n\n\"Na, na, it was mysel' scalded my ainsel',\" quoth the wee fellow.\n\n\"A weel, a weel,\" says they. \"If it was your ainsel scalded yoursel',\nwe'll say nothing, but if she had scalded you, we'd ha' made her pay.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE TROOPING FAIRIES.\n\n\n\n\nCHANGELINGS.\n\n\nSometimes the fairies fancy mortals, and carry them away into their\nown country, leaving instead some sickly fairy child, or a log of wood\nso bewitched that it seems to be a mortal pining away, and dying, and\nbeing buried. Most commonly they steal children. If you \"over look a\nchild,\" that is look on it with envy, the fairies have it in their\npower. Many things can be done to find out in a child a changeling,\nbut there is one infallible thing--lay it on the fire with this\nformula, \"Burn, burn, burn--if of the devil, burn; but if of God and\nthe saints, be safe from harm\" (given by Lady Wilde). Then if it be a\nchangeling it will rush up the chimney with a cry, for, according to\nGiraldus Cambrensis, \"fire is the greatest of enemies to every sort of\nphantom, in so much that those who have seen apparitions fall into a\nswoon as soon as they are sensible of the brightness of fire.\"\n\nSometimes the creature is got rid of in a more gentle way. It is on\nrecord that once when a mother was leaning over a wizened changeling\nthe latch lifted and a fairy came in, carrying home again the\nwholesome stolen baby. \"It was the others,\" she said, \"who stole it.\"\nAs for her, she wanted her own child.\n\nThose who are carried away are happy, according to some accounts, having\nplenty of good living and music and mirth. Others say, however, that\nthey are continually longing for their earthly friends. Lady Wilde gives\na gloomy tradition that there are two kinds of fairies--one kind merry\nand gentle, the other evil, and sacrificing every year a life to Satan,\nfor which purpose they steal mortals. No other Irish writer gives this\ntradition--if such fairies there be, they must be among the solitary\nspirits--Pookas, Fir Darrigs, and the like.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BREWERY OF EGG-SHELLS.\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nMrs. Sullivan fancied that her youngest child had been exchanged by\n\"fairies theft,\" and certainly appearances warranted such a\nconclusion; for in one night her healthy, blue-eyed boy had become\nshrivelled up into almost nothing, and never ceased squalling and\ncrying. This naturally made poor Mrs. Sullivan very unhappy; and all\nthe neighbours, by way of comforting her, said that her own child was,\nbeyond any kind of doubt, with the good people, and that one of\nthemselves was put in his place.\n\nMrs. Sullivan of course could not disbelieve what every one told her,\nbut she did not wish to hurt the thing; for although its face was so\nwithered, and its body wasted away to a mere skeleton, it had still a\nstrong resemblance to her own boy. She, therefore, could not find it\nin her heart to roast it alive on the griddle, or to burn its nose off\nwith the red-hot tongs, or to throw it out in the snow on the\nroad-side, notwithstanding these, and several like proceedings, were\nstrongly recommended to her for the recovery of her child.\n\nOne day who should Mrs. Sullivan meet but a cunning woman, well known\nabout the country by the name of Ellen Leah (or Grey Ellen). She had\nthe gift, however she got it, of telling where the dead were, and what\nwas good for the rest of their souls; and could charm away warts and\nwens, and do a great many wonderful things of the same nature.\n\n\"You're in grief this morning, Mrs. Sullivan,\" were the first words of\nEllen Leah to her.\n\n\"You may say that, Ellen,\" said Mrs. Sullivan, \"and good cause I have\nto be in grief, for there was my own fine child whipped of from me out\nof his cradle, without as much as 'by your leave' or 'ask your\npardon,' and an ugly dony bit of a shrivelled-up fairy put in his\nplace; no wonder, then, that you see me in grief, Ellen.\"\n\n\"Small blame to you, Mrs. Sullivan,\" said Ellen Leah, \"but are you\nsure 'tis a fairy?\"\n\n\"Sure!\" echoed Mrs. Sullivan, \"sure enough I am to my sorrow, and can\nI doubt my own two eyes? Every mother's soul must feel for me!\"\n\n\"Will you take an old woman's advice?\" said Ellen Leah, fixing her\nwild and mysterious gaze upon the unhappy mother; and, after a pause,\nshe added, \"but maybe you'll call it foolish?\"\n\n\"Can you get me back my child, my own child, Ellen?\" said Mrs.\nSullivan with great energy.\n\n\"If you do as I bid you,\" returned Ellen Leah, \"you'll know.\" Mrs.\nSullivan was silent in expectation, and Ellen continued, \"Put down the\nbig pot, full of water, on the fire, and make it boil like mad; then\nget a dozen new-laid eggs, break them, and keep the shells, but throw\naway the rest; when that is done, put the shells in the pot of boiling\nwater, and you will soon know whether it is your own boy or a fairy.\nIf you find that it is a fairy in the cradle, take the red-hot poker\nand cram it down his ugly throat, and you will not have much trouble\nwith him after that, I promise you.\"\n\nHome went Mrs. Sullivan, and did as Ellen Leah desired. She put the\npot on the fire, and plenty of turf under it, and set the water\nboiling at such a rate, that if ever water was red-hot, it surely was.\n\nThe child was lying, for a wonder, quite easy and quiet in the cradle,\nevery now and then cocking his eye, that would twinkle as keen as a\nstar in a frosty night, over at the great fire, and the big pot upon\nit; and he looked on with great attention at Mrs. Sullivan breaking\nthe eggs and putting down the egg-shells to boil. At last he asked,\nwith the voice of a very old man, \"What are you doing, mammy?\"\n\nMrs. Sullivan's heart, as she said herself, was up in her mouth ready\nto choke her, at hearing the child speak. But she contrived to put the\npoker in the fire, and to answer, without making any wonder at the\nwords, \"I'm brewing, _a vick_\" (my son).\n\n\"And what are you brewing, mammy?\" said the little imp, whose\nsupernatural gift of speech now proved beyond question that he was a\nfairy substitute.\n\n\"I wish the poker was red,\" thought Mrs. Sullivan; but it was a large\none, and took a long time heating; so she determined to keep him in\ntalk until the poker was in a proper state to thrust down his throat,\nand therefore repeated the question.\n\n\"Is it what I'm brewing, _a vick_,\" said she, \"you want to know?\"\n\n\"Yes, mammy: what are you brewing?\" returned the fairy.\n\n\"Egg-shells, _a vick_,\" said Mrs. Sullivan.\n\n\"Oh!\" shrieked the imp, starting up in the cradle, and clapping his\nhands together, \"I'm fifteen hundred years in the world, and I never\nsaw a brewery of egg-shells before!\" The poker was by this time quite\nred, and Mrs. Sullivan, seizing it, ran furiously towards the cradle;\nbut somehow or other her foot slipped, and she fell flat on the floor,\nand the poker flew out of her hand to the other end of the house.\nHowever, she got up without much loss of time and went to the cradle,\nintending to pitch the wicked thing that was in it into the pot of\nboiling water, when there she saw her own child in a sweet sleep, one\nof his soft round arms rested upon the pillow--his features were as\nplacid as if their repose had never been disturbed, save the rosy\nmouth, which moved with a gentle and regular breathing.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRY NURSE.\n\nBY EDWARD WALSH.\n\n\n Sweet babe! a golden cradle holds thee,\n And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee;\n In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,\n Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.\n Shuheen, sho, lulo lo!\n\n When mothers languish broken-hearted,\n When young wives are from husbands parted,\n Ah! little think the keeners lonely,\n They weep some time-worn fairy only.\n Shuheen sho, lulo lo!\n\n Within our magic halls of brightness,\n Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness;\n Stolen maidens, queens of fairy--\n And kings and chiefs a sluagh-shee airy,\n Shuheen sho, lulo lo!\n\n Rest thee, babe! I love thee dearly,\n And as thy mortal mother nearly;\n Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest,\n That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest.\n Shuheen sho, lulo lo!\n\n Rest thee, babe! for soon thy slumbers\n Shall flee at the magic koelshie's[7] numbers;\n In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping,\n Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping.\n Shuheen sho, lulo, lo!\n\n[Footnote 7: _Ce\u00f3l-sidhe_--_i.e._, fairy music.]\n\n\n\n\nJAMIE FREEL AND THE YOUNG LADY.\n\n_A Donegal Tale._\n\nMISS LETITIA MACLINTOCK.\n\n\nDown in Fannet, in times gone by, lived Jamie Freel and his mother.\nJamie was the widow's sole support; his strong arm worked for her\nuntiringly, and as each Saturday night came round, he poured his wages\ninto her lap, thanking her dutifully for the halfpence which she\nreturned him for tobacco.\n\nHe was extolled by his neighbours as the best son ever known or heard\nof. But he had neighbours, of whose opinion he was ignorant--neighbours\nwho lived pretty close to him, whom he had never seen, who are, indeed,\nrarely seen by mortals, except on May eves and Halloweens.\n\nAn old ruined castle, about a quarter of a mile from his cabin, was said\nto be the abode of the \"wee folk.\" Every Halloween were the ancient\nwindows lighted up, and passers-by saw little figures flitting to and\nfro inside the building, while they heard the music of pipes and flutes.\n\nIt was well known that fairy revels took place; but nobody had the\ncourage to intrude on them.\n\nJamie had often watched the little figures from a distance, and\nlistened to the charming music, wondering what the inside of the\ncastle was like; but one Halloween he got up and took his cap, saying\nto his mother, \"I'm awa' to the castle to seek my fortune.\"\n\n\"What!\" cried she, \"would you venture there? you that's the poor\nwidow's one son! Dinna be sae venturesome an' foolitch, Jamie! They'll\nkill you, an' then what'll come o' me?\"\n\n\"Never fear, mother; nae harm 'ill happen me, but I maun gae.\"\n\nHe set out, and as he crossed the potato-field, came in sight of the\ncastle, whose windows were ablaze with light, that seemed to turn the\nrusset leaves, still clinging to the crabtree branches, into gold.\n\nHalting in the grove at one side of the ruin, he listened to the elfin\nrevelry, and the laughter and singing made him all the more determined\nto proceed.\n\nNumbers of little people, the largest about the size of a child of\nfive years old, were dancing to the music of flutes and fiddles, while\nothers drank and feasted.\n\n\"Welcome, Jamie Freel! welcome, welcome, Jamie!\" cried the company,\nperceiving their visitor. The word \"Welcome\" was caught up and\nrepeated by every voice in the castle.\n\nTime flew, and Jamie was enjoying himself very much, when his hosts\nsaid, \"We're going to ride to Dublin to-night to steal a young lady.\nWill you come too, Jamie Freel?\"\n\n\"Ay, that will I!\" cried the rash youth, thirsting for adventure.\n\nA troop of horses stood at the door. Jamie mounted, and his steed rose\nwith him into the air. He was presently flying over his mother's\ncottage, surrounded by the elfin troop, and on and on they went, over\nbold mountains, over little hills, over the deep Lough Swilley, over\ntowns and cottages, when people were burning nuts, and eating apples,\nand keeping merry Halloween. It seemed to Jamie that they flew all\nround Ireland before they got to Dublin.\n\n\"This is Derry,\" said the fairies, flying over the cathedral spire;\nand what was said by one voice was repeated by all the rest, till\nfifty little voices were crying out, \"Derry! Derry! Derry!\"\n\nIn like manner was Jamie informed as they passed over each town on the\nrout, and at length he heard the silvery voices cry, \"Dublin! Dublin!\"\n\nIt was no mean dwelling that was to be honoured by the fairy visit,\nbut one of the finest houses in Stephen's Green.\n\nThe troop dismounted near a window, and Jamie saw a beautiful face, on\na pillow in a splendid bed. He saw the young lady lifted and carried\naway, while the stick which was dropped in her place on the bed took\nher exact form.\n\nThe lady was placed before one rider and carried a short way, then\ngiven another, and the names of the towns were cried out as before.\n\nThey were approaching home. Jamie heard \"Rathmullan,\" \"Milford,\"\n\"Tamney,\" and then he knew they were near his own house.\n\n\"You've all had your turn at carrying the young lady,\" said he. \"Why\nwouldn't I get her for a wee piece?\"\n\n\"Ay, Jamie,\" replied they, pleasantly, \"you may take your turn at\ncarrying her, to be sure.\"\n\nHolding his prize very tightly, he dropped down near his mother's door.\n\n\"Jamie Freel, Jamie Freel! is that the way you treat us?\" cried they,\nand they too dropped down near the door.\n\nJamie held fast, though he knew not what he was holding, for the\nlittle folk turned the lady into all sorts of strange shapes. At one\nmoment she was a black dog, barking and trying to bite; at another, a\nglowing bar of iron, which yet had no heat; then, again, a sack of wool.\n\nBut still Jamie held her, and the baffled elves were turning away,\nwhen a tiny woman, the smallest of the party, exclaimed, \"Jamie Freel\nhas her awa' frae us, but he sall hae nae gude o' her, for I'll mak'\nher deaf and dumb,\" and she threw something over the young girl.\n\nWhile they rode off disappointed, Jamie lifted the latch and went in.\n\n\"Jamie, man!\" cried his mother, \"you've been awa' all night; what have\nthey done on you?\"\n\n\"Naething bad, mother; I ha' the very best of gude luck. Here's a\nbeautiful young lady I ha' brought you for company.\n\n\"Bless us an' save us!\" exclaimed the mother, and for some minutes she\nwas so astonished that she could not think of anything else to say.\n\nJamie told his story of the night's adventure, ending by saying,\n\"Surely you wouldna have allowed me to let her gang with them to be\nlost forever?\"\n\n\"But a _lady_, Jamie! How can a lady eat we'er poor diet, and live in\nwe'er poor way? I ax you that, you foolitch fellow?\"\n\n\"Weel, mother, sure it's better for her to be here nor over yonder,\"\nand he pointed in the direction of the castle.\n\nMeanwhile, the deaf and dumb girl shivered in her light clothing,\nstepping close to the humble turf fire.\n\n\"Poor crathur, she's quare and handsome! Nae wonder they set their\nhearts on her,\" said the old woman, gazing at her guest with pity and\nadmiration. \"We maun dress her first; but what, in the name o'\nfortune, hae I fit for the likes o' her to wear?\"\n\nShe went to her press in \"the room,\" and took out her Sunday gown of\nbrown drugget; she then opened a drawer, and drew forth a pair of\nwhite stockings, a long snowy garment of fine linen, and a cap, her\n\"dead dress,\" as she called it.\n\nThese articles of attire had long been ready for a certain triste\nceremony, in which she would some day fill the chief part, and only\nsaw the light occasionally, when they were hung out to air; but she\nwas willing to give even these to the fair trembling visitor, who was\nturning in dumb sorrow and wonder from her to Jamie, and from Jamie\nback to her.\n\nThe poor girl suffered herself to be dressed, and then sat down on a\n\"creepie\" in the chimney corner, and buried her face in her hands.\n\n\"What'll we do to keep up a lady like thou?\" cried the old woman.\n\n\"I'll work for you both, mother,\" replied the son.\n\n\"An' how could a lady live on we'er poor diet?\" she repeated.\n\n\"I'll work for her,\" was all Jamie's answer.\n\nHe kept his word. The young lady was very sad for a long time, and\ntears stole down her cheeks many an evening while the old woman spun\nby the fire, and Jamie made salmon nets, an accomplishment lately\nacquired by him, in hopes of adding to the comfort of his guest But\nshe was always gentle, and tried to smile when she perceived them\nlooking at her; and by degrees she adapted herself to their ways and\nmode of life. It was not very long before she began to feed the pig,\nmash potatoes and meal for the fowls, and knit blue worsted socks.\n\nSo a year passed, and Halloween came round again. \"Mother,\" said\nJamie, taking down his cap, \"I'm off to the ould castle to seek my\nfortune.\"\n\n\"Are you mad, Jamie?\" cried his mother, in terror; \"sure they'll kill\nyou this time for what you done on them last year.\"\n\nJamie made light of her fears and went his way.\n\nAs he reached the crabtree grove, he saw bright lights in the castle\nwindows as before, and heard loud talking. Creeping under the window,\nhe heard the wee folk say, \"That was a poor trick Jamie Freel played\nus this night last year, when he stole the nice young lady from us.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said the tiny woman, \"an' I punished him for it, for there she\nsits, a dumb image by his hearth; but he does na' know that three\ndrops out o' this glass I hold in my hand wad gie her her hearing and\nher speeches back again.\"\n\nJamie's heart beat fast as he entered the hall. Again he was greeted\nby a chorus of welcomes from the company--\"Here comes Jamie Freel!\nwelcome, welcome, Jamie!\"\n\nAs soon as the tumult subsided, the little woman said, \"You be to\ndrink our health, Jamie, out o' this glass in my hand.\"\n\nJamie snatched the glass from her and darted to the door. He never\nknew how he reached his cabin, but he arrived there breathless, and\nsank on a stove by the fire.\n\n\"You're kilt surely this time, my poor boy,\" said his mother.\n\n\"No, indeed, better luck than ever this time!\" and he gave the lady\nthree drops of the liquid that still remained at the bottom of the\nglass, notwithstanding his mad race over the potato-field.\n\nThe lady began to speak, and her first words were words of thanks to\nJamie.\n\nThe three inmates of the cabin had so much to say to one another, that\nlong after cock-crow, when the fairy music had quite ceased, they were\ntalking round the fire.\n\n\"Jamie,\" said the lady, \"be pleased to get me paper and pen and ink,\nthat I may write to my father, and tell him what has become of me.\"\n\nShe wrote, but weeks passed, and she received no answer. Again and\nagain she wrote, and still no answer.\n\nAt length she said, \"You must come with me to Dublin, Jamie, to find\nmy father.\"\n\n\"I ha' no money to hire a car for you,\" he replied, \"an' how can you\ntravel to Dublin on your foot?\"\n\nBut she implored him so much that he consented to set out with her,\nand walk all the way from Fannet to Dublin. It was not as easy as the\nfairy journey; but at last they rang the bell at the door of the house\nin Stephen's Green.\n\n\"Tell my father that his daughter is here,\" said she to the servant\nwho opened the door.\n\n\"The gentleman that lives here has no daughter, my girl. He had one,\nbut she died better nor a year ago.\"\n\n\"Do you not know me, Sullivan?\"\n\n\"No, poor girl, I do not.\"\n\n\"Let me see the gentleman. I only ask to see him.\"\n\n\"Well, that's not much to ax; we'll see what can be done.\"\n\nIn a few moments the lady's father came to the door.\n\n\"Dear father,\" said she, \"don't you know me?\"\n\n\"How dare you call me your father?\" cried the old gentleman, angrily.\n\"You are an impostor. I have no daughter.\"\n\n\"Look in my face, father, and surely you'll remember me.\"\n\n\"My daughter is dead and buried. She died a long, long time ago.\" The\nold gentleman's voice changed from anger to sorrow. \"You can go,\" he\nconcluded.\n\n\"Stop, dear father, till you look at this ring on my finger. Look at\nyour name and mine engraved on it.\"\n\n\"It certainly is my daughter's ring; but I do not know how you came by\nit. I fear in no honest way.\"\n\n\"Call my mother, _she_ will be sure to know me,\" said the poor girl,\nwho, by this time, was crying bitterly.\n\n\"My poor wife is beginning to forget her sorrow. She seldom speaks of\nher daughter now. Why should I renew her grief by reminding her of her\nloss?\"\n\nBut the young lady persevered, till at last the mother was sent for.\n\n\"Mother,\" she began, when the old lady came to the door, \"don't _you_\nknow your daughter?\"\n\n\"I have no daughter; my daughter died and was buried a long, long time\nago.\"\n\n\"Only look in my face, and surely you'll know me.\"\n\nThe old lady shook her head.\n\n\"You have all forgotten me; but look at this mole on my neck. Surely,\nmother, you know me now?\"\n\n\"Yes, yes,\" said the mother, \"my Gracie had a mole on her neck like\nthat; but then I saw her in her coffin, and saw the lid shut down upon\nher.\"\n\nIt became Jamie's turn to speak, and he gave the history of the fairy\njourney, of the theft of the young lady, of the figure he had seen\nlaid in its place, of her life with his mother in Fannet, of last\nHalloween, and of the three drops that had released her from her\nenchantment.\n\nShe took up the story when he paused, and told how kind the mother and\nson had been to her.\n\nThe parents could not make enough of Jamie. They treated him with\nevery distinction, and when he expressed his wish to return to Fannet,\nsaid they did not know what to do to show their gratitude.\n\nBut an awkward complication arose. The daughter would not let him go\nwithout her. \"If Jamie goes, I'll go too,\" she said. \"He saved me from\nthe fairies, and has worked for me ever since. If it had not been for\nhim, dear father and mother, you would never have seen me again. If\nhe goes, I'll go too.\"\n\nThis being her resolution, the old gentleman said that Jamie should\nbecome his son-in-law. The mother was brought from Fannet in a coach\nand four, and there was a splendid wedding.\n\nThey all lived together in the grand Dublin house, and Jamie was heir\nto untold wealth at his father-in-law's death.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STOLEN CHILD.\n\nW. B. YEATS.\n\n\n Where dips the rocky highland\n Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,\n There lies a leafy island\n Where flapping herons wake\n The drowsy water-rats.\n There we've hid our fairy vats\n Full of berries,\n And of reddest stolen cherries.\n Come away, O, human child!\n To the woods and waters wild,\n With a fairy hand in hand,\n For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.\n\n Where the wave of moonlight glosses\n The dim grey sands with light,\n Far off by furthest Rosses\n We foot it all the night,\n Weaving olden dances,\n Mingling hands, and mingling glances,\n Till the moon has taken flight;\n To and fro we leap,\n And chase the frothy bubbles,\n While the world is full of troubles.\n And is anxious in its sleep.\n Come away! O, human child!\n To the woods and waters wild.\n With a fairy hand in hand,\n For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.\n\n Where the wandering water gushes\n From the hills above Glen-Car,\n In pools among the rushes,\n That scarce could bathe a star,\n We seek for slumbering trout,\n And whispering in their ears;\n We give them evil dreams,\n Leaning softly out\n From ferns that drop their tears\n Of dew on the young streams.\n Come! O, human child!\n To the woods and waters wild,\n With a fairy hand in hand,\n For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.\n\n Away with us, he's going,\n The solemn-eyed;\n He'll hear no more the lowing\n Of the calves on the warm hill-side.\n Or the kettle on the hob\n Sing peace into his breast;\n Or see the brown mice bob\n Round and round the oatmeal chest.\n For he comes, the human child,\n To the woods and waters wild,\n With a fairy hand in hand,\n For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TROOPING FAIRIES\n\n\n\n\nTHE MERROW.\n\n\nThe _Merrow_, or if you write it in the Irish, _Moruadh_ or\n_Murr\u00faghach_, from _muir_, sea, and _oigh_, a maid, is not uncommon,\nthey say, on the wilder coasts. The fishermen do not like to see them,\nfor it always means coming gales. The male _Merrows_ (if you can use\nsuch a phrase--I have never heard the masculine of _Merrow_) have\ngreen teeth, green hair, pig's eyes, and red noses; but their women\nare beautiful, for all their fish tails and the little duck-like scale\nbetween their fingers. Sometimes they prefer, small blame to them,\ngood-looking fishermen to their sea lovers. Near Bantry, in the last\ncentury, there is said to have been a woman covered all over with\nscales like a fish, who was descended from such a marriage. Sometimes\nthey come out of the sea, and wander about the shore in the shape of\nlittle hornless cows. They have, when in their own shape, a red cap,\ncalled a _cohullen druith_, usually covered with feathers. If this is\nstolen, they cannot again go down under the waves.\n\nRed is the colour of magic in every country, and has been so from the\nvery earliest times. The caps of fairies and magicians are well-nigh\nalways red.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOUL CAGES.\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nJack Dogherty lived on the coast of the county Clare. Jack was a\nfisherman, as his father and grandfather before him had been. Like\nthem, too, he lived all alone (but for the wife), and just in the\nsame spot. People used to wonder why the Dogherty family were so fond\nof that wild situation, so far away from all human kind, and in the\nmidst of huge shattered rocks, with nothing but the wide ocean to look\nupon. But they had their own good reasons for it.\n\nThe place was just the only spot on that part of the coast where\nanybody could well live. There was a neat little creek, where a boat\nmight lie as snug as a puffin in her nest, and out from this creek a\nledge of sunken rocks ran into the sea. Now when the Atlantic,\naccording to custom, was raging with a storm, and a good westerly wind\nwas blowing strong on the coast, many a richly-laden ship went to\npieces on these rocks; and then the fine bales of cotton and tobacco,\nand such like things, and the pipes of wine, and the puncheons of rum,\nand the casks of brandy, and the kegs of Hollands that used to come\nashore! Dunbeg Bay was just like a little estate to the Doghertys.\n\nNot but they were kind and humane to a distressed sailor, if ever one\nhad the good luck to get to land; and many a time indeed did Jack put\nout in his little _corragh_ (which, though not quite equal to honest\nAndrew Hennessy's canvas life-boat, would breast the billows like any\ngannet), to lend a hand towards bringing off the crew from a wreck.\nBut when the ship had gone to pieces, and the crew were all lost, who\nwould blame Jack for picking up all he could find?\n\n\"And who is the worse of it?\" said he. \"For as to the king, God bless\nhim! everybody knows he's rich enough already without getting what's\nfloating in the sea.\"\n\nJack, though such a hermit, was a good-natured, jolly fellow. No\nother, sure, could ever have coaxed Biddy Mahony to quit her father's\nsnug and warm house in the middle of the town of Ennis, and to go so\nmany miles off to live among the rocks, with the seals and sea-gulls\nfor next-door neighbours. But Biddy knew that Jack was the man for a\nwoman who wished to be comfortable and happy; for, to say nothing of\nthe fish, Jack had the supplying of half the gentlemen's houses of\nthe country with the _Godsends_ that came into the bay. And she was\nright in her choice; for no woman ate, drank, or slept better, or made\na prouder appearance at chapel on Sundays, than Mrs. Dogherty.\n\nMany a strange sight, it may well be supposed, did Jack see, and many a\nstrange sound did he hear, but nothing daunted him. So far was he from\nbeing afraid of Merrows, or such beings, that the very first wish of his\nheart was to fairly meet with one. Jack had heard that they were mighty\nlike Christians, and that luck had always come out of an acquaintance\nwith them. Never, therefore, did he dimly discern the Merrows moving\nalong the face of the waters in their robes of mist, but he made direct\nfor them; and many a scolding did Biddy, in her own quiet way, bestow\nupon Jack for spending his whole day out at sea, and bringing home no\nfish. Little did poor Biddy know the fish Jack was after!\n\nIt was rather annoying to Jack that, though living in a place where\nthe Merrows were as plenty as lobsters, he never could get a right\nview of one. What vexed him more was that both his father and\ngrandfather had often and often seen them; and he even remembered\nhearing, when a child, how his grandfather, who was the first of the\nfamily that had settled down at the creek, had been so intimate with a\nMerrow that, only for fear of vexing the priest, he would have had him\nstand for one of his children. This, however, Jack did not well know\nhow to believe.\n\nFortune at length began to think that it was only right that Jack\nshould know as much as his father and grandfather did. Accordingly,\none day when he had strolled a little farther than usual along the\ncoast to the northward, just as he turned a point, he saw something,\nlike to nothing he had ever seen before, perched upon a rock at a\nlittle distance out to sea. It looked green in the body, as well as he\ncould discern at that distance, and he would have sworn, only the\nthing was impossible, that it had a cocked hat in its hand. Jack stood\nfor a good half-hour straining his eyes, and wondering at it, and all\nthe time the thing did not stir hand or foot. At last Jack's patience\nwas quite worn out, and he gave a loud whistle and a hail, when the\nMerrow (for such it was) started up, put the cocked hat on its head,\nand dived down, head foremost, from the rock.\n\nJack's curiosity was now excited, and he constantly directed his steps\ntowards the point; still he could never get a glimpse of the\nsea-gentleman with the cocked hat; and with thinking and thinking\nabout the matter, he began at last to fancy he had been only dreaming.\nOne very rough day, however, when the sea was running mountains high,\nJack Dogherty determined to give a look at the Merrow's rock (for he\nhad always chosen a fine day before), and then he saw the strange\nthing cutting capers upon the top of the rock, and then diving down,\nand then coming up, and then diving down again.\n\nJack had now only to choose his time (that is, a good blowing day),\nand he might see the man of the sea as often as he pleased. All this,\nhowever, did not satisfy him--\"much will have more;\" he wished now to\nget acquainted with the Merrow, and even in this he succeeded. One\ntremendous blustering day, before he got to the point whence he had a\nview of the Merrow's rock, the storm came on so furiously that Jack\nwas obliged to take shelter in one of the caves which are so numerous\nalong the coast; and there, to his astonishment, he saw sitting before\nhim a thing with green hair, long green teeth, a red nose, and pig's\neyes. It had a fish's tail, legs with scales on them, and short arms\nlike fins. It wore no clothes, but had the cocked hat under its arm,\nand seemed engaged thinking very seriously about something.\n\nJack, with all his courage, was a little daunted; but now or never,\nthought he; so up he went boldly to the cogitating fishman, took off\nhis hat, and made his best bow.\n\n\"Your servant, sir,\" said Jack.\n\n\"Your servant, kindly, Jack Dogherty,\" answered the Merrow.\n\n\"To be sure, then, how well your honour knows my name!\" said Jack.\n\n\"Is it I not know your name, Jack Dogherty? Why, man, I knew your\ngrandfather long before he was married to Judy Regan, your\ngrandmother! Ah, Jack, Jack, I was fond of that grandfather of yours;\nhe was a mighty worthy man in his time: I never met his match above or\nbelow, before or since, for sucking in a shellful of brandy. I hope,\nmy boy,\" said the old fellow, with a merry twinkle in his eyes, \"I\nhope you're his own grandson!\"\n\n\"Never fear me for that,\" said Jack; \"if my mother had only reared me\non brandy, 'tis myself that would be a sucking infant to this hour!\"\n\n\"Well, I like to hear you talk so manly; you and I must be better\nacquainted, if it were only for your grandfather's sake. But, Jack,\nthat father of yours was not the thing! he had no head at all.\"\n\n\"I'm sure,\" said Jack, \"since your honour lives down under the water,\nyou must be obliged to drink a power to keep any heat in you in such a\ncruel, damp, _could_ place. Well, I've often heard of Christians\ndrinking like fishes; and might I be so bold as ask where you get the\nspirits?\"\n\n\"Where do you get them yourself, Jack?\" said the Merrow, twitching his\nred nose between his forefinger and thumb.\n\n\"Hubbubboo,\" cries Jack, \"now I see how it is; but I suppose, sir,\nyour honour has got a fine dry cellar below to keep them in.\"\n\n\"Let me alone for the cellar,\" said the Merrow, with a knowing wink of\nhis left eye.\n\n\"I'm sure,\" continued Jack, \"it must be mighty well worth the looking\nat.\"\n\n\"You may say that, Jack,\" said the Merrow; \"and if you meet me here\nnext Monday, just at this time of the day, we will have a little more\ntalk with one another about the matter.\"\n\nJack and the Merrow parted the best friends in the world. On Monday\nthey met, and Jack was not a little surprised to see that the Merrow\nhad two cocked hats with him, one under each arm.\n\n\"Might I take the liberty to ask, sir,\" said Jack, \"why your honour has\nbrought the two hats with you to day? You would not, sure, be going to\ngive me one of them, to keep for the _curiosity_ of the thing?\"\n\n\"No, no, Jack,\" said he, \"I don't get my hats so easily, to part with\nthem that way; but I want you to come down and dine with me, and I\nbrought you the hat to dine with.\"\n\n\"Lord bless and preserve us!\" cried Jack, in amazement, \"would you\nwant me to go down to the bottom of the salt sea ocean? Sure, I'd be\nsmothered and choked up with the water, to say nothing of being\ndrowned! And what would poor Biddy do for me, and what would she say?\"\n\n\"And what matter what she says, you _pinkeen_? Who cares for Biddy's\nsqualling? It's long before your grandfather would have talked in that\nway. Many's the time he stuck that same hat on his head, and dived\ndown boldly after me; and many's the snug bit of dinner and good\nshellful of brandy he and I have had together below, under the water.\"\n\n\"Is it really, sir, and no joke?\" said Jack; \"why, then, sorrow from\nme for ever and a day after, if I'll be a bit worse man nor my\ngrandfather was! Here goes--but play me fair now. Here's neck or\nnothing!\" cried Jack.\n\n\"That's your grandfather all over,\" said the old fellow; \"so come\nalong, then, and do as I do.\"\n\nThey both left the cave, walked into the sea, and then swam a piece\nuntil they got to the rock. The Merrow climbed to the top of it, and\nJack followed him. On the far side it was as straight as the wall of a\nhouse, and the sea beneath looked so deep that Jack was almost cowed.\n\n\"Now, do you see, Jack,\" said the Merrow: \"just put this hat on your\nhead, and mind to keep your eyes wide open. Take hold of my tail, and\nfollow after me, and you'll see what you'll see.\"\n\nIn he dashed, and in dashed Jack after him boldly. They went and they\nwent, and Jack thought they'd never stop going. Many a time did he\nwish himself sitting at home by the fireside with Biddy. Yet where was\nthe use of wishing now, when he was so many miles, as he thought,\nbelow the waves of the Atlantic? Still he held hard by the Merrow's\ntail, slippery as it was; and, at last, to Jack's great surprise, they\ngot out of the water, and he actually found himself on dry land at the\nbottom of the sea. They landed just in front of a nice house that was\nslated very neatly with oyster shells! and the Merrow, turning about\nto Jack, welcomed him down.\n\nJack could hardly speak, what with wonder, and what with being out of\nbreath with travelling so fast through the water. He looked about him\nand could see no living things, barring crabs and lobsters, of which\nthere were plenty walking leisurely about on the sand. Overhead was\nthe sea like a sky, and the fishes like birds swimming about in it.\n\n\"Why don't you speak, man?\" said the Merrow: \"I dare say you had no\nnotion that I had such a snug little concern here as this? Are you\nsmothered, or choked, or drowned, or are you fretting after Biddy, eh?\"\n\n\"Oh! not myself, indeed,\" said Jack, showing his teeth with a\ngood-humoured grin; \"but who in the world would ever have thought of\nseeing such a thing?\"\n\n\"Well, come along, and let's see what they've got for us to eat?\"\n\nJack really was hungry, and it gave him no small pleasure to perceive\na fine column of smoke rising from the chimney, announcing what was\ngoing on within. Into the house he followed the Merrow, and there he\nsaw a good kitchen, right well provided with everything. There was a\nnoble dresser, and plenty of pots and pans, with two young Merrows\ncooking. His host then led him into the room, which was furnished\nshabbily enough. Not a table or a chair was there in it; nothing but\nplanks and logs of wood to sit on, and eat off. There was, however, a\ngood fire blazing upon the hearth--a comfortable sight to Jack.\n\n\"Come now, and I'll show you where I keep--you know what,\" said the\nMerrow, with a sly look; and opening a little door, he led Jack into a\nfine cellar, well filled with pipes, and kegs, and hogsheads, and\nbarrels.\n\n\"What do you say to that, Jack Dogherty? Eh! may be a body can't live\nsnug under the water?\"\n\n\"Never the doubt of that,\" said Jack, with a convincing smack of his\nunder lip, that he really thought what he said.\n\nThey went back to the room, and found dinner laid. There was no\ntablecloth, to be sure--but what matter? It was not always Jack had\none at home. The dinner would have been no discredit to the first\nhouse of the country on a fast day. The choicest of fish, and no\nwonder, was there. Turbots, and sturgeons, and soles, and lobsters,\nand oysters, and twenty other kinds, were on the planks at once, and\nplenty of the best of foreign spirits. The wines, the old fellow said,\nwere too cold for his stomach.\n\nJack ate and drank till he could eat no more: then, taking up a shell\nof brandy, \"Here's to your honour's good health, sir,\" said he;\n\"though, begging you pardon, it's mighty odd that as long as we've\nbeen acquainted I don't know your name yet.\"\n\n\"That's true, Jack,\" replied he; \"I never thought of it before, but\nbetter late than never. My name's Coomara.\"\n\n\"And a mighty decent name it is,\" cried Jack, taking another\nshellfull: \"here's to your good health, Coomara, and may ye live these\nfifty years to come!\"\n\n\"Fifty years!\" repeated Coomara; \"I'm obliged to you, indeed! If you\nhad said five hundred, it would have been something worth the wishing.\"\n\n\"By the laws, sir,\" cries Jack, \"_youz_ live to a powerful age here\nunder the water! You knew my grandfather, and he's dead and gone better\nthan these sixty years. I'm sure it must be a healthy place to live in.\"\n\n\"No doubt of it; but come, Jack, keep the liquor stirring.\"\n\nShell after shell did they empty, and to Jack's exceeding surprise,\nhe found the drink never got into his head, owing, I suppose, to the\nsea being over them, which kept their noddles cool.\n\nOld Coomara got exceedingly comfortable, and sung several songs; but\nJack, if his life had depended on it, never could remember more than\n\n \"_Rum fum boodle boo,\n Ripple dipple nitty dob;\n Dumdoo doodle coo,\n Raffle taffle chittiboo!_\"\n\nIt was the chorus to one of them; and, to say the truth, nobody that I\nknow has ever been able to pick any particular meaning out of it; but\nthat, to be sure, is the case with many a song nowadays.\n\nAt length said he to Jack, \"Now, my dear boy, if you follow me, I'll\nshow you my _curiosities_!\" He opened a little door, and led Jack into\na large room, where Jack saw a great many odds and ends that Coomara\nhad picked up at one time or another. What chiefly took his attention,\nhowever, were things like lobster-pots ranged on the ground along the\nwall.\n\n\"Well, Jack, how do you like my _curiosities_?\" said old Coo.\n\n\"Upon my _sowkins_,[8] sir,\" said Jack, \"they're mighty well worth the\nlooking at; but might I make so bold as to ask what these things like\nlobster-pots are?\"\n\n\"Oh! the Soul Cages, is it?\"\n\n\"The what? sir!\"\n\n\"These things here that I keep the souls in.\"\n\n\"_Arrah!_ what souls, sir?\" said Jack, in amazement; \"sure the fish\nhave no souls in them?\"\n\n\"Oh! no,\" replied Coo, quite coolly, \"that they have not; but these\nare the souls of drowned sailors.\"\n\n\"The Lord preserve us from all harm!\" muttered Jack, \"how in the world\ndid you get them?\"\n\n\"Easily enough: I've only, when I see a good storm coming on, to set\na couple of dozen of these, and then, when the sailors are drowned and\nthe souls get out of them under the water, the poor things are almost\nperished to death, not being used to the cold; so they make into my\npots for shelter, and then I have them snug, and fetch them home, and\nkeep them here dry and warm; and is it not well for them, poor souls,\nto get into such good quarters?\"\n\nJack was so thunderstruck he did not know what to say, so he said\nnothing. They went back into the dining-room, and had a little more\nbrandy, which was excellent, and then, as Jack knew that it must be\ngetting late, and as Biddy might be uneasy, he stood up, and said he\nthought it was time for him to be on the road.\n\n\"Just as you like, Jack,\" said Coo, \"but take a _duc an durrus_[9]\nbefore you go; you've a cold journey before you.\"\n\nJack knew better manners than to refuse the parting glass. \"I wonder,\"\nsaid he, \"will I be able to make out my way home?\"\n\n\"What should ail you,\" said Coo, \"when I'll show you the way?\"\n\nOut they went before the house, and Coomara took one of the cocked\nhats, and put it upon Jack's head the wrong way, and then lifted him\nup on his shoulder that he might launch him up into the water.\n\n\"Now,\" says he, giving him a heave, \"you'll come up just in the same\nspot you came down in; and, Jack, mind and throw me back the hat.\"\n\nHe canted Jack off his shoulder, and up he shot like a bubble--whirr,\nwhirr, whiz--away he went up through the water, till he came to the\nvery rock he had jumped off, where he found a landing-place, and then\nin he threw the hat, which sunk like a stone.\n\nThe sun was just going down in the beautiful sky of a calm summer's\nevening. _Feascor_ was seen dimly twinkling in the cloudless heaven, a\nsolitary star, and the waves of the Atlantic flashed in a golden flood\nof light. So Jack, perceiving it was late, set off home; but when he\ngot there, not a word did he say to Biddy of where he had spent his day.\n\nThe state of the poor souls cooped up in the lobster-pots gave Jack a\ngreat deal of trouble, and how to release them cost him a great deal of\nthought. He at first had a mind to speak to the priest about the matter.\nBut what could the priest do, and what did Coo care for the priest?\nBesides, Coo was a good sort of an old fellow, and did not think he was\ndoing any harm. Jack had a regard for him, too, and it also might not be\nmuch to his own credit if it were known that he used to go dine with\nMerrows. On the whole, he thought his best plan would be to ask Coo to\ndinner, and to make him drunk, if he was able, and then to take the hat\nand go down and turn up the pots. It was, first of all, necessary,\nhowever, to get Biddy out of the way; for Jack was prudent enough, as\nshe was a woman, to wish to keep the thing secret from her.\n\nAccordingly, Jack grew mighty pious all of a sudden, and said to Biddy\nthat he thought it would be for the good of both their souls if she\nwas to go and take her rounds at Saint John's Well, near Ennis. Biddy\nthought so too, and accordingly off she set one fine morning at\nday-dawn, giving Jack a strict charge to have an eye to the place. The\ncoast being clear, away went Jack to the rock to give the appointed\nsignal to Coomara, which was throwing a big stone into the water. Jack\nthrew, and up sprang Coo!\n\n\"Good morning, Jack,\" said he; \"what do you want with me?\"\n\n\"Just nothing at all to speak about, sir,\" returned Jack, \"only to\ncome and take a bit of dinner with me, if I might make so free as to\nask you, and sure I'm now after doing so.\"\n\n\"It's quite agreeable, Jack, I assure you; what's your hour?\"\n\n\"Any time that's most convenient to you, sir--say one o'clock, that\nyou may go home, if you wish, with the daylight.\"\n\n\"I'll be with you,\" said Coo, \"never fear me.\"\n\nJack went home, and dressed a noble fish dinner, and got out plenty of\nhis best foreign spirits, enough, for that matter, to make twenty men\ndrunk. Just to the minute came Coo, with his cocked hat under his arm.\nDinner was ready, they sat down, and ate and drank away manfully.\nJack, thinking of the poor souls below in the pots, plied old Coo well\nwith brandy, and encouraged him to sing, hoping to put him under the\ntable, but poor Jack forgot that he had not the sea over his own head\nto keep it cool. The brandy got into it, and did his business for him,\nand Coo reeled off home, leaving his entertainer as dumb as a haddock\non a Good Friday.\n\nJack never woke till the next morning, and then he was in a sad way.\n\"'Tis to no use for me thinking to make that old Rapparee drunk,\" said\nJack, \"and how in this world can I help the poor souls out of the\nlobster-pots?\" After ruminating nearly the whole day, a thought struck\nhim. \"I have it,\" says he, slapping his knee; \"I'll be sworn that Coo\nnever saw a drop of _poteen_, as old as he is, and that's the _thing_\nto settle him! Oh! then, is not it well that Biddy will not be home\nthese two days yet; I can have another twist at him.\"\n\nJack asked Coo again, and Coo laughed at him for having no better\nhead, telling him he'd never come up to his grandfather.\n\n\"Well, but try me again,\" said Jack, \"and I'll be bail to drink you\ndrunk and sober, and drunk again.\"\n\n\"Anything in my power,\" said Coo, \"to oblige you.\"\n\nAt this dinner Jack took care to have his own liquor well watered, and\nto give the strongest brandy he had to Coo. At last says he, \"Pray,\nsir, did you ever drink any poteen?--any real mountain dew?\"\n\n\"No,\" says Coo; \"what's that, and where does it come from?\"\n\n\"Oh, that's a secret,\" said Jack, \"but it's the right stuff--never\nbelieve me again, if 'tis not fifty times as good as brandy or rum\neither. Biddy's brother just sent me a present of a little drop, in\nexchange for some brandy, and as you're an old friend of the family, I\nkept it to treat you with.\"\n\n\"Well, let's see what sort of thing it is,\" said Coomara.\n\nThe _poteen_ was the right sort. It was first-rate, and had the real\nsmack upon it. Coo was delighted: he drank and he sung _Rum bum boodle\nboo_ over and over again; and he laughed and he danced, till he fell\non the floor fast asleep. Then Jack, who had taken good care to keep\nhimself sober, snapt up the cocked hat--ran off to the rock--leaped\nin, and soon arrived at Coo's habitation.\n\nAll was as still as a churchyard at midnight--not a Merrow, old or\nyoung, was there. In he went and turned up the pots, but nothing did\nhe see, only he heard a sort of a little whistle or chirp as he raised\neach of them. At this he was surprised, till he recollected what the\npriests had often said, that nobody living could see the soul, no more\nthan they could see the wind or the air. Having now done all that he\ncould do for them, he set the pots as they were before, and sent a\nblessing after the poor souls to speed them on their journey wherever\nthey were going. Jack now began to think of returning; he put the hat\non, as was right, the wrong way; but when he got out he found the\nwater so high over his head that he had no hopes of ever getting up\ninto it, now that he had not old Coomara to give him a lift. He walked\nabout looking for a ladder, but not one could he find, and not a rock\nwas there in sight. At last he saw a spot where the sea hung rather\nlower than anywhere else, so he resolved to try there. Just as he came\nto it, a big cod happened to put down his tail. Jack made a jump and\ncaught hold of it, and the cod, all in amazement, gave a bounce and\npulled Jack up The minute the hat touched the water away Jack was\nwhisked, and up he shot like a cork, dragging the poor cod, that he\nforgot to let go, up with him tail foremost. He got to the rock in no\ntime, and without a moment's delay hurried home, rejoicing in the good\ndeed he had done.\n\nBut, meanwhile, there was fine work at home; for our friend Jack had\nhardly left the house on his soul-freeing expedition, when back came\nBiddy from her soul-saving one to the well. When she entered the house\nand saw the things lying _thrie-na-helah_[10] on the table before\nher--\"Here's a pretty job!\" said she; \"that blackguard of mine--what\nill-luck I had ever to marry him! He has picked up some vagabond or\nother, while I was praying for the good of his soul, and they've been\ndrinking all the _poteen_ that my own brother gave him, and all the\nspirits, to be sure, that he was to have sold to his honour.\" Then\nhearing an outlandish kind of a grunt, she looked down, and saw\nCoomara lying under the table. \"The blessed Virgin help me,\" shouted\nshe, \"if he has not made a real beast of himself! Well, well, I've\noften heard of a man making a beast of himself with drink! Oh hone, oh\nhone!--Jack, honey, what will I do with you, or what will I do without\nyou? How can any decent woman ever think of living with a beast?\"\n\nWith such like lamentations Biddy rushed out of the house, and was\ngoing she knew not where, when she heard the well-known voice of Jack\nsinging a merry tune. Glad enough was Biddy to find him safe and\nsound, and not turned into a thing that was like neither fish nor\nflesh. Jack was obliged to tell her all, and Biddy, though she had\nhalf a mind to be angry with him for not telling her before, owned\nthat he had done a great service to the poor souls. Back they both\nwent most lovingly to the house, and Jack wakened up Coomara; and,\nperceiving the old fellow to be rather dull, he bid him not to be cast\ndown, for 'twas many a good man's case; said it all came of his not\nbeing used to the _poteen_, and recommended him, by way of cure, to\nswallow a hair of the dog that bit him. Coo, however, seemed to think\nhe had had quite enough. He got up, quite out of sorts, and without\nhaving the manners to say one word in the way of civility, he sneaked\noff to cool himself by a jaunt through the salt water.\n\nCoomara never missed the souls. He and Jack continued the best\nfriends in the world, and no one, perhaps, ever equalled Jack for\nfreeing souls from purgatory; for he contrived fifty excuses for\ngetting into the house below the sea, unknown to the old fellow, and\nthen turning up the pots and letting out the souls. It vexed him, to\nbe sure, that he could never see them; but as he knew the thing to be\nimpossible, he was obliged to be satisfied.\n\nTheir intercourse continued for several years. However, one morning, on\nJack's throwing in a stone as usual, he got no answer. He flung another,\nand another, still there was no reply. He went away, and returned the\nfollowing morning, but it was to no purpose. As he was without the hat,\nhe could not go down to see what had become of old Coo, but his belief\nwas, that the old man, or the old fish, or whatever he was, had either\ndied, or had removed from that part of the country.\n\n[Footnote 8: _Sowkins_, diminutive of soul.]\n\n[Footnote 9: _Recte, deoch \u00e1n dorrus_--door-drink or stirrup-cup.]\n\n[Footnote 10: _Tri-na-cheile, literally through other_--_i.e._,\nhiggledy-piggledy.]\n\n\n\n\nFLORY CANTILLON'S FUNERAL.\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nThe ancient burial-place of the Cantillon family was on an island in\nBallyheigh Bay. This island was situated at no great distance from the\nshore, and at a remote period was overflowed in one of the encroachments\nwhich the Atlantic has made on that part of the coast of Kerry. The\nfishermen declare they have often seen the ruined walls of an old chapel\nbeneath them in the water, as they sailed over the clear green sea of a\nsunny afternoon. However this may be, it is well-known that the\nCantillons were, like most other Irish families, strongly attached to\ntheir ancient burial-place; and this attachment led to the custom, when\nany of the family died, of carrying the corpse to the seaside, where the\ncoffin was left on the shore within reach of the tide. In the morning it\nhad disappeared, being, as was traditionally believed, conveyed away by\nthe ancestors of the deceased to their family tomb.\n\nConnor Crowe, a county Clare man, was related to the Cantillons by\nmarriage. \"Connor Mac in Cruagh, of the seven quarters of Breintragh,\"\nas he was commonly called, and a proud man he was of the name. Connor,\nbe it known, would drink a quart of salt water, for its medicinal\nvirtues, before breakfast; and for the same reason, I suppose, double\nthat quantity of raw whiskey between breakfast and night, which last\nhe did with as little inconvenience to himself as any man in the\nbarony of Moyferta; and were I to add Clanderalaw and Ibrickan, I\ndon't think I should say wrong.\n\nOn the death of Florence Cantillon, Connor Crowe was determined to\nsatisfy himself about the truth of this story of the old church under\nthe sea: so when he heard the news of the old fellow's death, away\nwith him to Ardfert, where Flory was laid out in high style, and a\nbeautiful corpse he made.\n\nFlory had been as jolly and as rollicking a boy in his day as ever was\nstretched, and his wake was in every respect worthy of him. There was\nall kind of entertainment, and all sort of diversion at it, and no\nless than three girls got husbands there--more luck to them.\nEverything was as it should be; all that side of the country, from\nDingle to Tarbert, was at the funeral. The Keen was sung long and\nbitterly; and, according to the family custom, the coffin was carried\nto Ballyheigh strand, where it was laid upon the shore, with a prayer\nfor the repose of the dead.\n\nThe mourners departed, one group after another, and at last Connor\nCrowe was left alone. He then pulled out his whiskey bottle, his drop\nof comfort, as he called it, which he required, being in grief; and\ndown he sat upon a big stone that was sheltered by a projecting rock,\nand partly concealed from view, to await with patience the appearance\nof the ghostly undertakers.\n\nThe evening came on mild and beautiful. He whistled an old air which\nhe had heard in his childhood, hoping to keep idle fears out of his\nhead; but the wild strain of that melody brought a thousand\nrecollections with it, which only made the twilight appear more pensive.\n\n\"If 'twas near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own sweet country, I\nwas,\" said Connor Crowe, with a sigh, \"one might well believe that the\nprisoners, who were murdered long ago there in the vaults under the\ncastle, would be the hands to carry off the coffin out of envy, for\nnever a one of them was buried decently, nor had as much as a coffin\namongst them all. 'Tis often, sure enough, I have heard lamentations\nand great mourning coming from the vaults of Dunmore Castle; but,\"\ncontinued he, after fondly pressing his lips to the mouth of his\ncompanion and silent comforter, the whiskey bottle, \"didn't I know all\nthe time well enough, 'twas the dismal sounding waves working through\nthe cliffs and hollows of the rocks, and fretting themselves to foam.\nOh, then, Dunmore Castle, it is you that are the gloomy-looking tower\non a gloomy day, with the gloomy hills behind you; when one has gloomy\nthoughts on their heart, and sees you like a ghost rising out of the\nsmoke made by the kelp burners on the strand, there is, the Lord save\nus! as fearful a look about you as about the Blue Man's Lake at\nmidnight. Well, then, anyhow,\" said Connor, after a pause, \"is it not\na blessed night, though surely the moon looks mighty pale in the face?\nSt. Senan himself between us and all kinds of harm.\"\n\nIt was, in truth, a lovely moonlight night; nothing was to be seen\naround but the dark rocks, and the white pebbly beach, upon which the\nsea broke with a hoarse and melancholy murmur. Connor, notwithstanding\nhis frequent draughts, felt rather queerish, and almost began to\nrepent his curiosity. It was certainly a solemn sight to behold the\nblack coffin resting upon the white strand. His imagination gradually\nconverted the deep moaning of old ocean into a mournful wail for the\ndead, and from the shadowy recesses of the rocks he imaged forth\nstrange and visionary forms.\n\nAs the night advanced, Connor became weary with watching. He caught\nhimself more than once in the act of nodding, when suddenly giving\nhis head a shake, he would look towards the black coffin. But the\nnarrow house of death remained unmoved before him.\n\nIt was long past midnight, and the moon was sinking into the sea, when\nhe heard the sound of many voices, which gradually became stronger,\nabove the heavy and monotonous roll of the sea. He listened, and\npresently could distinguish a Keen of exquisite sweetness, the notes\nof which rose and fell with the heaving of the waves, whose deep\nmurmur mingled with and supported the strain!\n\nThe Keen grew louder and louder, and seemed to approach the beach, and\nthen fell into a low, plaintive wail. As it ended Connor beheld a\nnumber of strange and, in the dim light, mysterious-looking figures\nemerge from the sea, and surround the coffin, which they prepared to\nlaunch into the water.\n\n\"This comes of marrying with the creatures of earth,\" said one of the\nfigures, in a clear, yet hollow tone.\n\n\"True,\" replied another, with a voice still more fearful, \"our king\nwould never have commanded his gnawing white-toothed waves to devour\nthe rocky roots of the island cemetery, had not his daughter,\nDurfulla, been buried there by her mortal husband!\"\n\n\"But the time will come,\" said a third, bending over the coffin,\n\n \"When mortal eye--our work shall spy,\n And mortal ear--our dirge shall hear.\"\n\n\"Then,\" said a fourth, \"our burial of the Cantillons is at an end for\never!\"\n\nAs this was spoken the coffin was borne from the beach by a retiring\nwave, and the company of sea people prepared to follow it; but at the\nmoment one chanced to discover Connor Crowe, as fixed with wonder and\nas motionless with fear as the stone on which he sat.\n\n\"The time is come,\" cried the unearthly being, \"the time is come; a\nhuman eye looks on the forms of ocean, a human ear has heard their\nvoices. Farewell to the Cantillons; the sons of the sea are no longer\ndoomed to bury the dust of the earth!\"\n\nOne after the other turned slowly round, and regarded Connor Crowe,\nwho still remained as if bound by a spell. Again arose their funeral\nsong; and on the next wave they followed the coffin. The sound of the\nlamentation died away, and at length nothing was heard but the rush of\nwaters. The coffin and the train of sea people sank over the old\nchurchyard, and never since the funeral of old Flory Cantillon have\nany of the family been carried to the strand of Ballyheigh, for\nconveyance to their rightful burial-place, beneath the waves of the\nAtlantic.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOLITARY FAIRIES.\n\nLEPRACAUN. CLURICAUN. FAR DARRIG.\n\n\n\"The name _Lepracaun_,\" Mr. Douglas Hyde writes to me, \"is from the\nIrish _leith brog_--_i.e._, the One-shoemaker, since he is generally\nseen working at a single shoe. It is spelt in Irish _leith bhrogan_,\nor _leith phrogan_, and is in some places pronounced Luchryman, as\nO'Kearney writes it in that very rare book, the _Feis Tigh Chonain_.\"\n\nThe _Lepracaun_, _Cluricaun_, and _Far Darrig_. Are these one spirit\nin different moods and shapes? Hardly two Irish writers are agreed. In\nmany things these three fairies, if three, resemble each other. They\nare withered, old, and solitary, in every way unlike the sociable\nspirits of the first sections. They dress with all unfairy homeliness,\nand are, indeed, most sluttish, slouching, jeering, mischievous\nphantoms. They are the great practical jokers among the good people.\n\nThe _Lepracaun_ makes shoes continually, and has grown very rich. Many\ntreasure-crocks, buried of old in war-time, has he now for his own. In\nthe early part of this century, according to Croker, in a newspaper\noffice in Tipperary, they used to show a little shoe forgotten by a\nLepracaun.\n\nThe _Cluricaun_, (_Clobhair-ceann_, in O'Kearney) makes himself drunk\nin gentlemen's cellars. Some suppose he is merely the Lepracaun on a\nspree. He is almost unknown in Connaught and the north.\n\nThe _Far Darrig (fear dearg)_, which means the Red Man, for he wears a\nred cap and coat, busies himself with practical joking, especially\nwith gruesome joking. This he does, and nothing else.\n\nThe _Fear-Gorta_ (Man of Hunger) is an emaciated phantom that goes\nthrough the land in famine time, begging an alms and bringing good\nluck to the giver.\n\nThere are other solitary fairies, such as the House-spirit and the\n_Water-sheerie_, own brother to the English Jack-o'-Lantern; the _Pooka_\nand the _Banshee_--concerning these presently; the _Dallahan_, or\nheadless phantom--one used to stand in a Sligo street on dark nights\ntill lately; the Black Dog, a form, perhaps, of the _Pooka_. The ships\nat the Sligo quays are haunted sometimes by this spirit, who announces\nhis presence by a sound like the flinging of all \"the tin porringers in\nthe world\" down into the hold. He even follows them to sea.\n\n_The Leanhaun Shee_ (fairy mistress), seeks the love of mortals. If\nthey refuse, she must be their slave; if they consent, they are hers,\nand can only escape by finding another to take their place. The fairy\nlives on their life, and they waste away. Death is no escape from her.\nShe is the Gaelic muse, for she gives inspiration to those she\npersecutes. The Gaelic poets die young, for she is restless, and will\nnot let them remain long on earth--this malignant phantom.\n\nBesides these are divers monsters--the _Augh-iska_, the Waterhorse,\nthe Payshtha (_p\u00edast = bestia_), the Lake-dragon, and such like; but\nwhether these be animals, fairies, or spirits, I know not.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEPRACAUN; OR, FAIRY SHOEMAKER.\n\nWILLIAM ALLINGHAM.\n\n\nI.\n\n Little Cowboy, what have you heard,\n Up on the lonely rath's green mound?\n Only the plaintive yellow bird[11]\n Sighing in sultry fields around,\n Chary, chary, chary, chee-ee!--\n Only the grasshopper and the bee?--\n \"Tip tap, rip-rap,\n Tick-a-tack-too!\n Scarlet leather, sewn together,\n This will make a shoe.\n Left, right, pull it tight;\n Summer days are warm;\n Underground in winter,\n Laughing at the storm!\"\n Lay your ear close to the hill.\n Do you not catch the tiny clamour,\n Busy click of an elfin hammer,\n Voice of the Lepracaun singing shrill\n As he merrily plies his trade?\n He's a span\n And a quarter in height.\n Get him in sight, hold him tight,\n And you're a made\n Man!\n\n\nII.\n\n You watch your cattle the summer day,\n Sup on potatoes, sleep in the hay;\n How would you like to roll in your carriage,\n Look for a duchess's daughter in marriage?\n Seize the Shoemaker--then you may!\n \"Big boots a-hunting,\n Sandals in the hall,\n White for a wedding-feast,\n Pink for a ball.\n This way, that way,\n So we make a shoe;\n Getting rich every stitch,\n Tick-tack-too!\"\n Nine-and-ninety treasure-crocks\n This keen miser-fairy hath,\n Hid in mountains, woods, and rocks,\n Ruin and round-tow'r, cave and rath,\n And where the cormorants build;\n From times of old\n Guarded by him;\n Each of them fill'd\n Full to the brim\n With gold!\n\n\nIII.\n\n I caught him at work one day, myself,\n In the castle-ditch, where foxglove grows,--\n A wrinkled, wizen'd, and bearded Elf,\n Spectacles stuck on his pointed nose,\n Silver buckles to his hose,\n Leather apron--shoe in his lap--\n \"Rip-rap, tip-tap,\n Tick-tack-too!\n (A grasshopper on my cap!\n Away the moth flew!)\n Buskins for a fairy prince,\n Brogues for his son,--\n Pay me well, pay me well,\n When the job is done!\"\n The rogue was mine, beyond a doubt.\n I stared at him; he stared at me;\n \"Servant, Sir!\" \"Humph!\" says he,\n And pull'd a snuff-box out.\n He took a long pinch, look'd better pleased,\n The queer little Lepracaun;\n Offer'd the box with a whimsical grace,--\n Pouf! he flung the dust in my face,\n And, while I sneezed,\n Was gone!\n\n[Footnote 11: \"Yellow bird,\" the yellow-bunting, or _yorlin_.]\n\n\n\n\nMASTER AND MAN.\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nBilly Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his\nbrogue at a patron,[12] emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh;\nfearing for nothing but the want of drink; caring for nothing but who\nshould pay for it; and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over\nit; drunk or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy Mac\nDaniel; and a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or of\nending a dispute. More is the pity that, through the means of his\nthinking, and fearing, and caring for nothing, this same Billy Mac\nDaniel fell into bad company; for surely the good people are the worst\nof all company any one could come across.\n\nIt so happened that Billy was going home one clear frosty night not\nlong after Christmas; the moon was round and bright; but although it\nwas as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt pinched with\ncold. \"By my word,\" chattered Billy, \"a drop of good liquor would be\nno bad thing to keep a man's soul from freezing in him; and I wish I\nhad a full measure of the best.\"\n\n\"Never wish it twice, Billy,\" said a little man in a three-cornered\nhat, bound all about with gold lace, and with great silver buckles in\nhis shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them, and he\nheld out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever\neye looked on or lip tasted.\n\n\"Success, my little fellow,\" said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted,\nthough well he knew the little man to belong to the _good people_;\n\"here's your health, anyway, and thank you kindly; no matter who pays\nfor the drink;\" and he took the glass and drained it to the very\nbottom without ever taking a second breath to it.\n\n\"Success,\" said the little man; \"and you're heartily welcome, Billy;\nbut don't think to cheat me as you have done others,--out with your\npurse and pay me like a gentleman.\"\n\n\"Is it I pay you?\" said Billy; \"could I not just take you up and put\nyou in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?\"\n\n\"Billy Mac Daniel,\" said the little man, getting very angry, \"you\nshall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way I\nwill be paid; so make ready to follow me.\"\n\nWhen Billy heard this he began to be very sorry for having used such\nbold words towards the little man; and he felt himself, yet could not\ntell how, obliged to follow the little man the live-long night about\nthe country, up and down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog\nand brake, without any rest.\n\nWhen morning began to dawn the little man turned round to him and\nsaid, \"You may now go home, Billy, but on your peril don't fail to\nmeet me in the Fort-field to-night; or if you do it may be the worse\nfor you in the long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find\nme an indulgent master.\"\n\nHome went Billy Mac Daniel; and though he was tired and weary enough,\nnever a wink of sleep could he get for thinking of the little man; but\nhe was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening, and\naway he went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the\nlittle man came towards him and said, \"Billy, I want to go a long\njourney to-night; so saddle one of my horses, and you may saddle\nanother for yourself, as you are to go along with me, and may be tired\nafter your walk last night.\"\n\nBilly thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him\naccordingly: \"But,\" said he, \"if I may be so bold, sir, I would ask\nwhich is the way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but the\nfort here, and the old thorn tree in the corner of the field, and the\nstream running at the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over\nagainst us.\"\n\n\"Ask no questions, Billy,\" said the little man, \"but go over to that\nbit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.\"\n\nBilly did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at; and\nhe picked two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with a little\nbunch of brown blossom stuck at the side of each, and brought them\nback to his master.\n\n\"Get up, Billy,\" said the little man, taking one of the rushes from\nhim and striding across it.\n\n\"Where shall I get up, please your honour?\" said Billy.\n\n\"Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure,\" said the little man.\n\n\"Is it after making a fool of me you'd be,\" said Billy, \"bidding me get\na horseback upon that bit of a rush? May be you want to persuade me that\nthe rush I pulled but a while ago out of the bog over there is a horse?\"\n\n\"Up! up! and no words,\" said the little man, looking very angry; \"the\nbest horse you ever rode was but a fool to it.\" So Billy, thinking all\nthis was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, straddled across the\nrush. \"Borram! Borram! Borram!\" cried the little man three times\n(which, in English, means to become great), and Billy did the same\nafter him; presently the rushes swelled up into fine horses, and away\nthey went full speed; but Billy, who had put the rush between his\nlegs, without much minding how he did it, found himself sitting on\nhorseback the wrong way, which was rather awkward, with his face to\nthe horse's tail; and so quickly had his steed started off with him\nthat he had no power to turn round, and there was therefore nothing\nfor it but to hold on by the tail.\n\nAt last they came to their journey's end, and stopped at the gate of a\nfine house. \"Now, Billy,\" said the little man, \"do as you see me do,\nand follow me close; but as you did not know your horse's head from\nhis tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until you can't\ntell whether you are standing on it or on your heels: for remember\nthat old liquor, though able to make a cat speak, can make a man dumb.\"\n\nThe little man then said some queer kind of words, out of which Billy\ncould make no meaning; but he contrived to say them after him for all\nthat; and in they both went through the key-hole of the door, and\nthrough one key-hole after another, until they got into the\nwine-cellar, which was well stored with all kinds of wine.\n\nThe little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and Billy, noway\ndisliking the example, did the same. \"The best of masters are you,\nsurely,\" said Billy to him; \"no matter who is the next; and well pleased\nwill I be with your service if you continue to give me plenty to drink.\"\n\n\"I have made no bargain with you,\" said the little man, \"and will make\nnone; but up and follow me.\" Away they went, through key-hole after\nkey-hole; and each mounting upon the rush which he left at the hall\ndoor, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like snow-balls,\nas soon as the words, \"Borram, Borram, Borram,\" had passed their lips.\n\nWhen they came back to the Fort-field the little man dismissed Billy,\nbidding him to be there the next night at the same hour. Thus did they\ngo on, night after night, shaping their course one night here, and\nanother night there; sometimes north, and sometimes east, and\nsometimes south, until there was not a gentleman's wine-cellar in all\nIreland they had not visited, and could tell the flavour of every wine\nin it as well, ay, better than the butler himself.\n\nOne night when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as usual in the\nFort-field, and was going to the bog to fetch the horses for their\njourney, his master said to him, \"Billy, I shall want another horse\nto-night, for may be we may bring back more company than we take.\" So\nBilly, who now knew better than to question any order given to him by\nhis master, brought a third rush, much wondering who it might be that\nwould travel back in their company, and whether he was about to have a\nfellow-servant. \"If I have,\" thought Billy, \"he shall go and fetch the\nhorses from the bog every night; for I don't see why I am not, every\ninch of me, as good a gentleman as my master.\"\n\nWell, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, and never stopped\nuntil they came to a snug farmer's house, in the county Limerick,\nclose under the old castle of Carrigogunniel, that was built, they\nsay, by the great Brian Boru. Within the house there was great\ncarousing going forward, and the little man stopped outside for some\ntime to listen; then turning round all of a sudden, said, \"Billy, I\nwill be a thousand years old to-morrow!\"\n\n\"God bless us, sir,\" said Billy; \"will you?\"\n\n\"Don't say these words again, Billy,\" said the little old man, \"or you\nwill be my ruin for ever. Now Billy, as I will be a thousand years in\nthe world to-morrow, I think it is full time for me to get married.\"\n\n\"I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all,\" said Billy, \"if\never you mean to marry.\"\n\n\"And to that purpose,\" said the little man, \"have I come all the way\nto Carrigogunniel; for in this house, this very night, is young Darby\nRiley going to be married to Bridget Rooney; and as she is a tall and\ncomely girl, and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her\nmyself, and taking her off with me.\"\n\n\"And what will Darby Riley say to that?\" said Billy.\n\n\"Silence!\" said the little man, putting on a mighty severe look; \"I\ndid not bring you here with me to ask questions;\" and without holding\nfurther argument, he began saying the queer words which had the power\nof passing him through the key-hole as free as air, and which Billy\nthought himself mighty clever to be able to say after him.\n\nIn they both went; and for the better viewing the company, the little\nman perched himself up as nimbly as a cocksparrow upon one of the big\nbeams which went across the house over all their heads, and Billy did\nthe same upon another facing him; but not being much accustomed to\nroosting in such a place, his legs hung down as untidy as may be, and\nit was quite clear he had not taken pattern after the way in which the\nlittle man had bundled himself up together. If the little man had been\na tailor all his life he could not have sat more contentedly upon his\nhaunches.\n\nThere they were, both master and man, looking down upon the fun that\nwas going forward; and under them were the priest and piper, and the\nfather of Darby Riley, with Darby's two brothers and his uncle's son;\nand there were both the father and the mother of Bridget Rooney, and\nproud enough the old couple were that night of their daughter, as good\nright they had; and her four sisters, with bran new ribbons in their\ncaps, and her three brothers all looking as clean and as clever as any\nthree boys in Munster, and there were uncles and aunts, and gossips\nand cousins enough besides to make a full house of it; and plenty was\nthere to eat and drink on the table for every one of them, if they had\nbeen double the number.\n\nNow it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had helped his reverence to the\nfirst cut of the pig's head which was placed before her, beautifully\nbolstered up with white savoys, that the bride gave a sneeze, which\nmade every one at table start, but not a soul said \"God bless us.\" All\nthinking that the priest would have done so, as he ought if he had\ndone his duty, no one wished to take the word out of his mouth, which,\nunfortunately, was preoccupied with pig's head and greens. And after a\nmoment's pause the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on\nwithout the pious benediction.\n\nOf this circumstance both Billy and his master were no inattentive\nspectators from their exalted stations. \"Ha!\" exclaimed the little\nman, throwing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, and his\neye twinkled with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated\ninto the curvature of Gothic arches; \"Ha!\" said he, leering down at\nthe bride, and then up at Billy, \"I have half of her now, surely. Let\nher sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of priest,\nmass-book, and Darby Riley.\"\n\nAgain the fair Bridget sneezed; but it was so gently, and she blushed\nso much, that few except the little man took, or seemed to take, any\nnotice; and no one thought of saying \"God bless us.\"\n\nBilly all this time regarded the poor girl with a most rueful\nexpression of countenance; for he could not help thinking what a\nterrible thing it was for a nice young girl of nineteen, with large\nblue eyes, transparent skin, and dimpled cheeks, suffused with health\nand joy, to be obliged to marry an ugly little bit of a man, who was a\nthousand years old, barring a day.\n\nAt this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and Billy\nroared out with all his might, \"God save us!\" Whether this exclamation\nresulted from his soliloquy, or from the mere force of habit, he never\ncould tell exactly himself; but no sooner was it uttered than the\nlittle man, his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung from\nthe beam on which he had perched himself, and shrieking out in the\nshrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, \"I discharge you from my service,\nBilly Mac Daniel--take that for your wages,\" gave poor Billy a most\nfurious kick in the back, which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling\nupon his face and hands right in the middle of the supper-table.\n\nIf Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one of the company\ninto which he was thrown with so little ceremony. But when they heard\nhis story, Father Cooney laid down his knife and fork, and married the\nyoung couple out of hand with all speed; and Billy Mac Daniel danced\nthe Rinka at their wedding, and plenty he did drink at it too, which\nwas what he thought more of than dancing.\n\n[Footnote 12: A festival held in honour of some patron saint.]\n\n\n\n\nFAR DARRIG IN DONEGAL.\n\nMISS LETITIA MACLINTOCK.\n\n\nPat Diver, the tinker, was a man well-accustomed to a wandering life,\nand to strange shelters; he had shared the beggar's blanket in smoky\ncabins; he had crouched beside the still in many a nook and corner\nwhere poteen was made on the wild Innishowen mountains; he had even\nslept on the bare heather, or on the ditch, with no roof over him but\nthe vault of heaven; yet were all his nights of adventure tame and\ncommonplace when compared with one especial night.\n\nDuring the day preceding that night, he had mended all the kettles and\nsaucepans in Moville and Greencastle, and was on his way to Culdaff,\nwhen night overtook him on a lonely mountain road.\n\nHe knocked at one door after another asking for a night's lodging,\nwhile he jingled the halfpence in his pocket, but was everywhere\nrefused.\n\nWhere was the boasted hospitality of Innishowen, which he had never\nbefore known to fail? It was of no use to be able to pay when the\npeople seemed so churlish. Thus thinking, he made his way towards a\nlight a little further on, and knocked at another cabin door.\n\nAn old man and woman were seated one at each side of the fire.\n\n\"Will you be pleased to give me a night's lodging, sir?\" asked Pat\nrespectfully.\n\n\"Can you tell a story?\" returned the old man.\n\n\"No, then, sir, I canna say I'm good at story-telling,\" replied the\npuzzled tinker.\n\n\"Then you maun just gang further, for none but them that can tell a\nstory will get in here.\"\n\nThis reply was made in so decided a tone that Pat did not attempt to\nrepeat his appeal, but turned away reluctantly to resume his weary\njourney.\n\n\"A story, indeed,\" muttered he. \"Auld wives fables to please the weans!\"\n\nAs he took up his bundle of tinkering implements, he observed a barn\nstanding rather behind the dwelling-house, and, aided by the rising\nmoon, he made his way towards it.\n\nIt was a clean, roomy barn, with a piled-up heap of straw in one\ncorner. Here was a shelter not to be despised; so Pat crept under the\nstraw, and was soon asleep.\n\nHe could not have slept very long when he was awakened by the tramp\nof feet, and, peeping cautiously through a crevice in his straw\ncovering, he saw four immensely tall men enter the barn, dragging a\nbody, which they threw roughly upon the floor.\n\nThey next lighted a fire in the middle of the barn, and fastened the\ncorpse by the feet with a great rope to a beam in the roof. One of\nthem then began to turn it slowly before the fire. \"Come on,\" said he,\naddressing a gigantic fellow, the tallest of the four--\"I'm tired; you\nbe to tak' your turn.\"\n\n\"Faix an' troth, I'll no turn him,\" replied the big man. \"There's Pat\nDiver in under the straw, why wouldn't he tak' his turn?\"\n\nWith hideous clamour the four men called the wretched Pat, who, seeing\nthere was no escape, thought it was his wisest plan to come forth as\nhe was bidden.\n\n\"Now, Pat,\" said they, \"you'll turn the corpse, but if you let him\nburn you'll be tied up there and roasted in his place.\"\n\nPat's hair stood on end, and the cold perspiration poured from his\nforehead, but there was nothing for it but to perform his dreadful task.\n\nSeeing him fairly embarked in it, the tall men went away.\n\nSoon, however, the flames rose so high as to singe the rope, and the\ncorpse fell with a great thud upon the fire, scattering the ashes and\nembers, and extracting a howl of anguish from the miserable cook, who\nrushed to the door, and ran for his life.\n\nHe ran on until he was ready to drop with fatigue, when, seeing a\ndrain overgrown with tall, rank grass, he thought he would creep in\nthere and lie hidden till morning.\n\nBut he was not many minutes in the drain before he heard the heavy\ntramping again, and the four men came up with their burthen, which\nthey laid down on the edge of the drain.\n\n\"I'm tired,\" said one, to the giant; \"it's your turn to carry him a\npiece now.\"\n\n\"Faix and troth, I'll no carry him,\" replied he, \"but there's Pat\nDiver in the drain, why wouldn't he come out and tak' his turn?\"\n\n\"Come out, Pat, come out,\" roared all the men, and Pat, almost dead\nwith fright, crept out.\n\nHe staggered on under the weight of the corpse until he reached\nKiltown Abbey, a ruin festooned with ivy, where the brown owl hooted\nall night long, and the forgotten dead slept around the walls under\ndense, matted tangles of brambles and ben-weed.\n\nNo one ever buried there now, but Pat's tall companions turned into\nthe wild graveyard, and began digging a grave.\n\nPat, seeing them thus engaged, thought he might once more try to\nescape, and climbed up into a hawthorn tree in the fence, hoping to be\nhidden in the boughs.\n\n\"I'm tired,\" said the man who was digging the grave; \"here, take the\nspade,\" addressing the big man, \"it's your turn.\"\n\n\"Faix an' troth, it's no my turn,\" replied he, as before. \"There's Pat\nDiver in the tree, why wouldn't he come down and tak' his turn?\"\n\nPat came down to take the spade, but just then the cocks in the little\nfarmyards and cabins round the abbey began to crow, and the men looked\nat one another.\n\n\"We must go,\" said they, \"and well is it for you, Pat Diver, that the\ncocks crowed, for if they had not, you'd just ha' been bundled into\nthat grave with the corpse.\"\n\nTwo months passed, and Pat had wandered far and wide over the county\nDonegal, when he chanced to arrive at Raphoe during a fair.\n\nAmong the crowd that filled the Diamond he came suddenly on the big man.\n\n\"How are you, Pat Diver?\" said he, bending down to look into the\ntinker's face.\n\n\"You've the advantage of me, sir, for I havna' the pleasure of knowing\nyou,\" faltered Pat.\n\n\"Do you not know me, Pat?\" Whisper--\"When you go back to Innishowen,\nyou'll have a story to tell!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE POOKA.\n\n\nThe Pooka, _rect\u00e8_ P\u00faca, seems essentially an animal spirit. Some\nderive his name from _poc_, a he-goat; and speculative persons\nconsider him the forefather of Shakespere's \"Puck.\" On solitary\nmountains and among old ruins he lives, \"grown monstrous with much\nsolitude,\" and is of the race of the nightmare. \"In the MS. story,\ncalled 'Mac-na-Michomhairle,' of uncertain authorship,\" writes me Mr.\nDouglas Hyde, \"we read that 'out of a certain hill in Leinster, there\nused to emerge as far as his middle, a plump, sleek, terrible steed,\nand speak in human voice to each person about November-day, and he was\naccustomed to give intelligent and proper answers to such as consulted\nhim concerning all that would befall them until the November of next\nyear. And the people used to leave gifts and presents at the hill\nuntil the coming of Patrick and the holy clergy.' This tradition\nappears to be a cognate one with that of the P\u00faca.\" Yes! unless it\nwere merely an _augh-ishka [each-uisg\u00e9]_, or Waterhorse. For these, we\nare told, were common once, and used to come out of the water to\ngallop on the sands and in the fields, and people would often go\nbetween them and the marge and bridle them, and they would make the\nfinest of horses if only you could keep them away from sight of the\nwater; but if once they saw a glimpse of the water, they would plunge\nin with their rider, and tear him to pieces at the bottom. It being a\nNovember spirit, however, tells in favour of the Pooka, for\nNovember-day is sacred to the Pooka. It is hard to realise that wild,\nstaring phantom grown sleek and civil.\n\nHe has many shapes--is now a horse, now an ass, now a bull, now a goat,\nnow an eagle. Like all spirits, he is only half in the world of form.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PIPER AND THE PUCA.\n\nDOUGLAS HYDE.\n\n Translated literally from the Irish of the _Leabhar\n Sgeulaigheachta_.\n\n\nIn the old times, there was a half fool living in Dunmore, in the county\nGalway, and although he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to\nlearn more than one tune, and that was the \"Black Rogue.\" He used to get\na good deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out\nof him. One night the piper was coming home from a house where there had\nbeen a dance, and he half drunk. When he came to a little bridge that\nwas up by his mother's house, he squeezed the pipes on, and began\nplaying the \"Black Rogue\" (an r\u00f3gaire dubh). The P\u00faca came behind him,\nand flung him up on his own back. There were long horns on the P\u00faca, and\nthe piper got a good grip of them, and then he said----\n\n\"Destruction on you, you nasty beast, let me home. I have a ten-penny\npiece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff.\"\n\n\"Never mind your mother,\" said the P\u00faca, \"but keep your hold. If you\nfall, you will break your neck and your pipes.\" Then the P\u00faca said to\nhim, \"Play up for me the 'Shan Van Vocht' (an t-seann-bhean bhocht).\"\n\n\"I don't know it,\" said the piper.\n\n\"Never mind whether you do or you don't,\" said the P\u00faca. \"Play up, and\nI'll make you know.\"\n\nThe piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music as made\nhimself wonder.\n\n\"Upon my word, you're a fine music-master,\" says the piper then; \"but\ntell me where you're for bringing me.\"\n\n\"There's a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on the top of\nCroagh Patric to-night,\" says the P\u00faca, \"and I'm for bringing you\nthere to play music, and, take my word, you'll get the price of your\ntrouble.\"\n\n\"By my word, you'll save me a journey, then,\" says the piper, \"for\nFather William put a journey to Croagh Patric on me, because I stole\nthe white gander from him last Martinmas.\"\n\nThe P\u00faca rushed him across hills and bogs and rough places, till he\nbrought him to the top of Croagh Patric. Then the P\u00faca struck three\nblows with his foot, and a great door opened, and they passed in\ntogether, into a fine room.\n\nThe piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room, and hundreds\nof old women (cailleacha) sitting round about it. The old women rose\nup, and said, \"A hundred thousand welcomes to you, you P\u00faca of\nNovember (na Samhna). Who is this you have with you?\"\n\n\"The best piper in Ireland,\" says the P\u00faca.\n\nOne of the old women struck a blow on the ground, and a door opened in\nthe side of the wall, and what should the piper see coming out but the\nwhite gander which he had stolen from Father William.\n\n\"By my conscience, then,\" says the piper, \"myself and my mother ate\nevery taste of that gander, only one wing, and I gave that to Moy-rua\n(Red Mary), and it's she told the priest I stole his gander.\"\n\nThe gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, and the P\u00faca said,\n\"Play up music for these ladies.\"\n\nThe piper played up, and the old women began dancing, and they were\ndancing till they were tired. Then the P\u00faca said to pay the piper, and\nevery old woman drew out a gold piece, and gave it to him.\n\n\"By the tooth of Patric,\" said he, \"I'm as rich as the son of a lord.\"\n\n\"Come with me,\" says the P\u00faca, \"and I'll bring you home.\"\n\nThey went out then, and just as he was going to ride on the P\u00faca, the\ngander came up to him, and gave him a new set of pipes. The P\u00faca was\nnot long until he brought him to Dunmore, and he threw the piper off\nat the little bridge, and then he told him to go home, and says to\nhim, \"You have two things now that you never had before--you have\nsense and music (ciall agus ce\u00f3l).\"\n\nThe piper went home, and he knocked at his mother's door, saying, \"Let\nme in, I'm as rich as a lord, and I'm the best piper in Ireland.\"\n\n\"You're drunk,\" said the mother.\n\n\"No, indeed,\" says the piper, \"I haven't drunk a drop.\"\n\nThe mother let him in, and he gave her the gold pieces, and, \"Wait\nnow,\" says he, \"till you hear the music I'll play.\"\n\nHe buckled on the pipes, but instead of music, there came a sound as\nif all the geese and ganders in Ireland were screeching together. He\nwakened the neighbours, and they were all mocking him, until he put on\nthe old pipes, and then he played melodious music for them; and after\nthat he told them all he had gone through that night.\n\nThe next morning, when his mother went to look at the gold pieces,\nthere was nothing there but the leaves of a plant.\n\nThe piper went to the priest, and told him his story, but the priest\nwould not believe a word from him, until he put the pipes on him, and\nthen the screeching of the ganders and geese began.\n\n\"Leave my sight, you thief,\" says the priest.\n\nBut nothing would do the piper till he would put the old pipes on him\nto show the priest that his story was true.\n\nHe buckled on the old pipes, and he played melodious music, and from\nthat day till the day of his death, there was never a piper in the\ncounty Galway was as good as he was.\n\n\n\n\nDANIEL O'ROURKE.\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nPeople may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O'Rourke,\nbut how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above\nand below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the\nwalls of the Pooka's tower. I knew the man well. He lived at the\nbottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right-hand side of the road as you\ngo towards Bantry. An old man was he, at the time he told me the\nstory, with grey hair and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June\n1813 that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe\nunder the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from\nthe sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent\nthe morning at Glengariff.\n\n\"I am often _axed_ to tell it, sir,\" said he, \"so that this is not the\nfirst time. The master's son, you see, had come from beyond foreign\nparts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go before\nBuonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a\ndinner given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high\nand low, rich and poor. The _ould_ gentlemen were the gentlemen after\nall, saving your honour's presence. They'd swear at a body a little,\nto be sure, and, may be, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we\nwere no losers by it in the end; and they were so easy and civil, and\nkept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes; and there was no\ngrinding for rent, and there was hardly a tenant on the estate that\ndid not taste of his landlord's bounty often and often in a year; but\nnow it's another thing. No matter for that, sir, for I'd better be\ntelling you my story.\n\n\"Well, we had everything of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate,\nand we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token\ndanced with Peggy Barry, from the Bohereen--a lovely young couple they\nwere, though they are both low enough now. To make a long story short,\nI got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost, for I can't\nremember ever at all, no ways, how it was I left the place; only I did\nleave it, that's certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself,\nI'd just step to Molly Cronohan's, the fairy woman, to speak a word\nabout the bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so as I was crossing\nthe stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyashenogh, and was looking up\nat the stars and blessing myself--for why? it was Lady-day--I missed\nmy foot, and souse I fell into the water. 'Death alive!' thought I,\n'I'll be drowned now!' However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming\naway for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other,\nbut never the one of me can tell how, upon a _dissolute_ island.\n\n\"I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I\nwandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as\nbright as day, or your fair lady's eyes, sir (with your pardon for\nmentioning her), and I looked east and west, and north and south, and\nevery way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog--I could never find\nout how I got into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure and\ncertain I was that it would be my _berrin_ place. So I sat down upon a\nstone which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I began\nto scratch my head, and sing the _Ullagone_--when all of a sudden the\nmoon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the world\nas if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell what\nit was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the face;\nand what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from the\nkingdom of Kerry. So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me,\n'Daniel O'Rourke,' says he, 'how do you do?' 'Very well, I thank you,\nsir,' says I; 'I hope you're well;' wondering out of my senses all the\ntime how an eagle came to speak like a Christian. 'What brings you\nhere, Dan,' says he. 'Nothing at all, sir,' says I; 'only I wish I was\nsafe home again.' 'Is it out of the island you want to go, Dan?' says\nhe. ''Tis, sir,' says I: so I up and told him how I had taken a drop\ntoo much, and fell into the water; how I swam to the island; and how I\ngot into the bog and did not know my way out of it. 'Dan,' says he,\nafter a minute's thought, 'though it is very improper for you to get\ndrunk on Lady-day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who 'tends mass\nwell, and never fling stones at me or mine, nor cries out after us in\nthe fields--my life for yours,' says he; 'so get up on my back, and\ngrip me well for fear you'd fall off, and I'll fly you out of the\nbog.' 'I am afraid,' says I, 'your honour's making game of me; for\nwho ever heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before?' ''Pon the\nhonour of a gentleman,' says he, putting his right foot on his breast,\n'I am quite in earnest: and so now either take my offer or starve in\nthe bog--besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.'\n\n\"It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute\ngoing from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint\nheart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance. 'I thank your\nhonour,' says I, 'for the loan of your civility; and I'll take your\nkind offer.' I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and held\nhim tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a lark.\nLittle I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up--up--up, God\nknows how far up he flew. 'Why then,' said I to him--thinking he did\nnot know the right road home--very civilly, because why? I was in his\npower entirely; 'sir,' says I, 'please your honour's glory, and with\nhumble submission to your better judgment, if you'd fly down a bit,\nyou're now just over my cabin, and I could be put down there, and many\nthanks to your worship.'\n\n\"'_Arrah_, Dan,' said he, 'do you think me a fool? Look down in the next\nfield, and don't you see two men and a gun? By my word it would be no\njoke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I picked\nup off of a _could_ stone in a bog.' 'Bother you,' said I to myself, but\nI did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up he kept,\nflying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down, and all to no\nuse. 'Where in the world are you going, sir?' says I to him. 'Hold your\ntongue, Dan,' says he: 'mind your own business, and don't be interfering\nwith the business of other people.' 'Faith, this is my business, I\nthink,' says I. 'Be quiet, Dan,' says he: so I said no more.\n\n\"At last where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you can't\nsee it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a reaping-hook\nsticking out of the side of the moon, this way (drawing the figure thus\n[Illustration] on the ground with the end of his stick).\n\n\"'Dan,' said the eagle, 'I'm tired with this long fly; I had no notion\n'twas so far.' 'And my lord, sir,' said I, 'who in the world _axed_ you\nto fly so far--was it I? did not I beg and pray and beseech you to stop\nhalf an hour ago?' 'There's no use talking, Dan,' said he; 'I'm tired\nbad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on the moon until I rest\nmyself.' 'Is it sit down on the moon?' said I; 'is it upon that little\nround thing, then? why, then, sure I'd fall off in a minute, and be\n_kilt_ and spilt, and smashed all to bits; you are a vile deceiver--so\nyou are.' 'Not at all, Dan,' said he; 'you can catch fast hold of the\nreaping-hook that's sticking out of the side of the moon, and 'twill\nkeep you up.' 'I won't then,' said I. 'May be not,' said he, quite\nquiet. 'If you don't, my man, I shall just give you a shake, and one\nslap of my wing, and send you down to the ground, where every bone in\nyour body will be smashed as small as a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in\nthe morning.' 'Why, then, I'm in a fine way,' said I to myself, 'ever to\nhave come along with the likes of you;' and so giving him a hearty curse\nin Irish, for fear he'd know what I said, I got off his back with a\nheavy heart, took hold of the reaping-hook, and sat down upon the moon,\nand a mighty cold seat it was, I can tell you that.\n\n\"When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said,\n'Good morning to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he; 'I think I've nicked\nyou fairly now. You robbed my nest last year' ('twas true enough for\nhim, but how he found it out is hard to say), 'and in return you are\nfreely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a\ncockthrow.'\n\n\"'Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you,' says\nI. 'You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve me at\nlast? Bad luck to yourself, with your hook'd nose, and to all your\nbreed, you blackguard.' 'Twas all to no manner of use; he spread out\nhis great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like\nlightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and\nbawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw\nhim from that day to this--sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure\nI was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare\ngrief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon,\ncreaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month\nbefore, I suppose they never thought of greasing 'em, and out there\nwalks--who do you think, but the man in the moon himself? I knew him\nby his bush.\n\n\"'Good morrow to you, Daniel O'Rourke,' said he; 'how do you do?'\n'Very well, thank your honour,' said I. 'I hope your honour's well.'\n'What brought you here, Dan?' said he. So I told him how I was a\nlittle overtaken in liquor at the master's, and how I was cast on a\n_dissolute_ island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the\nthief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how, instead of\nthat, he had fled me up to the moon.\n\n\"'Dan,' said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was\ndone, 'you must not stay here.' 'Indeed, sir,' says I, ''tis much\nagainst my will I'm here at all; but how am I to go back?' 'That's\nyour business,' said he; 'Dan, mine is to tell you that here you must\nnot stay; so be off in less than no time.' 'I'm doing no harm,' says\nI, 'only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.'\n'That's what you must not do, Dan,' says he. 'Pray, sir,' says I, 'may\nI ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor\ntraveller lodging: I'm sure 'tis not so often you're troubled with\nstrangers coming to see you, for 'tis a long way.' 'I'm by myself,\nDan,' says he; 'but you'd better let go the reaping-hook.' 'Faith, and\nwith your leave,' says I, 'I'll not let go the grip, and the more you\nbids me, the more I won't let go;--so I will.' 'You had better, Dan,'\nsays he again. 'Why, then, my little fellow,' says I, taking the whole\nweight of him with my eye from head to foot, 'there are two words to\nthat bargain; and I'll not budge, but you may if you like.' 'We'll see\nhow that is to be,' says he; and back he went, giving the door such a\ngreat bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed) that I thought\nthe moon and all would fall down with it.\n\n\"Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back\nagain he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and, without\nsaying a word, he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook\nthat was keeping me up, and _whap!_ it came in two. 'Good morning to\nyou, Dan,' says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me\ncleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand; 'I thank you\nfor your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.' I had not time to\nmake any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and rolling\nand rolling, at the rate of a fox-hunt. 'God help me!' says I, 'but\nthis is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this time of\nnight: I am now sold fairly.' The word was not out of my mouth when,\nwhiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of wild geese,\nall the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenogh, else how should they\nknow _me_? The _ould_ gander, who was their general, turning about his\nhead, cried out to me, 'Is that you, Dan?' 'The same,' said I, not a\nbit daunted now at what he said, for I was by this time used to all\nkinds of _bedevilment_, and, besides, I knew him of _ould_. 'Good\nmorrow to you,' says he, 'Daniel O'Rourke; how are you in health this\nmorning?' 'Very well, sir,' says I, 'I thank you kindly,' drawing my\nbreath, for I was mightily in want of some. 'I hope your honour's the\nsame.' 'I think 'tis falling you are, Daniel,' says he. 'You may say\nthat, sir,' says I. 'And where are you going all the way so fast?'\nsaid the gander. So I told him how I had taken the drop, and how I\ncame on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the\nthief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man in the moon\nturned me out. 'Dan,' said he, 'I'll save you: put out your hand and\ncatch me by the leg, and I'll fly you home.' 'Sweet is your hand in a\npitcher of honey, my jewel,' says I, though all the time I thought\nwithin myself that I don't much trust you; but there was no help, so I\ncaught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other geese flew\nafter him as fast as hops.\n\n\"We flew, and we flew, and we flew, until we came right over the wide\nocean. I knew it well, for I saw Cape Clear to my right hand, sticking\nup out of the water. 'Ah, my lord,' said I to the goose, for I\nthought it best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, 'fly to\nland if you please.' 'It is impossible, you see, Dan,' said he, 'for a\nwhile, because you see we are going to Arabia.' 'To Arabia!' said I;\n'that's surely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose:\nwhy then, to be sure, I'm a man to be pitied among you.' 'Whist,\nwhist, you fool,' said he, 'hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a\nvery decent sort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like\nanother, only there is a little more sand there.'\n\n\"Just as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful\nbefore the wind. 'Ah! then, sir,' said I, 'will you drop me on the\nship, if you please?' 'We are not fair over it,' said he; 'if I\ndropped you now you would go splash into the sea.' 'I would not,' says\nI; 'I know better than that, for it is just clean under us, so let me\ndrop now at once.'\n\n\"'If you must, you must,' said he; 'there, take your own way;' and he\nopened his claw, and faith he was right--sure enough I came down plump\ninto the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I went,\nand I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to me,\nscratching himself after his night's sleep, and looked me full in the\nface, and never the word did he say, but lifting up his tail, he\nsplashed me all over again with the cold salt water till there wasn't\na dry stitch upon my whole carcass! and I heard somebody saying--'twas\na voice I knew, too--'Get up, you drunken brute, off o' that;' and\nwith that I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water,\nwhich she was splashing all over me--for, rest her soul! though she\nwas a good wife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a\nbitter hand of her own.\n\n\"'Get up,' said she again: 'and of all places in the parish would no\nplace _sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls of\nCarrigapooka? uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.' And sure enough\nI had: for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles, and men\nof the moons, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me through\nbogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green ocean.\nIf I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I'd lie down\nin the same spot again, I know that.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE KILDARE POOKA.[13]\n\nPATRICK KENNEDY.\n\n\nMr. H---- R----, when he was alive, used to live a good deal in\nDublin, and he was once a great while out of the country on account of\nthe \"ninety-eight\" business. But the servants kept on in the big house\nat Rath---- all the same as if the family was at home. Well, they used\nto be frightened out of their lives after going to their beds with the\nbanging of the kitchen-door, and the clattering of fire-irons, and the\npots and plates and dishes. One evening they sat up ever so long,\nkeeping one another in heart with telling stories about ghosts and\nfetches, and that when--what would you have of it?--the little\nscullery boy that used to be sleeping over the horses, and could not\nget room at the fire, crept into the hot hearth, and when he got tired\nlistening to the stories, sorra fear him, but he fell dead asleep.\n\nWell and good, after they were all gone and the kitchen fire raked up,\nhe was woke with the noise of the kitchen door opening, and the\ntrampling of an ass on the kitchen floor. He peeped out, and what\nshould he see but a big ass, sure enough, sitting on his curabingo and\nyawning before the fire. After a little he looked about him, and began\nscratching his ears as if he was quite tired, and says he, \"I may as\nwell begin first as last.\" The poor boy's teeth began to chatter in\nhis head, for says he, \"Now he's goin' to ate me;\" but the fellow with\nthe long ears and tail on him had something else to do. He stirred the\nfire, and then he brought in a pail of water from the pump, and\nfilled a big pot that he put on the fire before he went out. He then\nput in his hand--foot, I mean--into the hot hearth, and pulled out the\nlittle boy. He let a roar out of him with the fright, but the pooka\nonly looked at him, and thrust out his lower lip to show how little he\nvalued him, and then he pitched him into his pew again.\n\nWell, he then lay down before the fire till he heard the boil coming\non the water, and maybe there wasn't a plate, or a dish, or a spoon on\nthe dresser that he didn't fetch and put into the pot, and wash and\ndry the whole bilin' of 'em as well as e'er a kitchen-maid from that\nto Dublin town. He then put all of them up on their places on the\nshelves; and if he didn't give a good sweepin' to the kitchen, leave\nit till again. Then he comes and sits foment the boy, let down one of\nhis ears, and cocked up the other, and gave a grin. The poor fellow\nstrove to roar out, but not a dheeg 'ud come out of his throat. The\nlast thing the pooka done was to rake up the fire, and walk out,\ngiving such a slap o' the door, that the boy thought the house\ncouldn't help tumbling down.\n\nWell, to be sure if there wasn't a hullabullo next morning when the\npoor fellow told his story! They could talk of nothing else the whole\nday. One said one thing, another said another, but a fat, lazy\nscullery girl said the wittiest thing of all. \"Musha!\" says she, \"if\nthe pooka does be cleaning up everything that way when we are asleep,\nwhat should we be slaving ourselves for doing his work?\" \"_Shu gu\ndheine_,\"[14] says another; \"them's the wisest words you ever said,\nKauth; it's meeself won't contradict you.\"\n\nSo said, so done. Not a bit of a plate or dish saw a drop of water\nthat evening, and not a besom was laid on the floor, and every one\nwent to bed soon after sundown. Next morning everything was as fine as\nfine in the kitchen, and the lord mayor might eat his dinner off the\nflags. It was great ease to the lazy servants, you may depend, and\neverything went on well till a foolhardy gag of a boy said he would\nstay up one night and have a chat with the pooka.\n\nHe was a little daunted when the door was thrown open and the ass\nmarched up to the fire.\n\n\"An then, sir,\" says he, at last, picking up courage, \"if it isn't\ntaking a liberty, might I ax who you are, and why you are so kind as\nto do half of the day's work for the girls every night?\" \"No liberty\nat all,\" says the pooka, says he: \"I'll tell you, and welcome. I was a\nservant in the time of Squire R.'s father, and was the laziest rogue\nthat ever was clothed and fed, and done nothing for it. When my time\ncame for the other world, this is the punishment was laid on me--to\ncome here and do all this labour every night, and then go out in the\ncold. It isn't so bad in the fine weather; but if you only knew what\nit is to stand with your head between your legs, facing the storm,\nfrom midnight to sunrise, on a bleak winter night.\" \"And could we do\nanything for your comfort, my poor fellow?\" says the boy. \"Musha, I\ndon't know,\" says the pooka; \"but I think a good quilted frieze coat\nwould help to keep the life in me them long nights.\" \"Why then, in\ntroth, we'd be the ungratefullest of people if we didn't feel for you.\"\n\nTo make a long story short, the next night but two the boy was there\nagain; and if he didn't delight the poor pooka, holding up a fine warm\ncoat before him, it's no mather! Betune the pooka and the man, his\nlegs was got into the four arms of it, and it was buttoned down the\nbreast and the belly, and he was so pleazed he walked up to the glass\nto see how he looked. \"Well,\" says he, \"it's a long lane that has no\nturning. I am much obliged to you and your fellow-servants. You have\nmade me happy at last. Good-night to you.\"\n\nSo he was walking out, but the other cried, \"Och! sure your going too\nsoon. What about the washing and sweeping?\" \"Ah, you may tell the\ngirls that they must now get their turn. My punishment was to last\ntill I was thought worthy of a reward for the way I done my duty.\nYou'll see me no more.\" And no more they did, and right sorry they\nwere for having been in such a hurry to reward the ungrateful pooka.\n\n[Footnote 13: _Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts._--Macmillan.]\n\n[Footnote 14: Meant for _seadh go deimhin_--_i.e._, yes, indeed.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE SOLITARY FAIRIES.\n\nTHE BANSHEE.\n\n\n [The _banshee_ (from _ban [bean]_, a woman, and _shee [sidhe]_, a\n fairy) is an attendant fairy that follows the old families, and\n none but them, and wails before a death. Many have seen her as\n she goes wailing and clapping her hands. The keen [_caoine_], the\n funeral cry of the peasantry, is said to be an imitation of her\n cry. When more than one banshee is present, and they wail and\n sing in chorus, it is for the death of some holy or great one. An\n omen that sometimes accompanies the banshee is the _coach-a-bower\n [c\u00f3iste-bodhar]_--an immense black coach, mounted by a coffin,\n and drawn by headless horses driven by a _Dullahan_. It will go\n rumbling to your door, and if you open it, according to Croker, a\n basin of blood will be thrown in your face. These headless\n phantoms are found elsewhere than in Ireland. In 1807 two of the\n sentries stationed outside St. James's Park died of fright. A\n headless woman, the upper part of her body naked, used to pass at\n midnight and scale the railings. After a time the sentries were\n stationed no longer at the haunted spot. In Norway the heads of\n corpses were cut off to make their ghosts feeble. Thus came into\n existence the _Dullahans_, perhaps; unless, indeed, they are\n descended from that Irish giant who swam across the Channel with\n his head in his teeth.--ED.]\n\n\n\n\nHOW THOMAS CONNOLLY MET THE BANSHEE.\n\nJ. TODHUNTER.\n\n\nAw, the banshee, sir? Well, sir, as I was striving to tell ye, I was\ngoing home from work one day, from Mr. Cassidy's that I tould ye of,\nin the dusk o' the evening. I had more nor a mile--aye, it was nearer\ntwo mile--to thrack to, where I was lodgin' with a dacent widdy woman\nI knew, Biddy Maguire be name, so as to be near me work.\n\nIt was the first week in November, an' a lonesome road I had to\ntravel, an' dark enough, wid threes above it; an' about half-ways\nthere was a bit of a brudge I had to cross, over one o' them little\nsthrames that runs into the Doddher. I walked on in the middle iv the\nroad, for there was no toe-path at that time, Misther Harry, nor for\nmany a long day afther that; but, as I was sayin', I walked along till\nI come nigh upon the brudge, where the road was a bit open, an' there,\nright enough, I seen the hog's back o' the ould-fashioned brudge that\nused to be there till it was pulled down, an' a white mist steamin' up\nout o' the wather all around it.\n\nWell, now, Misther Harry, often as I'd passed by the place before,\nthat night it seemed sthrange to me, an' like a place ye might see in\na dhrame; an' as I come up to it I began to feel a could wind blowin'\nthrough the hollow o' me heart. \"Musha Thomas,\" sez I to meself, \"is\nit yerself that's in it?\" sez I; \"or, if it is, what's the matter wid\nye at all, at all?\" sez I; so I put a bould face on it, an' I made a\nsthruggle to set one leg afore the other, ontil I came to the rise o'\nthe brudge. And there, God be good to us! in a cantle o' the wall I\nseen an ould woman, as I thought, sittin' on her hunkers, all crouched\ntogether, an' her head bowed down, seemin'ly in the greatest affliction.\n\nWell, sir, I pitied the ould craythur, an' thought I wasn't worth a\nthraneen, for the mortial fright I was in, I up an' sez to her,\n\"That's a cowld lodgin' for ye, ma'am.\" Well, the sorra ha'porth she\nsez to that, nor tuk no more notice o' me than if I hadn't let a word\nout o' me, but kep' rockin' herself to an' fro, as if her heart was\nbreakin'; so I sez to her again, \"Eh, ma'am, is there anythin' the\nmatther wid ye?\" An' I made for to touch her on the shouldher, on'y\nsomethin' stopt me, for as I looked closer at her I saw she was no\nmore an ould woman nor she was an ould cat. The first thing I tuk\nnotice to, Misther Harry, was her hair, that was sthreelin' down\nover his showldhers, an' a good yard on the ground on aich side of\nher. O, be the hoky farmer, but that was the hair! The likes of it I\nnever seen on mortial woman, young or ould, before nor sense. It grew\nas sthrong out of her as out of e'er a young slip of a girl ye could\nsee; but the colour of it was a misthery to describe. The first squint\nI got of it I thought it was silvery grey, like an ould crone's; but\nwhen I got up beside her I saw, be the glance o' the sky, it was a\nsoart iv an Iscariot colour, an' a shine out of it like floss silk. It\nran over her showldhers and the two shapely arms she was lanin' her\nhead on, for all the world like Mary Magdalen's in a picther; and then\nI persaved that the grey cloak and the green gownd undhernaith it was\nmade of no earthly matarial I ever laid eyes on. Now, I needn't tell\nye, sir, that I seen all this in the twinkle of a bed-post--long as I\ntake to make the narration of it. So I made a step back from her, an'\n\"The Lord be betune us an' harm!\" sez I, out loud, an' wid that I\nblessed meself. Well, Misther Harry, the word wasn't out o' me mouth\nafore she turned her face on me. Aw, Misther Harry, but 'twas that was\nthe awfullest apparation ever I seen, the face of her as she looked up\nat me! God forgive me for sayin' it, but 'twas more like the face of\nthe \"Axy Homo\" beyand in Marlboro' Sthreet Chapel nor like any face I\ncould mintion--as pale as a corpse, an' a most o' freckles on it, like\nthe freckles on a turkey's egg; an' the two eyes sewn in wid red\nthread, from the terrible power o' crying the' had to do; an' such a\npair iv eyes as the' wor, Misther Harry, as blue as two\nforget-me-nots, an' as cowld as the moon in a bog-hole of a frosty\nnight, an' a dead-an'-live look in them that sent a cowld shiver\nthrough the marra o' me bones. Be the mortial! ye could ha' rung a tay\ncupful o' cowld paspiration out o' the hair o' me head that minute, so\nye could. Well, I thought the life 'ud lave me intirely when she riz\nup from her hunkers, till, bedad! she looked mostly as tall as\nNelson's Pillar; an' wid the two eyes gazin' back at me, an' her two\narms stretched out before hor, an' a keine out of her that riz the\nhair o' me scalp till it was as stiff as the hog's bristles in a new\nhearth broom, away she glides--glides round the angle o' the brudge,\nan' down with her into the sthrame that ran undhernaith it. 'Twas then\nI began to suspect what she was. \"Wisha, Thomas!\" says I to meself,\nsez I; an' I made a great struggle to get me two legs into a throt, in\nspite o' the spavin o' fright the pair o' them wor in; an' how I\nbrought meself home that same night the Lord in heaven only knows, for\nI never could tell; but I must ha' tumbled agin the door, and shot in\nhead foremost into the middle o' the flure, where I lay in a dead\nswoon for mostly an hour; and the first I knew was Mrs. Maguire\nstannin' over me with a jorum o' punch she was pourin' down me throath\n(throat), to bring back the life into me, an' me head in a pool of\ncowld wather she dashed over me in her first fright. \"Arrah, Mister\nConnolly,\" shashee, \"what ails ye?\" shashee, \"to put the scare on a\nlone woman like that?\" shashee. \"Am I in this world or the next?\" sez\nI. \"Musha! where else would ye be on'y here in my kitchen?\" shashee.\n\"O, glory be to God!\" sez I, \"but I thought I was in Purgathory at the\nlaste, not to mintion an uglier place,\" sez I, \"only it's too cowld I\nfind meself, an' not too hot,\" sez I. \"Faix, an' maybe ye wor more nor\nhalf-ways there, on'y for me,\" shashee; \"but what's come to you at\nall, at all? Is it your fetch ye seen, Mister Connolly?\" \"Aw,\nnaboclish!\"[15] sez I. \"Never mind what I seen,\" sez I. So be degrees\nI began to come to a little; an' that's the way I met the banshee,\nMisther Harry!\n\n\"But how did you know it really was the banshee after all, Thomas?\"\n\n\"Begor, sir, I knew the apparation of her well enough; but 'twas\nconfirmed by a sarcumstance that occurred the same time. There was a\nMisther O'Nales was come on a visit, ye must know, to a place in the\nneighbourhood--one o' the ould O'Nales iv the county Tyrone, a rale\nould Irish family--an' the banshee was heard keening round the house\nthat same night, be more then one that was in it; an' sure enough,\nMisther Harry, he was found dead in his bed the next mornin'. So if it\nwasn't the banshee I seen that time, I'd like to know what else it\ncould a' been.\"\n\n[Footnote 15: _Na bac leis_--_i.e._, don't mind it.]\n\n\n\n\nA LAMENTATION\n\n_For the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight, of Kerry, who was\nkilled in Flanders, 1642._\n\nFROM THE IRISH, BY CLARENCE MANGAN.\n\n\n There was lifted up one voice of woe,\n One lament of more than mortal grief,\n Through the wide South to and fro,\n For a fallen Chief.\n In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me,\n I looked out upon the midnight air?\n My own soul was all as gloomy,\n As I knelt in prayer.\n\n O'er Loch Gur, that night, once--twice--yea, thrice--\n Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave\n That half curled into ice\n Its moon-mirroring wave.\n Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in\n Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine,\n And Mogeely's Phantom Women\n Mourned the Geraldine!\n\n Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains\n Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours.\n And Fermoy in fitful strains\n Answered from her towers.\n Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eemokilly,\n Mourned in concert, and their piercing keen\n Woke to wondering life the stilly\n Glens of Inchiqueen.\n\n From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore\n There was fear; the traders of Tralee\n Gathered up their golden store,\n And prepared to flee;\n For, in ship and hall from night till morning,\n Showed the first faint beamings of the sun,\n All the foreigners heard the warning\n Of the Dreaded One!\n\n \"This,\" they spake, \"portendeth death to us,\n If we fly not swiftly from our fate!\"\n Self-conceited idiots! thus\n Ravingly to prate!\n Not for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters\n Ring laments like those by shore and sea!\n Not for churls with souls like hucksters\n Waileth our Banshee!\n\n For the high Milesian race alone\n Ever flows the music of her woe!\n For slain heir to bygone throne,\n And for Chief laid low!\n Hark!... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping\n Yonder! Is she near me now, as then?\n Or was but the night-wind sweeping\n Down the hollow glen?\n\n\n\n\nTHE BANSHEE OF THE MAC CARTHYS.\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nCharles Mac Carthy was, in the year 1749, the only surviving son of a\nvery numerous family. His father died when he was little more than\ntwenty, leaving him the Mac Carthy estate, not much encumbered,\nconsidering that it was an Irish one. Charles was gay, handsome,\nunfettered either by poverty, a father, or guardians, and therefore\nwas not, at the age of one-and-twenty, a pattern of regularity and\nvirtue. In plain terms, he was an exceedingly dissipated--I fear I may\nsay debauched, young man. His companions were, as may be supposed, of\nthe higher classes of the youth in his neighbourhood, and, in general,\nof those whose fortunes were larger than his own, whose dispositions\nto pleasure were, therefore, under still less restrictions, and in\nwhose example he found at once an incentive and an apology for his\nirregularities. Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not very\nremarkable for the coolness and steadiness of its youth, was then one\nof the cheapest countries in the world in most of those articles which\nmoney supplies for the indulgence of the passions. The odious\nexciseman,--with his portentous book in one hand, his unrelenting\npen held in the other, or stuck beneath his hat-band, and the\nink-bottle ('black emblem of the informer') dangling from his\nwaistcoat-button--went not then from ale-house to ale-house,\ndenouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirits, who preferred\nselling whiskey, which had nothing to do with English laws (but to\nelude them), to retailing that poisonous liquor, which derived its\nname from the British \"Parliament\" that compelled its circulation\namong a reluctant people. Or if the gauger--recording angel of the\nlaw--wrote down the peccadillo of a publican, he dropped a tear upon\nthe word, and blotted it out for ever! For, welcome to the tables of\ntheir hospitable neighbours, the guardians of the excise, where they\nexisted at all, scrupled to abridge those luxuries which they freely\nshared; and thus the competition in the market between the smuggler,\nwho incurred little hazard, and the personage ycleped fair trader, who\nenjoyed little protection, made Ireland a land flowing, not merely\nwith milk and honey, but with whiskey and wine. In the enjoyments\nsupplied by these, and in the many kindred pleasures to which frail\nyouth is but too prone, Charles Mac Carthy indulged to such a degree,\nthat just about the time when he had completed his four-and-twentieth\nyear, after a week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent\nfever, which, from its malignity, and the weakness of his frame, left\nscarcely a hope of his recovery. His mother, who had at first made\nmany efforts to check his vices, and at last had been obliged to look\non at his rapid progress to ruin in silent despair, watched day and\nnight at his pillow. The anguish of parental feeling was blended with\nthat still deeper misery which those only know who have striven hard\nto rear in virtue and piety a beloved and favourite child; have found\nhim grow up all that their hearts could desire, until he reached\nmanhood; and then, when their pride was highest, and their hopes\nalmost ended in the fulfilment of their fondest expectations, have\nseen this idol of their affections plunge headlong into a course of\nreckless profligacy, and, after a rapid career of vice, hang upon the\nverge of eternity, without the leisure or the power of repentance.\nFervently she prayed that, if his life could not be spared, at least\nthe delirium, which continued with increasing violence from the first\nfew hours of his disorder, might vanish before death, and leave enough\nof light and of calm for making his peace with offended Heaven. After\nseveral days, however, nature seemed quite exhausted, and he sunk into\na state too like death to be mistaken for the repose of sleep. His\nface had that pale, glossy, marble look, which is in general so sure a\nsymptom that life has left its tenement of clay. His eyes were closed\nand sunk; the lids having that compressed and stiffened appearance\nwhich seemed to indicate that some friendly hand had done its last\noffice. The lips, half closed and perfectly ashy, discovered just so\nmuch of the teeth as to give to the features of death their most\nghastly, but most impressive look. He lay upon his back, with his\nhands stretched beside him, quite motionless; and his distracted\nmother, after repeated trials, could discover not the least symptom of\nanimation. The medical man who attended, having tried the usual modes\nfor ascertaining the presence of life, declared at last his opinion\nthat it was flown, and prepared to depart from the house of mourning.\nHis horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of people who were\ncollected before the windows, or scattered in groups on the lawn in\nfront, gathered around when the door opened. These were tenants,\nfosterers, and poor relations of the family, with others attracted by\naffection, or by that interest which partakes of curiosity, but is\nsomething more, and which collects the lower ranks round a house where\na human being is in his passage to another world. They saw the\nprofessional man come out from the hall door and approach his horse;\nand while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to mount,\nthey clustered round him with inquiring and wistful looks. Not a word\nwas spoken, but their meaning could not be misunderstood; and the\nphysician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant was\nstill holding the bridle as if to delay him, and was looking anxiously\nat his face as if expecting that he would relieve the general\nsuspense, shook his head, and said in a low voice, \"It's all over,\nJames;\" and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the women\npresent, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which, having\nbeen sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a full,\nloud, continued, and discordant but plaintive wailing, above which\noccasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man's voice, sometimes in\ndeep sobs, sometimes in more distinct exclamations of sorrow. This was\nCharles's foster-brother, who moved about the crowd, now clapping his\nhands, now rubbing them together in an agony of grief. The poor fellow\nhad been Charles's playmate and companion when a boy, and afterwards\nhis servant; had always been distinguished by his peculiar regard, and\nloved his young master as much, at least, as he did his own life.\n\nWhen Mrs. Mac Carthy became convinced that the blow was indeed struck,\nand that her beloved son was sent to his last account, even in the\nblossoms of his sin, she remained for some time gazing with fixedness\nupon his cold features; then, as if something had suddenly touched the\nstring of her tenderest affections, tear after tear trickled down her\ncheeks, pale with anxiety and watching. Still she continued looking at\nher son, apparently unconscious that she was weeping, without once\nlifting her handkerchief to her eyes, until reminded of the sad duties\nwhich the custom of the country imposed upon her, by the crowd of\nfemales belonging to the better class of the peasantry, who now,\ncrying audibly, nearly filled the apartment. She then withdrew, to\ngive directions for the ceremony of waking, and for supplying the\nnumerous visitors of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these\nmelancholy occasions. Though her voice was scarcely heard, and though\nno one saw her but the servants and one or two old followers of the\nfamily, who assisted her in the necessary arrangements, everything was\nconducted with the greatest regularity; and though she made no effort\nto check her sorrows they never once suspended her attention, now more\nthan ever required to preserve order in her household, which, in this\nseason of calamity, but for her would have been all confusion.\n\nThe night was pretty far advanced; the boisterous lamentations which had\nprevailed during part of the day in and about the house had given place\nto a solemn and mournful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose heart,\nnotwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore for\nsleep, was kneeling in fervent prayer in a chamber adjoining that of her\nson. Suddenly her devotions were disturbed by an unusual noise,\nproceeding from the persons who were watching round the body. First\nthere was a low murmur, then all was silent, as if the movements of\nthose in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic, and then a loud cry\nof terror burst from all within. The door of the chamber was thrown\nopen, and all who were not overturned in the press rushed wildly into\nthe passage which led to the stairs, and into which Mrs. Mac Carthy's\nroom opened. Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through the crowd into her\nson's chamber, where she found him sitting up in the bed, and looking\nvacantly around, like one risen from the grave. The glare thrown upon\nhis sunk features and thin lathy frame gave an unearthy horror to his\nwhole aspect. Mrs. Mac Carthy was a woman of some firmness; but she was\na woman, and not quite free from the superstitions of her country. She\ndropped on her knees, and, clasping her hands, began to pray aloud. The\nform before her moved only its lips, and barely uttered \"Mother\"; but\nthough the pale lips moved, as if there was a design to finish the\nsentence, the tongue refused its office. Mrs. Mac Carthy sprung forward,\nand catching the arm of her son, exclaimed, \"Speak! in the name of God\nand His saints, speak! are you alive?\"\n\nHe turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent\ndifficulty, \"Yes, my mother, alive, and--but sit down and collect\nyourself; I have that to tell which will astonish you still more than\nwhat you have seen.\" He leaned back upon his pillow, and while his\nmother remained kneeling by the bedside, holding one of his hands\nclasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who distrusted\nall her senses, he proceeded: \"Do not interrupt me until I have done.\nI wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is upon me, as\nI know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement of my\nillness I have only a confused recollection; but within the last\ntwelve hours I have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not stare\nincredulously on me--'tis as true as have been my crimes, and as, I\ntrust, shall be repentance. I saw the awful Judge arrayed in all the\nterrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice. The\ndreadful pomp of offended omnipotence, I saw--I remember. It is fixed\nhere; printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it passeth\nhuman language. What I _can_ describe I _will_--I may speak it\nbriefly. It is enough to say, I was weighed in the balance, and found\nwanting. The irrevocable sentence was upon the point of being\npronounced; the eye of my Almighty Judge, which had already glanced\nupon me, half spoke my doom; when I observed the guardian saint, to\nwhom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child, looking at\nme with an expression of benevolence and compassion. I stretched forth\nmy hands to him, and besought his intercession. I implored that one\nyear, one month, might be given to me on earth to do penance and\natonement for my transgressions. He threw himself at the feet of my\nJudge, and supplicated for mercy. Oh! never--not if I should pass\nthrough ten thousand successive states of being--never, for eternity,\nshall I forget the horrors of that moment, when my fate hung\nsuspended--when an instant was to decide whether torments unutterable\nwere to be my portion for endless ages! But Justice suspended its\ndecree, and Mercy spoke in accents of firmness, but mildness, 'Return\nto that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him\nwho made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for\nrepentance; when these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be\nsaved or lost for ever.' I heard no more; I saw no more, until I awoke\nto life, the moment before you entered.\"\n\nCharles's strength continued just long enough to finish these last\nwords, and on uttering them he closed his eyes, and lay quite\nexhausted. His mother, though, as was before said, somewhat disposed\nto give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or\nnot she should believe that, although awakened from a swoon which\nmight have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the\ninfluence of delirium. Repose, however, was at all events necessary,\nand she took immediate measures that he should enjoy it undisturbed.\nAfter some hours' sleep, he awoke refreshed, and thenceforward\ngradually but steadily recovered.\n\nStill he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at first\nrelated it; and his persuasion of its reality had an obvious and\ndecided influence on his habits and conduct. He did not altogether\nabandon the society of his former associates, for his temper was not\nsoured by his reformation; but he never joined in their excesses, and\noften endeavoured to reclaim them. How his pious exertions succeeded,\nI have never learnt; but of himself it is recorded that he was\nreligious without ostentation, and temperate without austerity; giving\na practical proof that vice may be exchanged for virtue, without the\nloss of respectability, popularity, or happiness.\n\nTime rolled on, and long before the three years were ended the story\nof his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken of, was usually mentioned\nas an instance proving the folly of believing in such things.\nCharles's health, from the temperance and regularity of his habits,\nbecame more robust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion\nto rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demeanour,\nwhich grew upon him as he approached the completion of his\nseven-and-twentieth year, but for the most part his manner exhibited\nthe same animation and cheerfulness for which he had always been\nremarkable. In company he evaded every endeavour to draw from him a\ndistinct opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction; but among\nhis own family it was well known that he still firmly believed it.\nHowever, when the day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was, if\nat all, to be fulfilled, his whole appearance gave such promise of a\nlong and healthy life, that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a\nlarge party to an entertainment at Spring House, to celebrate his\nbirthday. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances which\nattended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the following\nletters, which have been carefully preserved by some relations of his\nfamily. The first is from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady, a very near\nconnection and valued friend of her's, who lived in the county of\nCork, at about fifty miles' distance from Spring House.\n\n \"TO MRS. BARRY, CASTLE BARRY.\n\n \"_Spring House, Tuesday morning,\n October 15th, 1752._\n\n \"MY DEAREST MARY,\n\n\"I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old friend and\nkinswoman to a severe trial. A two days' journey at this season, over\nbad roads and through a troubled country, it will indeed require\nfriendship such as yours to persuade a sober woman to encounter. But\nthe truth is, I have, or fancy I have, more than usual cause for\nwishing you near me. You know my son's story. I can't tell you how it\nis, but as next Sunday approaches, when the prediction of his dream,\nor vision, will be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the\nheart, which I cannot suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary,\nwill soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew, James\nRyan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you know, is my son's\nward), and the bridal entertainment will take place here on Sunday\nnext, though Charles pleaded hard to have it postponed for a day or\ntwo longer. Would to God--but no more of this till we meet. Do prevail\nupon yourself to leave your good man for _one_ week, if his farming\nconcerns will not admit of his accompanying you; and come to us, with\nthe girls, as soon before Sunday as you can.\n\n\"Ever my dear Mary's attached cousin and friend,\n\n \"ANN MAC CARTHY.\"\n\nAlthough this letter reached Castle Barry early on Wednesday, the\nmessenger having travelled on foot over bog and moor, by paths\nimpassable to horse or carriage, Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on\ngoing, had so many arrangements to make for the regulation of her\ndomestic affairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the\ngentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the family is\naway), that she and her two young daughters were unable to leave until\nlate on the morning of Friday. The eldest daughter remained to keep\nher father company, and superintend the concerns of the household. As\nthe travellers were to journey in an open one-horse vehicle, called a\njaunting-car (still used in Ireland), and as the roads, bad at all\ntimes, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains, it was their\ndesign to make two easy stages--to stop about midway the first night,\nand reach Spring House early on Saturday evening. This arrangement was\nnow altered, as they found that from the lateness of their departure\nthey could proceed, at the utmost, no farther than twenty miles on\nthe first day; and they, therefore, purposed sleeping at the house of\na Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat less than that\ndistance from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke's in safety after\na rather disagreeable ride. What befell them on their journey the next\nday to Spring House, and after their arrival there, is fully recounted\nin a letter from the second Miss Barry to her eldest sister.\n\n \"_Spring House, Sunday evening,\n 20th October 1752._\n\n \"DEAR ELLEN,\n\n\"As my mother's letter, which encloses this, will announce to you\nbriefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more fully, I\nthink it better to go regularly through the recital of the\nextraordinary events of the last two days.\n\n\"The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night that yesterday was\npretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and the day\nclosed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from this place. The\nroads were excessively deep, from the heavy rains of the last week,\nand we proceeded so slowly that, at last, my mother resolved on\npassing the night at the house of Mr. Bourke's brother (who lives\nabout a quarter-of-a-mile off the road), and coming here to breakfast\nin the morning. The day had been windy and showery, and the sky looked\nfitful, gloomy, and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone\nclear and bright; at others it was wholly concealed behind the thick,\nblack, and rugged masses of clouds that rolled rapidly along, and were\nevery moment becoming larger, and collecting together as if gathering\nstrength for a coming storm. The wind, which blew in our faces,\nwhistled bleakly along the low hedges of the narrow road, on which we\nproceeded with difficulty from the number of deep sloughs, and which\nafforded not the least shelter, no plantation being within some miles\nof us. My mother, therefore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car,\nhow far we were from Mr. Bourke's? ''Tis about ten spades from this\nto the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into the\navenue, ma'am.' 'Very well, Leary; turn up to Mr. Bourke's as soon as\nyou reach the cross roads.' My mother had scarcely spoken these words,\nwhen a shriek, that made us thrill as if our very hearts were pierced\nby it, burst from the hedge to the right of our way. If it resembled\nanything earthly it seemed the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and\nmortal blow, and giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring\nagony. 'Heaven defend us!' exclaimed my mother. 'Go you over the\nhedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead, while we\nrun back to the hut we have just passed, and alarm the village near\nit.' 'Woman!' said Leary, beating the horse violently, while his voice\ntrembled, 'that's no woman; the sooner we get on, ma'am, the better;'\nand he continued his efforts to quicken the horse's pace. We saw\nnothing. The moon was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some\ntime expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken, and\nhad succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we distinctly\nheard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a succession of screams,\nthat seemed to denote the last excess of despair and anguish, and to\nissue from a person running forward inside the hedge, to keep pace\nwith our progress. Still we saw nothing; until, when we were within\nabout ten yards of the place where an avenue branched off to Mr.\nBourke's to the left, and the road turned to Spring House on the\nright, the moon started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us\nto see, as plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall, thin\nwoman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her\nshoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose white\ncloak or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on the corner\nhedge, where the road on which we were met that which leads to Spring\nHouse, with her face towards us, her left hand pointing to this place,\nand her right arm waving rapidly and violently as if to draw us on in\nthat direction. The horse had stopped, apparently frightened at the\nsudden presence of the figure, which stood in the manner I have\ndescribed, still uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a\nminute. It then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for\none instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a little\nway up the avenue on which we purposed going, still pointing towards\nthe road to Spring House, but in an attitude of defiance and command,\nas if prepared to oppose our passage up the avenue. The figure was now\nquite silent, and its garments, which had before flown loosely in the\nwind, were closely wrapped around it 'Go on, Leary, to Spring House,\nin God's name!' said my mother; 'whatever world it belongs to, we will\nprovoke it no longer.' ''Tis the Banshee, ma'am,' said Leary; 'and I\nwould not, for what my life is worth, go anywhere this blessed night\nbut to Spring House. But I'm afraid there's something bad going\nforward, or _she_ would not send us there.' So saying, he drove\nforward; and as we turned on the road to the right, the moon suddenly\nwithdrew its light, and we saw the apparition no more; but we heard\nplainly a prolonged clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it\nissued from a person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as\nthe badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that drew\nus would allow, and arrived here about eleven o'clock last night. The\nscene which awaited us you have learned from my mother's letter. To\nexplain it fully, I must recount to you some of the transactions which\ntook place here during the last week.\n\n\"You are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been married this day to\nJames Ryan, and that they and their friends have been here for the last\nweek. On Tuesday last, the very day on the morning of which cousin Mac\nCarthy despatched the letter inviting us here, the whole of the company\nwere walking about the grounds a little before dinner. It seems that an\nunfortunate creature, who had been seduced by James Ryan, was seen\nprowling in the neighbourhood in a moody, melancholy state for some days\nprevious. He had separated from her for several months, and, they say,\nhad provided for her rather handsomely; but she had been seduced by the\npromise of his marrying her; and the shame of her unhappy condition,\nuniting with disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects.\nDuring the whole forenoon of this Tuesday she had been walking in the\nplantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded tight round her,\nthe hood nearly covering her face; and she had avoided conversing with\nor even meeting any of the family.\n\n\"Charles Mac Carthy, at the time I mentioned, was walking between James\nRyan and another, at a little distance from the rest, on a gravel path,\nskirting a shrubbery. The whole party was thrown into the utmost\nconsternation by the report of a pistol, fired from a thickly planted\npart of the shrubbery which Charles and his companions had just passed.\nHe fell instantly, and it was found that he had been wounded in the leg.\nOne of the party was a medical man. His assistance was immediately\ngiven, and, on examining, he declared that the injury was very slight,\nthat no bone was broken, it was merely a flesh wound, and that it would\ncertainly be well in a few days. 'We shall know more by Sunday,' said\nCharles, as he was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately\ndressed, and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave that several\nof his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apartment.\n\n\"On inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the poor\ngirl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that she had aimed, not at\nCharles, but at the destroyer of her innocence and happiness, who was\nwalking beside him. After a fruitless search for her through the\ngrounds, she walked into the house of her own accord, laughing and\ndancing, and singing wildly, and every moment exclaiming that she had\nat last killed Mr. Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles, and not\nMr. Ryan, who was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which,\nafter working convulsively for some time, she sprung to the door,\nescaped from the crowd that pursued her, and could never be taken\nuntil last night, when she was brought here, perfectly frantic, a\nlittle before our arrival.\n\n\"Charles's wound was thought of such little consequence that the\npreparations went forward, as usual, for the wedding entertainment on\nSunday. But on Friday night he grew restless and feverish, and on\nSaturday (yesterday) morning felt so ill that it was deemed necessary to\nobtain additional medical advice. Two physicians and a surgeon met in\nconsultation about twelve o'clock in the day, and the dreadful\nintelligence was announced, that unless a change, hardly hoped for, took\nplace before night, death must happen within twenty-four hours after.\nThe wound, it seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and otherwise\ninjudiciously treated. The physicians were right in their anticipations.\nNo favourable symptom appeared, and long before we reached Spring House\nevery ray of hope had vanished. The scene we witnessed on our arrival\nwould have wrung the heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the gate that\nMr. Charles was upon his death-bed. When we reached the house, the\ninformation was confirmed by the servant who opened the door. But just\nas we entered we were horrified by the most appalling screams issuing\nfrom the staircase. My mother thought she heard the voice of poor Mrs.\nMac Carthy, and sprung forward. We followed, and on ascending a few\nsteps of the stairs, we found a young woman, in a state of frantic\npassion, struggling furiously with two men-servants, whose united\nstrength was hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing upstairs over the\nbody of Mrs. Mac Carthy, who was lying in strong hysterics upon the\nsteps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the unhappy girl I before\ndescribed, who was attempting to gain access to Charles's room, to 'get\nhis forgiveness,' as she said, 'before he went away to accuse her for\nhaving killed him.' This wild idea was mingled with another, which\nseemed to dispute with the former possession of her mind. In one\nsentence she called on Charles to forgive her, in the next she would\ndenounce James Ryan as the murderer, both of Charles and her. At length\nshe was torn away; and the last words I heard her scream were, 'James\nRyan, 'twas you killed him, and not I--'twas you killed him, and not I.'\n\n\"Mrs. Mac Carthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of my mother,\nwhose presence seemed a great relief to her. She wept--the first\ntears, I was told, that she had shed since the fatal accident. She\nconducted us to Charles's room, who, she said, had desired to see us\nthe moment of our arrival, as he found his end approaching, and wished\nto devote the last hours of his existence to uninterrupted prayer and\nmeditation. We found him perfectly calm, resigned, and even cheerful.\nHe spoke of the awful event which was at hand with courage and\nconfidence, and treated it as a doom for which he had been preparing\never since his former remarkable illness, and which he never once\ndoubted was truly foretold to him. He bade us farewell with the air of\none who was about to travel a short and easy journey; and we left him\nwith impressions which, notwithstanding all their anguish, will, I\ntrust, never entirely forsake us.\n\n\"Poor Mrs. Mac Carthy----but I am just called away. There seems a\nslight stir in the family; perhaps----\"\n\nThe above letter was never finished. The enclosure to which it more\nthan once alludes told the sequel briefly, and it is all that I have\nfurther learned of the family of Mac Carthy. Before the sun had gone\ndown upon Charles's seven-and-twentieth birthday, his soul had gone to\nrender its last account to its Creator.\n\n\n\n\nGHOSTS.\n\n\nGhosts, or as they are called in Irish, _Thevshi_ or _Tash_\n(_taidhbhse_, _tais_), live in a state intermediary between this life\nand the next. They are held there by some earthly longing or affection,\nor some duty unfulfilled, or anger against the living. \"I will haunt\nyou,\" is a common threat; and one hears such phrases as, \"She will haunt\nhim, if she has any good in her.\" If one is sorrowing greatly after a\ndead friend, a neighbour will say, \"Be quiet now, you are keeping him\nfrom his rest;\" or, in the Western Isles, according to Lady Wilde, they\nwill tell you, \"You are waking the dog that watches to devour the souls\nof the dead.\" Those who die suddenly, more commonly than others, are\nbelieved to become haunting Ghosts. They go about moving the furniture,\nand in every way trying to attract attention.\n\nWhen the soul has left the body, it is drawn away, sometimes, by the\nfairies. I have a story of a peasant who once saw, sitting in a fairy\nrath, all who had died for years in his village. Such souls are\nconsidered lost. If a soul eludes the fairies, it may be snapped up by\nthe evil spirits. The weak souls of young children are in especial\ndanger. When a very young child dies, the western peasantry sprinkle\nthe threshold with the blood of a chicken, that the spirits may be\ndrawn away to the blood. A Ghost is compelled to obey the commands of\nthe living. \"The stable-boy up at Mrs. G----'s there,\" said an old\ncountryman, \"met the master going round the yards after he had been\ntwo days dead, and told him to be away with him to the lighthouse, and\nhaunt that; and there he is far out to sea still, sir. Mrs. G---- was\nquite wild about it, and dismissed the boy.\" A very desolate\nlighthouse poor devil of a Ghost! Lady Wilde considers it is only the\nspirits who are too bad for heaven, and too good for hell, who are\nthus plagued. They are compelled to obey some one they have wronged.\n\nThe souls of the dead sometimes take the shapes of animals. There is a\ngarden at Sligo where the gardener sees a previous owner in the shape\nof a rabbit. They will sometimes take the forms of insects, especially\nof butterflies. If you see one fluttering near a corpse, that is the\nsoul, and is a sign of its having entered upon immortal happiness. The\nauthor of the _Parochial Survey of Ireland_, 1814, heard a woman say\nto a child who was chasing a butterfly, \"How do you know it is not the\nsoul of your grandfather.\" On November eve the dead are abroad, and\ndance with the fairies.\n\nAs in Scotland, the fetch is commonly believed in. If you see the\ndouble, or fetch, of a friend in the morning, no ill follows; if at\nnight, he is about to die.\n\n\n\n\nA DREAM.\n\nWILLIAM ALLINGHAM.\n\n\n I heard the dogs howl in the moonlight night;\n I went to the window to see the sight;\n All the Dead that ever I knew\n Going one by one and two by two.\n\n On they pass'd, and on they pass'd;\n Townsfellows all, from first to last;\n Born in the moonlight of the lane,\n Quench'd in the heavy shadow again.\n\n Schoolmates, marching as when we play'd\n At soldiers once--but now more staid;\n Those were the strangest sight to me\n Who were drown'd, I knew, in the awful sea.\n\n Straight and handsome folk; bent and weak, too;\n Some that I loved, and gasp'd to speak to;\n Some but a day in their churchyard bed;\n Some that I had not known were dead.\n\n A long, long crowd--where each seem'd lonely,\n Yet of them all there was one, one only,\n Raised a head or look'd my way.\n She linger'd a moment,--she might not stay.\n\n How long since I saw that fair pale face!\n Ah! Mother dear! might I only place\n My head on thy breast, a moment to rest,\n While thy hand on my tearful cheek were prest!\n\n On, on, a moving bridge they made\n Across the moon-stream, from shade to shade,\n Young and old, women and men;\n Many long-forgot, but remember'd then.\n\n And first there came a bitter laughter;\n A sound of tears the moment after;\n And then a music so lofty and gay,\n That every morning, day by day,\n I strive to recall it if I may.\n\n\n\n\nGRACE CONNOR.\n\nMISS LETITIA MACLINTOCK.\n\n\nThady and Grace Connor lived on the borders of a large turf bog, in\nthe parish of Clondevaddock, where they could hear the Atlantic surges\nthunder in upon the shore, and see the wild storms of winter sweep\nover the Muckish mountain, and his rugged neighbours. Even in summer\nthe cabin by the bog was dull and dreary enough.\n\nThady Connor worked in the fields, and Grace made a livelihood as a\npedlar, carrying a basket of remnants of cloth, calico, drugget, and\nfrieze about the country. The people rarely visited any large town,\nand found it convenient to buy from Grace, who was welcomed in many a\nlonely house, where a table was hastily cleared, that she might\ndisplay her wares. Being considered a very honest woman, she was\nfrequently entrusted with commissions to the shops in Letterkenny and\nRamelton. As she set out towards home, her basket was generally laden\nwith little gifts for her children.\n\n\"Grace, dear,\" would one of the kind housewives say, \"here's a\nfarrel[16] of oaten cake, wi' a taste o' butter on it; tak' it wi' you\nfor the weans;\" or, \"Here's half-a-dozen of eggs; you've a big family\nto support.\"\n\nSmall Connors of all ages crowded round the weary mother, to rifle her\nbasket of these gifts. But her thrifty, hard life came suddenly to an\nend. She died after an illness of a few hours, and was waked and\nburied as handsomely as Thady could afford.\n\nThady was in bed the night after the funeral, and the fire still\nburned brightly, when he saw his departed wife cross the room and bend\nover the cradle. Terrified, he muttered rapid prayers, covered his\nface with the blanket; and on looking up again the appearance was gone.\n\nNext night he lifted the infant out of the cradle, and laid it behind\nhim in the bed, hoping thus to escape his ghostly visitor; but Grace\nwas presently in the room, and stretching over him to wrap up her\nchild. Shrinking and shuddering, the poor man exclaimed, \"Grace,\nwoman, what is it brings you back? What is it you want wi' me?\"\n\n\"I want naething fae you, Thady, but to put thon wean back in her\ncradle,\" replied the spectre, in a tone of scorn. \"You're too feared\nfor me, but my sister Rose willna be feared for me--tell her to meet\nme to-morrow evening, in the old wallsteads.\"\n\nRose lived with her mother, about a mile off, but she obeyed her\nsister's summons without the least fear, and kept the strange tryste\nin due time.\n\n\"Rose, dear,\" she said, as she appeared before her sister in the old\nwallsteads, \"my mind's oneasy about them twa' red shawls that's in the\nbasket. Matty Hunter and Jane Taggart paid me for them, an' I bought\nthem wi' their money, Friday was eight days. Gie them the shawls the\nmorrow. An' old Mosey McCorkell gied me the price o' a wiley coat;\nit's in under the other things in the basket. An' now farewell; I can\nget to my rest.\"\n\n\"Grace, Grace, bide a wee minute,\" cried the faithful sister, as the\ndear voice grew fainter, and the dear face began to fade--\"Grace,\ndarling! Thady? The children? One word mair!\" but neither cries nor\ntears could further detain the spirit hastening to its rest!\n\n[Footnote 16: When a large, round, flat griddle cake is divided into\ntriangular cuts, each of these cuts is called a farrel, farli, or\nparli.]\n\n\n\n\nA LEGEND OF TYRONE.\n\nELLEN O'LEARY.\n\n\n Crouched round a bare hearth in hard, frosty weather,\n Three lonely helpless weans cling close together;\n Tangled those gold locks, once bonnie and bright--\n There's no one to fondle the baby to-night.\n\n \"My mammie I want; oh! my mammie I want!\"\n The big tears stream down with the low wailing chant.\n Sweet Eily's slight arms enfold the gold head:\n \"Poor weeny Willie, sure mammie is dead--\n\n And daddie is crazy from drinking all day--\n Come down, holy angels, and take us away!\"\n Eily and Eddie keep kissing and crying--\n Outside, the weird winds are sobbing and sighing.\n\n All in a moment the children are still,\n Only a quick coo of gladness from Will.\n The sheeling no longer seems empty or bare,\n For, clothed in soft raiment, the mother stands there.\n\n They gather around her, they cling to her dress;\n She rains down soft kisses for each shy caress.\n Her light, loving touches smooth out tangled locks,\n And, pressed to her bosom, the baby she rocks.\n\n He lies in his cot, there's a fire on the hearth;\n To Eily and Eddy 'tis heaven on earth,\n For mother's deft fingers have been everywhere;\n She lulls them to rest in the low _suggaun_[17] chair.\n\n They gaze open-eyed, then the eyes gently close,\n As petals fold into the heart of a rose,\n But ope soon again in awe, love, but no fear,\n And fondly they murmur, \"Our mammie is here.\"\n\n She lays them down softly, she wraps them around;\n They lie in sweet slumbers, she starts at a sound,\n The cock loudly crows, and the spirit's away--\n The drunkard steals in at the dawning of day.\n\n Again and again, 'tween the dark and the dawn,\n Glides in the dead mother to nurse Willie Bawn:\n Or is it an angel who sits by the hearth?\n An angel in heaven, a mother on earth.\n\n[Footnote 17: Chair made of twisted straw ropes.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE BLACK LAMB.[18]\n\nLADY WILDE.\n\n\nIt is a custom amongst the people, when throwing away water at night,\nto cry out in a loud voice, \"Take care of the water;\" or literally,\nfrom the Irish, \"Away with yourself from the water\"--for they say that\nthe spirits of the dead last buried are then wandering about, and it\nwould be dangerous if the water fell on them.\n\nOne dark night a woman suddenly threw out a pail of boiling water\nwithout thinking of the warning words. Instantly a cry was heard, as\nof a person in pain, but no one was seen. However, the next night a\nblack lamb entered the house, having the back all fresh scalded, and\nit lay down moaning by the hearth and died. Then they all knew that\nthis was the spirit that had been scalded by the woman, and they\ncarried the dead lamb out reverently, and buried it deep in the earth.\nYet every night at the same hour it walked again into the house, and\nlay down, moaned, and died; and after this had happened many times,\nthe priest was sent for, and finally, by the strength of his exorcism,\nthe spirit of the dead was laid to rest; the black lamb appeared no\nmore. Neither was the body of the dead lamb found in the grave when\nthey searched for it, though it had been laid by their own hands deep\nin the earth, and covered with clay.\n\n[Footnote 18: _Ancient Legends of Ireland._]\n\n\n\n\nSONG OF THE GHOST.\n\nALFRED PERCIVAL GRAVES.\n\n\n When all were dreaming\n But Pastheen Power,\n A light came streaming\n Beneath her bower:\n A heavy foot\n At her door delayed,\n A heavy hand\n On the latch was laid.\n\n \"Now who dare venture,\n At this dark hour,\n Unbid to enter\n My maiden bower?\"\n \"Dear Pastheen, open\n The door to me,\n And your true lover\n You'll surely see.\"\n\n \"My own true lover,\n So tall and brave,\n Lives exiled over\n The angry wave.\"\n \"Your true love's body\n Lies on the bier,\n His faithful spirit\n Is with you here.\"\n\n \"His look was cheerful,\n His voice was gay;\n Your speech is fearful,\n Your face is grey;\n And sad and sunken\n Your eye of blue,\n But Patrick, Patrick,\n Alas! 'tis you!\"\n\n Ere dawn was breaking\n She heard below\n The two cocks shaking\n Their wings to crow.\n \"Oh, hush you, hush you,\n Both red and grey,\n Or you will hurry\n My love away.\n\n \"Oh, hush your crowing,\n Both grey and red,\n Or he'll be going\n To join the dead;\n Or, cease from calling\n His ghost to the mould,\n And I'll come crowning\n Your combs with gold.\"\n\n When all were dreaming\n But Pastheen Power,\n A light went streaming\n From out her bower;\n And on the morrow,\n When they awoke,\n They knew that sorrow\n Her heart had broke.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RADIANT BOY.\n\nMRS. CROW.\n\n\nCaptain Stewart, afterwards Lord Castlereagh, when he was a young man,\nhappened to be quartered in Ireland. He was fond of sport, and one day\nthe pursuit of game carried him so far that he lost his way, The\nweather, too, had become very rough, and in this strait he presented\nhimself at the door of a gentleman's house, and sending in his card,\nrequested shelter for the night. The hospitality of the Irish country\ngentry is proverbial; the master of the house received him warmly;\nsaid he feared he could not make him so comfortable as he could have\nwished, his house being full of visitors already, added to which, some\nstrangers, driven by the inclemency of the night, had sought shelter\nbefore him, but such accommodation as he could give he was heartily\nwelcome to; whereupon he called his butler, and committing the guest\nto his good offices, told him he must put him up somewhere, and do the\nbest he could for him. There was no lady, the gentleman being a widower.\n\nCaptain Stewart found the house crammed, and a very jolly party it\nwas. His host invited him to stay, and promised him good shooting if\nhe would prolong his visit a few days: and, in fine, he thought\nhimself extremely fortunate to have fallen into such pleasant quarters.\n\nAt length, after an agreeable evening, they all retired to bed, and\nthe butler conducted him to a large room, almost divested of\nfurniture, but with a blazing turf fire in the grate, and a shake-down\non the floor, composed of cloaks and other heterogeneous materials.\n\nNevertheless, to the tired limbs of Captain Stewart, who had had a\nhard day's shooting, it looked very inviting; but before he lay down,\nhe thought it advisable to take off some of the fire, which was\nblazing up the chimney in what he thought an alarming manner. Having\ndone this, he stretched himself on his couch and soon fell asleep.\n\nHe believed he had slept about a couple of hours when he awoke\nsuddenly, and was startled by such a vivid light in the room that he\nthought it on fire, but on turning to look at the grate he saw the\nfire was out, though it was from the chimney the light proceeded. He\nsat up in bed, trying to discover what it was, when he perceived the\nform of a beautiful naked boy, surrounded by a dazzling radiance. The\nboy looked at him earnestly, and then the vision faded, and all was\ndark. Captain Stewart, so far from supposing what he had seen to be of\na spiritual nature, had no doubt that the host, or the visitors, had\nbeen trying to frighten him. Accordingly, he felt indignant at the\nliberty, and on the following morning, when he appeared at breakfast,\nhe took care to evince his displeasure by the reserve of his\ndemeanour, and by announcing his intention to depart immediately. The\nhost expostulated, reminding him of his promise to stay and shoot.\nCaptain Stewart coldly excused himself, and, at length, the gentleman\nseeing something was wrong, took him aside, and pressed for an\nexplanation; whereupon Captain Stewart, without entering into\nparticulars, said he had been made the victim of a sort of practical\njoking that he thought quite unwarrantable with a stranger.\n\nThe gentleman considered this not impossible amongst a parcel of\nthoughtless young men, and appealed to them to make an apology; but\none and all, on honour, denied the impeachment. Suddenly a thought\nseemed to strike him; he clapt his hand to his forehead, uttered an\nexclamation, and rang the bell.\n\n\"Hamilton,\" said he to the butler; \"where did Captain Stewart sleep\nlast night?\"\n\n\"Well, sir,\" replied the man; \"you know every place was full--the\ngentlemen were lying on the floor, three or four in a room--so I gave\nhim the _Boy's Room_; but I lit a blazing fire to keep him from coming\nout.\"\n\n\"You were very wrong,\" said the host; \"you know I have positively\nforbidden you to put anyone there, and have taken the furniture out of\nthe room to ensure its not being occupied.\" Then, retiring with\nCaptain Stewart, he informed him, very gravely, of the nature of the\nphenomena he had seen; and at length, being pressed for further\ninformation, he confessed that there _existed_ a tradition in the\nfamily, that whoever the \"Radiant boy\" appeared to will rise to the\nsummit of power; and when he has reached the climax, will die a\nviolent death, and I must say, he added, that the records that have\nbeen kept of his appearance go to confirm this persuasion.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FATE OF FRANK M'KENNA.\n\nWILLIAM CARLETON.\n\n\nThere lived a man named M'Kenna at the hip of one of the mountainous\nhills which divide the county of Tyrone from that of Monaghan. This\nM'Kenna had two sons, one of whom was in the habit of tracing hares of\na Sunday whenever there happened to be a fall of snow. His father, it\nseems, had frequently remonstrated with him upon what he considered to\nbe a violation of the Lord's day, as well as for his general neglect\nof mass. The young man, however, though otherwise harmless and\ninoffensive, was in this matter quite insensible to paternal reproof,\nand continued to trace whenever the avocations of labour would allow\nhim. It so happened that upon a Christmas morning, I think in the year\n1814, there was a deep fall of snow, and young M'Kenna, instead of\ngoing to mass, got down his cock-stick--which is a staff much thicker\nand heavier at one end than at the other--and prepared to set out on\nhis favourite amusement. His father, seeing this, reproved him\nseriously, and insisted that he should attend prayers. His enthusiasm\nfor the sport, however, was stronger than his love of religion, and he\nrefused to be guided by his father's advice. The old man during the\naltercation got warm; and on finding that the son obstinately scorned\nhis authority, he knelt down and prayed that if the boy persisted in\nfollowing his own will, he might never return from the mountains\nunless as a corpse. The imprecation, which was certainly as harsh as\nit was impious and senseless, might have startled many a mind from a\npurpose that was, to say the least of it, at variance with religion\nand the respect due to a father. It had no effect, however, upon the\nson, who is said to have replied, that whether he ever returned or\nnot, he was determined on going; and go accordingly he did. He was\nnot, however, alone, for it appears that three or four of the\nneighbouring young men accompanied him. Whether their sport was good\nor otherwise, is not to the purpose, neither am I able to say; but the\nstory goes that towards the latter part of the day they started a\nlarger and darker hare than any they had ever seen, and that she kept\ndodging on before them bit by bit, leading them to suppose that every\nsucceeding cast of the cock-stick would bring her down. It was\nobserved afterwards that she also led them into the recesses of the\nmountains, and that although they tried to turn her course homewards,\nthey could not succeed in doing so. As evening advanced, the\ncompanions of M'Kenna began to feel the folly of pursuing her farther,\nand to perceive the danger of losing their way in the mountains should\nnight or a snow-storm come upon them. They therefore proposed to give\nover the chase and return home; but M'Kenna would not hear of it. \"If\nyou wish to go home, you may,\" said he; \"as for me, I'll never leave\nthe hills till I have her with me.\" They begged and entreated of him\nto desist and return, but all to no purpose: he appeared to be what\nthe Scotch call _fey_--that is, to act as if he were moved by some\nimpulse that leads to death, and from the influence of which a man\ncannot withdraw himself. At length, on finding him invincibly\nobstinate, they left him pursuing the hare directly into the heart of\nthe mountains, and returned to their respective homes.\n\nIn the meantime one of the most terrible snow-storms ever remembered\nin that part of the country came on, and the consequence was, that the\nself-willed young man, who had equally trampled on the sanctities of\nreligion and parental authority, was given over for lost. As soon as\nthe tempest became still, the neighbours assembled in a body and\nproceeded to look for him. The snow, however, had fallen so heavily\nthat not a single mark of a footstep could be seen. Nothing but one\nwide waste of white undulating hills met the eye wherever it turned,\nand of M'Kenna no trace whatever was visible or could be found. His\nfather, now remembering the unnatural character of his imprecation,\nwas nearly distracted; for although the body had not yet been found,\nstill by every one who witnessed the sudden rage of the storm and who\nknew the mountains, escape or survival was felt to be impossible.\nEvery day for about a week large parties were out among the\nhill-ranges seeking him, but to no purpose. At length there came a\nthaw, and his body was found on a snow-wreath, lying in a supine\nposture within a circle which he had drawn around him with his\ncock-stick. His prayer-book lay opened upon his mouth, and his hat was\npulled down so as to cover it and his face. It is unnecessary to say\nthat the rumour of his death, and of the circumstances under which he\nleft home, created a most extraordinary sensation in the country--a\nsensation that was the greater in proportion to the uncertainty\noccasioned by his not having been found either alive or dead. Some\naffirmed that he had crossed the mountains, and was seen in Monaghan;\nothers, that he had been seen in Clones, in Emyvale, in\nFive-mile-town; but despite of all these agreeable reports, the\nmelancholy truth was at length made clear by the appearance of the\nbody as just stated.\n\nNow, it so happened that the house nearest the spot where he lay was\ninhabited by a man named Daly, I think--but of the name I am not\ncertain--who was a herd or care-taker to Dr. Porter, then Bishop of\nClogher. The situation of this house was the most lonely and\ndesolate-looking that could be imagined. It was at least two miles\ndistant from any human habitation, being surrounded by one wide and\ndreary waste of dark moor. By this house lay the route of those who\nhad found the corpse, and I believe the door of it was borrowed for\nthe purpose of conveying it home. Be this as it may, the family\nwitnessed the melancholy procession as it passed slowly through the\nmountains, and when the place and circumstances are all considered, we\nmay admit that to ignorant and superstitious people, whose minds, even\nupon ordinary occasions, were strongly affected by such matters, it\nwas a sight calculated to leave behind it a deep, if not a terrible\nimpression. Time soon proved that it did so.\n\nAn incident is said to have occurred at the funeral in fine keeping with\nthe wild spirit of the whole melancholy event. When the procession had\nadvanced to a place called Mullaghtinny, a large dark-coloured hare,\nwhich was instantly recognised, by those who had been out with him on\nthe hills, as the identical one that led him to his fate, is said to\nhave crossed the roads about twenty yards or so before the coffin. The\nstory goes, that a man struck it on the side with a stone, and that the\nblow, which would have killed any ordinary hare, not only did it no\ninjury, but occasioned a sound to proceed from the body resembling the\nhollow one emitted by an empty barrel when struck.\n\nIn the meantime the interment took place, and the sensation began,\nlike every other, to die away in the natural progress of time, when,\nbehold, a report ran abroad like wild-fire that, to use the language\nof the people, \"Frank M'Kenna was _appearing_!\"\n\nOne night, about a fortnight after his funeral, the daughter of Daly,\nthe herd, a girl about fourteen, while lying in bed saw what appeared\nto be the likeness of M'Kenna, who had been lost. She screamed out,\nand covering her head with the bed-clothes, told her father and mother\nthat Frank M'Kenna was in the house. This alarming intelligence\nnaturally produced great terror; still, Daly, who, notwithstanding his\nbelief in such matters, possessed a good deal of moral courage, was\ncool enough to rise and examine the house, which consisted of only one\napartment. This gave the daughter some courage, who, on finding that\nher father could not see him, ventured to look out, and she _then_\ncould see nothing of him herself. She very soon fell asleep, and her\nfather attributed what she saw to fear, or some accidental combination\nof shadows proceeding from the furniture, for it was a clear moonlight\nnight. The light of the following day dispelled a great deal of their\napprehensions, and comparatively little was thought of it until\nevening again advanced, when the fears of the daughter began to\nreturn. They appeared to be prophetic, for she said when night came\nthat she knew he would appear again; and accordingly at the same hour\nhe did so. This was repeated for several successive nights, until the\ngirl, from the very hardihood of terror, began to become so far\nfamiliarised to the spectre as to venture to address it.\n\n\"In the name of God!\" she asked, \"what is troubling you, or why do you\nappear to me instead of to some of your own family or relations?\"\n\nThe ghost's answer alone might settle the question involved in the\nauthenticity of its appearance, being, as it was, an account of one of\nthe most ludicrous missions that ever a spirit was despatched upon.\n\n\"I'm not allowed,\" said he, \"to spake to any of my friends, for I\nparted wid them in anger; but I'm come to tell you that they are\nquarrelin' about my breeches--a new pair that I got made for Christmas\nday; an' as I was comin' up to thrace in the mountains, I thought the\nould one 'ud do betther, an' of coorse I didn't put the new pair an\nme. My raison for appearin',\" he added, \"is, that you may tell my\nfriends that none of them is to wear them--they must be given in\ncharity.\"\n\nThis serious and solemn intimation from the ghost was duly\ncommunicated to the family, and it was found that the circumstances\nwere exactly as it had represented them. This, of course, was\nconsidered as sufficient proof of the truth of its mission. Their\nconversations now became not only frequent, but quite friendly and\nfamiliar. The girl became a favourite with the spectre, and the\nspectre, on the other hand, soon lost all his terrors in her eyes. He\ntold her that whilst his friends were bearing home his body, the\nhandspikes or poles on which they carried him had cut his back, and\n_occasioned him great pain_! The cutting of the back also was known to\nbe true, and strengthened, of course, the truth and authenticity of\ntheir dialogues. The whole neighbourhood was now in a commotion with\nthis story of the apparition, and persons incited by curiosity began\nto visit the girl in order to satisfy themselves of the truth of what\nthey had heard. Everything, however, was corroborated, and the child\nherself, without any symptoms of anxiety or terror, artlessly related\nher conversations with the spirit. Hitherto their interviews had been\nall nocturnal, but now that the ghost found his footing made good, he\nput a hardy face on, and ventured to appear by daylight. The girl also\nfell into states of syncope, and while the fits lasted, long\nconversations with him upon the subject of God, the blessed Virgin,\nand Heaven, took place between them. He was certainly an excellent\nmoralist, and gave the best advice. Swearing, drunkenness, theft, and\nevery evil propensity of our nature, were declaimed against with a\ndegree of spectral eloquence quite surprising. Common fame had now a\ntopic dear to her heart, and never was a ghost made more of by his\nbest friends than she made of him. The whole country was in a tumult,\nand I well remember the crowds which flocked to the lonely little\ncabin in the mountains, now the scene of matters so interesting and\nimportant. Not a single day passed in which I should think from ten to\ntwenty, thirty, or fifty persons, were not present at these singular\ninterviews. Nothing else was talked of, thought of, and, as I can well\ntestify, dreamt of. I would myself have gone to Daly's were it not for\na confounded misgiving I had, that perhaps the ghost might take such a\nfancy of appearing to _me_, as he had taken to cultivate an intimacy\nwith the girl; and it so happens, that when I see the face of an\nindividual nailed down in the coffin--chilling and gloomy\noperation!--I experience no particular wish to look upon it again.\n\nThe spot where the body of M'Kenna was found is now marked by a little\nheap of stones, which has been collected since the melancholy event of\nhis death. Every person who passes it throws a stone upon the heap;\nbut why this old custom is practised, or what it means, I do not know,\nunless it be simply to mark the spot as a visible means of preserving\nthe memory of the occurrence.\n\nDaly's house, the scene of the supposed apparition, is now a shapeless\nruin, which could scarcely be seen were it not for the green spot that\nonce was a garden, and which now shines at a distance like an emerald,\nbut with no agreeable or pleasing associations. It is a spot which no\nsolitary schoolboy will ever visit, nor indeed would the unflinching\nbeliever in the popular nonsense of ghosts wish to pass it without a\ncompanion. It is, under any circumstances, a gloomy and barren place;\nbut when looked upon in connection with what we have just recited, it\nis lonely, desolate, and awful.\n\n\n\n\nWITCHES, FAIRY DOCTORS.\n\n\nWitches and fairy doctors receive their power from opposite dynasties;\nthe witch from evil spirits and her own malignant will; the fairy\ndoctor from the fairies, and a something--a temperament--that is born\nwith him or her. The first is always feared and hated. The second is\ngone to for advice, and is never worse than mischievous. The most\ncelebrated fairy doctors are sometimes people the fairies loved and\ncarried away, and kept with them for seven years; not that those the\nfairies' love are always carried off--they may merely grow silent and\nstrange, and take to lonely wanderings in the \"gentle\" places. Such\nwill, in after-times, be great poets or musicians, or fairy doctors;\nthey must not be confused with those who have a _Lianhaun shee_\n[_leann\u00e1n-sidhe_], for the _Lianhaun shee_ lives upon the vitals of\nits chosen, and they waste and die. She is of the dreadful solitary\nfairies. To her have belonged the greatest of the Irish poets, from\nOisin down to the last century.\n\nThose we speak of have for their friends the trooping fairies--the gay\nand sociable populace of raths and caves. Great is their knowledge of\nherbs and spells. These doctors, when the butter will not come on the\nmilk, or the milk will not come from the cow, will be sent for to find\nout if the cause be in the course of common nature or if there has\nbeen witchcraft. Perhaps some old hag in the shape of a hare has been\nmilking the cattle. Perhaps some user of \"the dead hand\" has drawn\naway the butter to her own churn. Whatever it be, there is the\ncounter-charm. They will give advice, too, in cases of suspected\nchangelings, and prescribe for the \"fairy blast\" (when the fairy\nstrikes any one a tumour rises, or they become paralysed. This is\ncalled a \"fairy blast\" or a \"fairy stroke\"). The fairies are, of\ncourse, visible to them, and many a new-built house have they bid the\nowner pull down because it lay on the fairies' road. Lady Wilde thus\ndescribes one who lived in Innis Sark:--\"He never touched beer,\nspirits, or meat in all his life, but has lived entirely on bread,\nfruit, and vegetables. A man who knew him thus describes him--'Winter\nand summer his dress is the same--merely a flannel shirt and coat. He\nwill pay his share at a feast, but neither eats nor drinks of the food\nand drink set before him. He speaks no English, and never could be\nmade to learn the English tongue, though he says it might be used with\ngreat effect to curse one's enemy. He holds a burial-ground sacred,\nand would not carry away so much as a leaf of ivy from a grave. And he\nmaintains that the people are right to keep to their ancient usages,\nsuch as never to dig a grave on a Monday, and to carry the coffin\nthree times round the grave, following the course of the sun, for then\nthe dead rest in peace. Like the people, also, he holds suicides as\naccursed; for they believe that all its dead turn over on their faces\nif a suicide is laid amongst them.\n\n\"'Though well off, he never, even in his youth, thought of taking a\nwife; nor was he ever known to love a woman. He stands quite apart from\nlife, and by this means holds his power over the mysteries. No money\nwill tempt him to impart his knowledge to another, for if he did he\nwould be struck dead--so he believes. He would not touch a hazel stick,\nbut carries an ash wand, which he holds in his hand when he prays, laid\nacross his knees; and the whole of his life is devoted to works of grace\nand charity, and though now an old man, he has never had a day's\nsickness. No one has ever seen him in a rage, nor heard an angry word\nfrom his lips but once, and then being under great irritation, he\nrecited the Lord's Prayer backwards as an imprecation on his enemy.\nBefore his death he will reveal the mystery of his power, but not till\nthe hand of death is on him for certain.'\" When he does reveal it, we\nmay be sure it will be to one person only--his successor. There are\nseveral such doctors in County Sligo, really well up in herbal medicine\nby all accounts, and my friends find them in their own counties. All\nthese things go on merrily. The spirit of the age laughs in vain, and is\nitself only a ripple to pass, or already passing, away.\n\nThe spells of the witch are altogether different; they smell of the\ngrave. One of the most powerful is the charm of the dead hand. With a\nhand cut from a corpse they, muttering words of power, will stir a\nwell and skim from its surface a neighbour's butter.\n\nA candle held between the fingers of the dead hand can never be blown\nout. This is useful to robbers, but they appeal for the suffrage of\nthe lovers likewise, for they can make love-potions by drying and\ngrinding into powder the liver of a black cat. Mixed with tea, and\npoured from a black teapot, it is infallible. There are many stories\nof its success in quite recent years, but, unhappily, the spell must\nbe continually renewed, or all the love may turn into hate. But the\ncentral notion of witchcraft everywhere is the power to change into\nsome fictitious form, usually in Ireland a hare or a cat. Long ago a\nwolf was the favourite. Before Giraldus Cambrensis came to Ireland, a\nmonk wandering in a forest at night came upon two wolves, one of whom\nwas dying. The other entreated him to give the dying wolf the last\nsacrament. He said the mass, and paused when he came to the viaticum.\nThe other, on seeing this, tore the skin from the breast of the dying\nwolf, laying bare the form of an old woman. Thereon the monk gave the\nsacrament. Years afterwards he confessed the matter, and when Giraldus\nvisited the country, was being tried by the synod of the bishops. To\ngive the sacrament to an animal was a great sin. Was it a human being\nor an animal? On the advice of Giraldus they sent the monk, with\npapers describing the matter, to the Pope for his decision. The result\nis not stated.\n\nGiraldus himself was of opinion that the wolf-form was an illusion,\nfor, as he argued, only God can change the form. His opinion coincides\nwith tradition, Irish and otherwise.\n\nIt is the notion of many who have written about these things that magic\nis mainly the making of such illusions. Patrick Kennedy tells a story of\na girl who, having in her hand a sod of grass containing, unknown to\nherself, a four-leaved shamrock, watched a conjurer at a fair. Now, the\nfour-leaved shamrock guards its owner from all _pishogues_ (spells), and\nwhen the others were staring at a cock carrying along the roof of a shed\na huge beam in its bill, she asked them what they found to wonder at in\na cock with a straw. The conjurer begged from her the sod of grass, to\ngive to his horse, he said. Immediately she cried out in terror that the\nbeam would fall and kill somebody.\n\nThis, then, is to be remembered--the form of an enchanted thing is a\nfiction and a caprice.\n\n\n\n\nBEWITCHED BUTTER (DONEGAL).\n\nMISS LETITIA MACLINTOCK.\n\n\nNot far from Rathmullen lived, last spring, a family called Hanlon;\nand in a farm-house, some fields distant, people named Dogherty. Both\nfamilies had good cows, but the Hanlons were fortunate in possessing a\nKerry cow that gave more milk and yellower butter than the others.\n\nGrace Dogherty, a young girl, who was more admired than loved in the\nneighbourhood, took much interest in the Kerry cow, and appeared one\nnight at Mrs. Hanlon's door with the modest request--\n\n\"Will you let me milk your Moiley cow?\"\n\n\"An' why wad you wish to milk wee Moiley, Grace, dear?\" inquired Mrs.\nHanlon.\n\n\"Oh, just becase you're sae throng at the present time.\"\n\n\"Thank you kindly, Grace, but I'm no too throng to do my ain work.\nI'll no trouble you to milk.\"\n\nThe girl turned away with a discontented air; but the next evening,\nand the next, found her at the cow-house door with the same request.\n\nAt length Mrs. Hanlon, not knowing well how to persist in her refusal,\nyielded, and permitted Grace to milk the Kerry cow.\n\nShe soon had reason to regret her want of firmness. Moiley gave no\nmore milk to her owner.\n\nWhen this melancholy state of things lasted for three days, the\nHanlons applied to a certain Mark McCarrion, who lived near Binion.\n\n\"That cow has been milked by someone with an evil eye,\" said he. \"Will\nshe give you a wee drop, do you think? The full of a pint measure wad\ndo.\"\n\n\"Oh, ay, Mark, dear; I'll get that much milk frae her, any way.\"\n\n\"Weel, Mrs. Hanlon, lock the door, an' get nine new pins that was\nnever used in clothes, an' put them into a saucepan wi' the pint o'\nmilk. Set them on the fire, an' let them come to the boil.\"\n\nThe nine pins soon began to simmer in Moiley's[19] milk.\n\nRapid steps were heard approaching the door, agitated knocks followed,\nand Grace Dogherty's high-toned voice was raised in eager entreaty.\n\n\"Let me in, Mrs. Hanlon!\" she cried. \"Tak off that cruel pot! Tak out\nthem pins, for they're pricking holes in my heart, an' I'll never\noffer to touch milk of yours again.\"\n\n [There is hardly a village in Ireland where the milk is not thus\n believed to have been stolen times upon times. There are many\n counter-charms. Sometimes the coulter of a plough will be heated\n red-hot, and the witch will rush in, crying out that she is\n burning. A new horse-shoe or donkey-shoe, heated and put under\n the churn, with three straws, if possible, stolen at midnight\n from over the witches' door, is quite infallible.--ED.]\n\n[Footnote 19: In Connaught called a \"mweeal\" cow--_i.e._, a cow\nwithout horns. Irish _maol_, literally, blunt. When the new hammerless\nbreech-loaders came into use two or three years ago, Mr. Douglas Hyde\nheard a Connaught gentleman speak of them as the \"mweeal\" guns,\nbecause they had no cocks.]\n\n\n\n\nA QUEEN'S COUNTY WITCH[20]\n\n\nIt was about eighty years ago, in the month of May, that a Roman\nCatholic clergyman, near Rathdowney, in the Queen's County, was\nawakened at midnight to attend a dying man in a distant part of the\nparish. The priest obeyed without a murmur, and having performed his\nduty to the expiring sinner, saw him depart this world before he left\nthe cabin. As it was yet dark, the man who had called on the priest\noffered to accompany him home, but he refused, and set forward on his\njourney alone. The grey dawn began to appear over the hills. The good\npriest was highly enraptured with the beauty of the scene, and rode\non, now gazing intently at every surrounding object, and again cutting\nwith his whip at the bats and big beautiful night-flies which flitted\never and anon from hedge to hedge across his lonely way. Thus engaged,\nhe journeyed on slowly, until the nearer approach of sunrise began to\nrender objects completely discernible, when he dismounted from his\nhorse, and slipping his arm out of the rein, and drawing forth his\n\"Breviary\" from his pocket, he commenced reading his \"morning office\"\nas he walked leisurely along.\n\nHe had not proceeded very far, when he observed his horse, a very\nspirited animal, endeavouring to stop on the road, and gazing intently\ninto a field on one side of the way where there were three or four\ncows grazing. However, he did not pay any particular attention to this\ncircumstance, but went on a little farther, when the horse suddenly\nplunged with great violence, and endeavoured to break away by force.\nThe priest with great difficulty succeeded in restraining him, and,\nlooking at him more closely, observed him shaking from head to foot,\nand sweating profusely. He now stood calmly, and refused to move from\nwhere he was, nor could threats or entreaty induce him to proceed. The\nfather was greatly astonished, but recollecting to have often heard of\nhorses labouring under affright being induced to go by blindfolding\nthem, he took out his handkerchief and tied it across his eyes. He\nthen mounted, and, striking him gently, he went forward without\nreluctance, but still sweating and trembling violently. They had not\ngone far, when they arrived opposite a narrow path or bridle-way,\nflanked at either side by a tall, thick hedge, which led from the high\nroad to the field where the cows were grazing. The priest happened by\nchance to look into the lane, and saw a spectacle which made the blood\ncurdle in his veins. It was the legs of a man from the hips downwards,\nwithout head or body, trotting up the avenue at a smart pace. The good\nfather was very much alarmed, but, being a man of strong nerve, he\nresolved, come what might, to stand, and be further acquainted with\nthis singular spectre. He accordingly stood, and so did the headless\napparition, as if afraid to approach him. The priest, observing this,\npulled back a little from the entrance of the avenue, and the phantom\nagain resumed its progress. It soon arrived on the road, and the\npriest now had sufficient opportunity to view it minutely. It wore\nyellow buckskin breeches, tightly fastened at the knees with green\nribbon; it had neither shoes nor stockings on, and its legs were\ncovered with long, red hairs, and all full of wet, blood, and clay,\napparently contracted in its progress through the thorny hedges. The\npriest, although very much alarmed, felt eager to examine the phantom,\nand for this purpose summoned all his philosophy to enable him to\nspeak to it. The ghost was now a little ahead, pursuing its march at\nits usual brisk trot, and the priest urged on his horse speedily until\nhe came up with it, and thus addressed it--\n\n\"Hilloa, friend! who art thou, or whither art thou going so early?\"\n\nThe hideous spectre made no reply, but uttered a fierce and superhuman\ngrowl, or \"Umph.\"\n\n\"A fine morning for ghosts to wander abroad,\" again said the priest.\n\nAnother \"Umph\" was the reply.\n\n\"Why don't you speak?\"\n\n\"Umph.\"\n\n\"You don't seem disposed to be very loquacious this morning.\"\n\n\"Umph,\" again.\n\nThe good man began to feel irritated at the obstinate silence of his\nunearthly visitor, and said, with some warmth--\n\n\"In the name of all that's sacred, I command you to answer me, Who art\nthou, or where art thou travelling?\"\n\nAnother \"Umph,\" more loud and more angry than before, was the only\nreply.\n\n\"Perhaps,\" said the father, \"a taste of whipcord might render you a\nlittle more communicative;\" and so saying, he struck the apparition a\nheavy blow with his whip on the breech.\n\nThe phantom uttered a wild and unearthly yell, and fell forward on the\nroad, and what was the priest's astonishment when he perceived the\nwhole place running over with milk. He was struck dumb with amazement;\nthe prostrate phantom still continued to eject vast quantities of milk\nfrom every part; the priest's head swam, his eyes got dizzy; a stupor\ncame all over him for some minutes, and on his recovering, the\nfrightful spectre had vanished, and in its stead he found stretched on\nthe road, and half drowned in milk, the form of Sarah Kennedy, an old\nwoman of the neighbourhood, who had been long notorious in that\ndistrict for her witchcraft and superstitious practices, and it was\nnow discovered that she had, by infernal aid, assumed that monstrous\nshape, and was employed that morning in sucking the cows of the\nvillage. Had a volcano burst forth at his feet, he could not be more\nastonished; he gazed awhile in silent amazement--the old woman\ngroaning, and writhing convulsively.\n\n\"Sarah,\" said he, at length, \"I have long admonished you to repent of\nyour evil ways, but you were deaf to my entreaties; and now, wretched\nwoman, you are surprised in the midst of your crimes.\"\n\n\"Oh, father, father,\" shouted the unfortunate woman, \"can you do nothing\nto save me? I am lost; hell is open for me, and legions of devils\nsurround me this moment, waiting to carry my soul to perdition.\"\n\nThe priest had not power to reply; the old wretch's pains increased; her\nbody swelled to an immense size; her eyes flashed as if on fire, her\nface was black as night, her entire form writhed in a thousand different\ncontortions; her outcries were appalling, her face sunk, her eyes\nclosed, and in a few minutes she expired in the most exquisite tortures.\n\nThe priest departed homewards, and called at the next cabin to give\nnotice of the strange circumstances. The remains of Sarah Kennedy were\nremoved to her cabin, situate at the edge of a small wood at a little\ndistance. She had long been a resident in that neighbourhood, but\nstill she was a stranger, and came there no one knew from whence. She\nhad no relation in that country but one daughter, now advanced in\nyears, who resided with her. She kept one cow, but sold more butter,\nit was said, than any farmer in the parish, and it was generally\nsuspected that she acquired it by devilish agency, as she never made a\nsecret of being intimately acquainted with sorcery and fairyism. She\nprofessed the Roman Catholic religion, but never complied with the\npractices enjoined by that church, and her remains were denied\nChristian sepulture, and were buried in a sand-pit near her own cabin.\n\nOn the evening of her burial, the villagers assembled and burned her\ncabin to the earth. Her daughter made her escape, and never after\nreturned.\n\n[Footnote 20: _Dublin University Review, 1839._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WITCH HARE.\n\nMR. AND MRS. S. C. HALL.\n\n\nI was out thracking hares meeself, and I seen a fine puss of a thing\nhopping, hopping in the moonlight, and whacking her ears about, now\nup, now down, and winking her great eyes, and--\"Here goes,\" says I,\nand the thing was so close to me that she turned round and looked at\nme, and then bounced back, as well as to say, do your worst! So I had\nthe least grain in life of _blessed powder_ left, and I put it in the\ngun--and bang at her! My jewel, the scritch she gave would frighten a\nrigment, and a mist, like, came betwixt me and her, and I seen her no\nmore; but when the mist wint off I saw blood on the spot where she had\nbeen, and I followed its track, and at last it led me--whist,\nwhisper--right up to Katey MacShane's door; and when I was at the\nthrashold, I heerd a murnin' within, a great murnin', and a groanin',\nand I opened the door, and there she was herself, sittin' quite\ncontent in the shape of a woman, and the black cat that was sittin' by\nher rose up its back and spit at me; but I went on never heedin', and\nasked the ould ---- how she was and what ailed her.\n\n\"Nothing,\" sis she.\n\n\"What's that on the floor?\" sis I.\n\n\"Oh,\" she says, \"I was cuttin' a billet of wood,\" she says, \"wid the\nreaping hook,\" she says, \"an' I've wounded meself in the leg,\" she\nsays, \"and that's drops of my precious blood,\" she says.\n\n\n\n\nBEWITCHED BUTTER (QUEEN'S COUNTY).[21]\n\n\nAbout the commencement of the last century there lived in the vicinity\nof the once famous village of Aghavoe[22] a wealthy farmer, named\nBryan Costigan. This man kept an extensive dairy and a great many\nmilch cows, and every year made considerable sums by the sale of milk\nand butter. The luxuriance of the pasture lands in this neighbourhood\nhas always been proverbial; and, consequently, Bryan's cows were the\nfinest and most productive in the country, and his milk and butter the\nrichest and sweetest, and brought the highest price at every market at\nwhich he offered these articles for sale.\n\nThings continued to go on thus prosperously with Bryan Costigan, when,\none season, all at once, he found his cattle declining in appearance,\nand his dairy almost entirely profitless. Bryan, at first, attributed\nthis change to the weather, or some such cause, but soon found or\nfancied reasons to assign it to a far different source. The cows,\nwithout any visible disorder, daily declined, and were scarcely able\nto crawl about on their pasture: many of them, instead of milk, gave\nnothing but blood; and the scanty quantity of milk which some of them\ncontinued to supply was so bitter that even the pigs would not drink\nit; whilst the butter which it produced was of such a bad quality, and\nstunk so horribly, that the very dogs would not eat it. Bryan applied\nfor remedies to all the quacks and \"fairy-women\" in the country--but\nin vain. Many of the impostors declared that the mysterious malady in\nhis cattle went beyond _their_ skill; whilst others, although they\nfound no difficulty in tracing it to superhuman agency, declared that\nthey had no control in the matter, as the charm under the influence of\nwhich his property was made away with, was too powerful to be\ndissolved by anything less than the special interposition of Divine\nProvidence. The poor farmer became almost distracted; he saw ruin\nstaring him in the face; yet what was he to do? Sell his cattle and\npurchase others! No; that was out of the question, as they looked so\nmiserable and emaciated, that no one would even take them as a\npresent, whilst it was also impossible to sell to a butcher, as the\nflesh of one which he killed for his own family was as black as a\ncoal, and stunk like any putrid carrion.\n\nThe unfortunate man was thus completely bewildered. He knew not what\nto do; he became moody and stupid; his sleep forsook him by night,\nand all day he wandered about the fields, amongst his \"fairy-stricken\"\ncattle like a maniac.\n\nAffairs continued in this plight, when one very sultry evening in the\nlatter days of July, Bryan Costigan's wife was sitting at her own\ndoor, spinning at her wheel, in a very gloomy and agitated state of\nmind. Happening to look down the narrow green lane which led from the\nhigh road to her cabin, she espied a little old woman barefoot, and\nenveloped in an old scarlet cloak, approaching slowly, with the aid of\na crutch which she carried in one hand, and a cane or walking-stick in\nthe other. The farmer's wife felt glad at seeing the odd-looking\nstranger; she smiled, and yet she knew not why, as she neared the\nhouse. A vague and indefinable feeling of pleasure crowded on her\nimagination; and, as the old woman gained the threshold, she bade her\n\"welcome\" with a warmth which plainly told that her lips gave\nutterance but to the genuine feelings of her heart.\n\n\"God bless this good house and all belonging to it,\" said the stranger\nas she entered.\n\n\"God save you kindly, and you are welcome, whoever you are,\" replied\nMrs. Costigan.\n\n\"Hem, I thought so,\" said the old woman with a significant grin. \"I\nthought so, or I wouldn't trouble you.\"\n\nThe farmer's wife ran, and placed a chair near the fire for the\nstranger; but she refused, and sat on the ground near where Mrs. C.\nhad been spinning. Mrs. Costigan had now time to survey the old hag's\nperson minutely. She appeared of great age; her countenance was\nextremely ugly and repulsive; her skin was rough and deeply embrowned\nas if from long exposure to the effects of some tropical climate; her\nforehead was low, narrow, and indented with a thousand wrinkles; her\nlong grey hair fell in matted elf-locks from beneath a white linen\nskull-cap; her eyes were bleared, blood-shotten, and obliquely set in\ntheir sockets, and her voice was croaking, tremulous, and, at times,\npartially inarticulate. As she squatted on the floor, she looked round\nthe house with an inquisitive gaze; she peered pryingly from corner\nto corner, with an earnestness of look, as if she had the faculty,\nlike the Argonaut of old, to see through the very depths of the earth,\nwhilst Mrs. C. kept watching her motions with mingled feelings of\ncuriosity, awe, and pleasure.\n\n\"Mrs.,\" said the old woman, at length breaking silence, \"I am dry with\nthe heat of the day; can you give me a drink?\"\n\n\"Alas!\" replied the farmer's wife, \"I have no drink to offer you\nexcept water, else you would have no occasion to ask me for it.\"\n\n\"Are you not the owner of the cattle I see yonder?\" said the old hag,\nwith a tone of voice and manner of gesticulation which plainly\nindicated her foreknowledge of the fact.\n\nMrs. Costigan replied in the affirmative, and briefly related to her\nevery circumstance connected with the affair, whilst the old woman\nstill remained silent, but shook her grey head repeatedly; and still\ncontinued gazing round the house with an air of importance and\nself-sufficiency.\n\nWhen Mrs. C. had ended, the old hag remained a while as if in a deep\nreverie: at length she said--\n\n\"Have you any of the milk in the house?\"\n\n\"I have,\" replied the other.\n\n\"Show me some of it.\"\n\nShe filled a jug from a vessel and handed it to the old sybil, who\nsmelled it, then tasted it, and spat out what she had taken on the\nfloor.\n\n\"Where is your husband?\" she asked.\n\n\"Out in the fields,\" was the reply.\n\n\"I must see him.\"\n\nA messenger was despatched for Bryan, who shortly after made his\nappearance.\n\n\"Neighbour,\" said the stranger, \"your wife informs me that your cattle\nare going against you this season.\"\n\n\"She informs you right,\" said Bryan.\n\n\"And why have you not sought a cure?\"\n\n\"A cure!\" re-echoed the man; \"why, woman, I have sought cures until I\nwas heart-broken, and all in vain; they get worse every day.\"\n\n\"What will you give me if I cure them for you?\"\n\n\"Anything in our power,\" replied Bryan and his wife, both speaking\njoyfully, and with a breath.\n\n\"All I will ask from you is a silver sixpence, and that you will do\neverything which I will bid you,\" said she.\n\nThe farmer and his wife seemed astonished at the moderation of her\ndemand. They offered her a large sum of money.\n\n\"No,\" said she, \"I don't want your money; I am no cheat, and I would\nnot even take sixpence, but that I can do nothing till I handle some\nof your silver.\"\n\nThe sixpence was immediately given her, and the most implicit\nobedience promised to her injunctions by both Bryan and his wife, who\nalready began to regard the old beldame as their tutelary angel.\n\nThe hag pulled off a black silk ribbon or fillet which encircled her\nhead inside her cap, and gave it to Bryan, saying--\n\n\"Go, now, and the first cow you touch with this ribbon, turn her into\nthe yard, but be sure don't touch the second, nor speak a word until\nyou return; be also careful not to let the ribbon touch the ground,\nfor, if you do, all is over.\"\n\nBryan took the talismanic ribbon, and soon returned, driving a red cow\nbefore him.\n\nThe old hag went out, and, approaching the cow, commenced pulling hairs\nout of her tail, at the same time singing some verses in the Irish\nlanguage in a low, wild, and unconnected strain. The cow appeared\nrestive and uneasy, but the old witch still continued her mysterious\nchant until she had the ninth hair extracted. She then ordered the cow\nto be drove back to her pasture, and again entered the house.\n\n\"Go, now,\" said she to the woman, \"and bring me some milk from every\ncow in your possession.\"\n\nShe went, and soon returned with a large pail filled with a\nfrightful-looking mixture of milk, blood, and corrupt matter. The old\nwoman got it into the churn, and made preparations for churning.\n\n\"Now,\" she said, \"you both must churn, make fast the door and\nwindows, and let there be no light but from the fire; do not open your\nlips until I desire you, and by observing my directions, I make no\ndoubt but, ere the sun goes down, we will find out the infernal\nvillain who is robbing you.\"\n\nBryan secured the doors and windows, and commenced churning. The old\nsorceress sat down by a blazing fire which had been specially lighted\nfor the occasion, and commenced singing the same wild song which she\nhad sung at the pulling of the cow-hairs, and after a little time she\ncast one of the nine hairs into the fire, still singing her mysterious\nstrain, and watching, with intense interest, the witching process.\n\nA loud cry, as if from a female in distress, was now heard approaching\nthe house; the old witch discontinued her incantations, and listened\nattentively. The crying voice approached the door.\n\n\"Open the door quickly,\" shouted the charmer.\n\nBryan unbarred the door, and all three rushed out in the yard, when\nthey heard the same cry down the _boreheen_, but could see nothing.\n\n\"It is all over,\" shouted the old witch; \"something has gone amiss,\nand our charm for the present is ineffectual.\"\n\nThey now turned back quite crestfallen, when, as they were entering\nthe door, the sybil cast her eyes downwards, and perceiving a piece of\nhorseshoe nailed on the threshold,[23] she vociferated--\n\n\"Here I have it; no wonder our charm was abortive. The person that was\ncrying abroad is the villain who has your cattle bewitched; I brought\nher to the house, but she was not able to come to the door on account\nof that horseshoe. Remove it instantly, and we will try our luck again.\"\n\nBryan removed the horseshoe from the doorway, and by the hag's\ndirections placed it on the floor under the churn, having previously\nreddened it in the fire.\n\nThey again resumed their manual operations. Bryan and his wife began\nto churn, and the witch again to sing her strange verses, and casting\nher cow-hairs into the fire until she had them all nearly exhausted.\nHer countenance now began to exhibit evident traces of vexation and\ndisappointment. She got quite pale, her teeth gnashed, her hand\ntrembled, and as she cast the ninth and last hair into the fire, her\nperson exhibited more the appearance of a female demon than of a human\nbeing.\n\nOnce more the cry was heard, and an aged red-haired woman[24] was seen\napproaching the house quickly.\n\n\"Ho, ho!\" roared the sorceress, \"I knew it would be so; my charm has\nsucceeded; my expectations are realised, and here she comes, the\nvillain who has destroyed you.\"\n\n\"What are we to do now?\" asked Bryan.\n\n\"Say nothing to her,\" said the hag; \"give her whatever she demands,\nand leave the rest to me.\"\n\nThe woman advanced screeching vehemently, and Bryan went out to meet\nher. She was a neighbour, and she said that one of her best cows was\ndrowning in a pool of water--that there was no one at home but\nherself, and she implored Bryan to go rescue the cow from destruction.\n\nBryan accompanied her without hesitation; and having rescued the cow\nfrom her perilous situation, was back again in a quarter of an hour.\n\nIt was now sunset, and Mrs. Costigan set about preparing supper.\n\nDuring supper they reverted to the singular transactions of the day.\nThe old witch uttered many a fiendish laugh at the success of her\nincantations, and inquired who was the woman whom they had so\ncuriously discovered.\n\nBryan satisfied her in every particular. She was the wife of a\nneighbouring farmer; her name was Rachel Higgins; and she had been\nlong suspected to be on familiar terms with the spirit of darkness.\nShe had five or six cows; but it was observed by her sapient\nneighbours that she sold more butter every year than other farmers'\nwives who had twenty. Bryan had, from the commencement of the decline\nin his cattle, suspected her for being the aggressor, but as he had no\nproof, he held his peace.\n\n\"Well,\" said the old beldame, with a grim smile, \"it is not enough\nthat we have merely discovered the robber; all is in vain, if we do\nnot take steps to punish her for the past, as well as to prevent her\ninroads for the future.\"\n\n\"And how will that be done?\" said Bryan.\n\n\"I will tell you; as soon as the hour of twelve o'clock arrives\nto-night, do you go to the pasture, and take a couple of swift-running\ndogs with you; conceal yourself in some place convenient to the\ncattle; watch them carefully; and if you see anything, whether man or\nbeast, approach the cows, set on the dogs, and if possible make them\ndraw the blood of the intruder; then ALL will be accomplished. If\nnothing approaches before sunrise, you may return, and we will try\nsomething else.\"\n\nConvenient there lived the cow-herd of a neighbouring squire. He was a\nhardy, courageous young man, and always kept a pair of very ferocious\nbull-dogs. To him Bryan applied for assistance, and he cheerfully\nagreed to accompany him, and, moreover, proposed to fetch a couple of\nhis master's best greyhounds, as his own dogs, although extremely\nfierce and bloodthirsty, could not be relied on for swiftness. He\npromised Bryan to be with him before twelve o'clock, and they parted.\n\nBryan did not seek sleep that night; he sat up anxiously awaiting the\nmidnight hour. It arrived at last, and his friend, the herdsman, true\nto his promise, came at the time appointed. After some further\nadmonitions from the _Collough_, they departed. Having arrived at the\nfield, they consulted as to the best position they could chose for\nconcealment. At last they pitched on a small brake of fern, situated\nat the extremity of the field, adjacent to the boundary ditch, which\nwas thickly studded with large, old white-thorn bushes. Here they\ncrouched themselves, and made the dogs, four in number, lie down\nbeside them, eagerly expecting the appearance of their as yet unknown\nand mysterious visitor.\n\nHere Bryan and his comrade continued a considerable time in nervous\nanxiety, still nothing approached, and it became manifest that morning\nwas at hand; they were beginning to grow impatient, and were talking\nof returning home, when on a sudden they heard a rushing sound behind\nthem, as if proceeding from something endeavouring to force a passage\nthrough the thick hedge in their rear. They looked in that direction,\nand judge of their astonishment, when they perceived a large hare in\nthe act of springing from the ditch, and leaping on the ground quite\nnear them. They were now convinced that this was the object which they\nhad so impatiently expected, and they were resolved to watch her\nmotions narrowly.\n\nAfter arriving to the ground, she remained motionless for a few\nmoments, looking around her sharply. She then began to skip and jump\nin a playful manner; now advancing at a smart pace towards the cows,\nand again retreating precipitately, but still drawing nearer and\nnearer at each sally. At length she advanced up to the next cow, and\nsucked her for a moment; then on to the next, and so respectively to\nevery cow on the field--the cows all the time lowing loudly, and\nappearing extremely frightened and agitated. Bryan, from the moment\nthe hare commenced sucking the first, was with difficulty restrained\nfrom attacking her; but his more sagacious companion suggested to him,\nthat it was better to wait until she would have done, as she would\nthen be much heavier, and more unable to effect her escape than at\npresent. And so the issue proved; for being now done sucking them all,\nher belly appeared enormously distended, and she made her exit slowly\nand apparently with difficulty. She advanced towards the hedge where\nshe had entered, and as she arrived just at the clump of ferns where\nher foes were couched, they started up with a fierce yell, and\nhallooed the dogs upon her path.\n\nThe hare started off at a brisk pace, squirting up the milk she had\nsucked from her mouth and nostrils, and the dogs making after her\nrapidly. Rachel Higgins's cabin appeared, through the grey of the\nmorning twilight, at a little distance; and it was evident that puss\nseemed bent on gaining it, although she made a considerable circuit\nthrough the fields in the rear. Bryan and his comrade, however, had\ntheir thoughts, and made towards the cabin by the shortest route, and\nhad just arrived as the hare came up, panting and almost exhausted,\nand the dogs at her very scut. She ran round the house, evidently\nconfused and disappointed at the presence of the men, but at length\nmade for the door. In the bottom of the door was a small, semicircular\naperture, resembling those cut in fowl-house doors for the ingress and\negress of poultry. To gain this hole, puss now made a last and\ndesperate effort, and had succeeded in forcing her head and shoulders\nthrough it, when the foremost of the dogs made a spring and seized her\nviolently by the haunch. She uttered a loud and piercing scream, and\nstruggled desperately to free herself from his gripe, and at last\nsucceeded, but not until she left a piece of her rump in his teeth.\nThe men now burst open the door; a bright turf fire blazed on the\nhearth, and the whole floor was streaming with blood. No hare,\nhowever, could be found, and the men were more than ever convinced\nthat it was old Rachel, who had, by the assistance of some demon,\nassumed the form of the hare, and they now determined to have her if\nshe were over the earth. They entered the bedroom, and heard some\nsmothered groaning, as if proceeding from some one in extreme agony.\nThey went to the corner of the room from whence the moans proceeded,\nand there, beneath a bundle of freshly-cut rushes, found the form of\nRachel Higgins, writhing in the most excruciating agony, and almost\nsmothered in a pool of blood. The men were astounded; they addressed\nthe wretched old woman, but she either could not, or would not answer\nthem. Her wound still bled copiously; her tortures appeared to\nincrease, and it was evident that she was dying. The aroused family\nthronged around her with cries and lamentations; she did not seem to\nheed them, she got worse and worse, and her piercing yells fell\nawfully on the ears of the bystanders. At length she expired, and her\ncorpse exhibited a most appalling spectacle, even before the spirit\nhad well departed.\n\nBryan and his friend returned home. The old hag had been previously\naware of the fate of Rachel Higgins, but it was not known by what\nmeans she acquired her supernatural knowledge. She was delighted at\nthe issue of her mysterious operations. Bryan pressed her much to\naccept of some remuneration for her services, but she utterly rejected\nsuch proposals. She remained a few days at his house, and at length\ntook her leave and departed, no one knew whither.\n\nOld Rachel's remains were interred that night in the neighbouring\nchurchyard. Her fate soon became generally known, and her family,\nashamed to remain in their native village, disposed of their property,\nand quitted the country for ever. The story, however, is still fresh\nin the memory of the surrounding villagers; and often, it is said,\namid the grey haze of a summer twilight, may the ghost of Rachel\nHiggins, in the form of a hare, be seen scudding over her favourite\nand well-remembered haunts.\n\n[Footnote 21: _Dublin University Magazine, 1839._]\n\n[Footnote 22: _Aghavoe_--\"the field of kine\"--a beautiful and romantic\nvillage near Borris-in-Ossory, in the Queen's County. It was once a\nplace of considerable importance, and for centuries the episcopal seat\nof the diocese of Ossory, but for ages back it has gone to decay, and\nis now remarkable for nothing but the magnificent ruins of a priory of\nthe Dominicans, erected here at an early period by St. Canice, the\npatron saint of Ossory.]\n\n[Footnote 23: It was once a common practice in Ireland to nail a piece\nof horseshoe on the threshold of the door, as a preservative against\nthe influence of the fairies, who, it is thought, dare not enter any\nhouse thus guarded. This custom, however, is much on the wane, but\nstill it is prevalent in some of the more uncivilised districts of the\ncountry.]\n\n[Footnote 24: Red-haired people are thought to possess magic power.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE HORNED WOMEN.[25]\n\nLADY WILDE.\n\n\nA rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool, while\nall the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at\nthe door, and a voice called--\"Open! open!\"\n\n\"Who is there?\" said the woman of the house.\n\n\"I am the Witch of the one Horn,\" was answered.\n\nThe mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and\nrequired assistance, opened the door, and a woman entered, having in\nher hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead,\nas if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to\ncard the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud:\n\"Where are the women? they delay too long.\"\n\nThen a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before,\n\"Open! open!\"\n\nThe mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call,\nand immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her\nforehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.\n\n\"Give me place,\" she said, \"I am the Witch of the two Horns,\" and she\nbegan to spin as quick as lightning.\n\nAnd so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches\nentered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire--the first with\none horn, the last with twelve horns.\n\nAnd they carded the thread, and turned their spinning-wheels, and\nwound and wove.\n\nAll singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to\nthe mistress of the house. Strange to hear, and frightful to look\nupon, were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and\nthe mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might\ncall for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a\ncry, for the spell of the witches was upon her.\n\nThen one of them called to her in Irish, and said--\n\n\"Rise, woman, and make us a cake.\" Then the mistress searched for a\nvessel to bring water from the well that she might mix the meal and\nmake the cake, but she could find none.\n\nAnd they said to her, \"Take a sieve and bring water in it.\"\n\nAnd she took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured from\nit, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the\nwell and wept.\n\nThen a voice came by her and said, \"Take yellow clay and moss, and\nbind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold.\"\n\nThis she did, and the sieve held the water for the cake; and the voice\nsaid again--\n\n\"Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house, cry\naloud three times and say, 'The mountain of the Fenian women and the\nsky over it is all on fire.'\"\n\nAnd she did so.\n\nWhen the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke\nfrom their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and\nshrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon,[26] where was their chief\nabode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to\nenter and prepare her home against the enchantments of the witches if\nthey returned again.\n\nAnd first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she\nhad washed her child's feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the\nthreshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in\nher absence of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping\nfamily, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth\nof each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they\nhad woven and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the\npadlock; and lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam\nfastened in the jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done\nthese things she waited.\n\nNot long were the witches in coming back, and they raged and called\nfor vengeance.\n\n\"Open! open!\" they screamed, \"open, feet-water!\"\n\n\"I cannot,\" said the feet-water, \"I am scattered on the ground, and my\npath is down to the Lough.\"\n\n\"Open, open, wood and trees and beam!\" they cried to the door.\n\n\"I cannot,\" said the door, \"for the beam is fixed in the jambs and I\nhave no power to move.\"\n\n\"Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!\" they\ncried again.\n\n\"I cannot,\" said the cake, \"for I am broken and bruised, and my blood\nis on the lips of the sleeping children.\"\n\nThen the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled\nback to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the\nWell, who had wished their ruin; but the woman and the house were left\nin peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches in her flight was\nkept hung up by the mistress as a sign of the night's awful contest;\nand this mantle was in possession of the same family from generation\nto generation for five hundred years after.\n\n[Footnote 25: _Ancient Legends of Ireland._]\n\n[Footnote 26: _Sli\u00e1bh-na-mban_--_i.e._, mountains of the women.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WITCHES' EXCURSION.[27]\n\nPATRICK KENNEDY.\n\n\nShemus Rua[28] (Red James) awakened from his sleep one night by noises\nin his kitchen. Stealing to the door, he saw half-a-dozen old women\nsitting round the fire, jesting and laughing, his old housekeeper,\nMadge, quite frisky and gay, helping her sister crones to cheering\nglasses of punch. He began to admire the impudence and imprudence of\nMadge, displayed in the invitation and the riot, but recollected on\nthe instant her officiousness in urging him to take a comfortable\nposset, which she had brought to his bedside just before he fell\nasleep. Had he drunk it, he would have been just now deaf to the\nwitches' glee. He heard and saw them drink his health in such a\nmocking style as nearly to tempt him to charge them, besom in hand,\nbut he restrained himself.\n\nThe jug being emptied, one of them cried out, \"Is it time to be gone?\"\nand at the same moment, putting on a red cap, she added--\n\n \"By yarrow and rue,\n And my red cap too,\n Hie over to England.\"\n\nMaking use of a twig which she held in her hand as a steed, she\ngracefully soared up the chimney, and was rapidly followed by the\nrest. But when it came to the housekeeper, Shemus interposed. \"By your\nleave, ma'am,\" said he, snatching twig and cap. \"Ah, you desateful\nould crocodile! If I find you here on my return, there'll be wigs on\nthe green--\n\n 'By yarrow and rue,\n And my red cap too,\n Hie over to England.'\"\n\nThe words were not out of his mouth when he was soaring above the\nridge pole, and swiftly ploughing the air. He was careful to speak no\nword (being somewhat conversant with witch-lore), as the result would\nbe a tumble, and the immediate return of the expedition.\n\nIn a very short time they had crossed the Wicklow hills, the Irish\nSea, and the Welsh mountains, and were charging, at whirlwind speed,\nthe hall door of a castle. Shemus, only for the company in which he\nfound himself, would have cried out for pardon, expecting to be\n_mummy_ against the hard oak door in a moment; but, all bewildered, he\nfound himself passing through the key-hole, along a passage, down a\nflight of steps, and through a cellar-door key-hole before he could\nform any clear idea of his situation.\n\nWaking to the full consciousness of his position, he found himself\nsitting on a stillion, plenty of lights glimmering round, and he and\nhis companions, with full tumblers of frothing wine in hand,\nhob-nobbing and drinking healths as jovially and recklessly as if the\nliquor was honestly come by, and they were sitting in _Shemus's_ own\nkitchen. The red birredh[29] had assimilated _Shemus's_ nature for the\ntime being to that of his unholy companions. The heady liquors soon\ngot into their brains, and a period of unconsciousness succeeded the\necstasy, the head-ache, the turning round of the barrels, and the\n\"scattered sight\" of poor Shemus. He woke up under the impression of\nbeing roughly seized, and shaken, and dragged upstairs, and subjected\nto a disagreeable examination by the lord of the castle, in his state\nparlour. There was much derision among the whole company, gentle and\nsimple, on hearing Shemus's explanation, and, as the thing occurred in\nthe dark ages, the unlucky Leinster man was sentenced to be hung as\nsoon as the gallows could be prepared for the occasion.\n\nThe poor Hibernian was in the cart proceeding on his last journey,\nwith a label on his back, and another on his breast, announcing him as\nthe remorseless villain who for the last month had been draining the\ncasks in my lord's vault every night. He was surprised to hear himself\naddressed by his name, and in his native tongue, by an old woman in\nthe crowd. \"Ach, Shemus, alanna! is it going to die you are in a\nstrange place without your _cappeen d'yarrag_?\"[30] These words\ninfused hope and courage into the poor victim's heart. He turned to\nthe lord and humbly asked leave to die in his red cap, which he\nsupposed had dropped from his head in the vault. A servant was sent\nfor the head-piece, and Shemus felt lively hope warming his heart\nwhile placing it on his head. On the platform he was graciously\nallowed to address the spectators, which he proceeded to do in the\nusual formula composed for the benefit of flying stationers--\"Good\npeople all, a warning take by me;\" but when he had finished the line,\n\"My parents reared me tenderly,\" he unexpectedly added--\"By yarrow and\nrue,\" etc., and the disappointed spectators saw him shoot up obliquely\nthrough the air in the style of a sky-rocket that had missed its aim.\nIt is said that the lord took the circumstance much to heart, and\nnever afterwards hung a man for twenty-four hours after his offence.\n\n[Footnote 27: _Fictions of the Irish Celts._]\n\n[Footnote 28: Irish, _S\u00e9umus Ruadh_. The Celtic vocal organs are\nunable to pronounce the letter j, hence they make Shon or Shawn of\nJohn, or Shamus of James, etc.]\n\n[Footnote 29: Ir., _Birreud_--_i.e._, a cap.]\n\n[Footnote 30: Irish, _caip\u00edn dearg_--_i.e._, red cap.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE.\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nTom Bourke lives in a low, long farm-house, resembling in outward\nappearance a large barn, placed at the bottom of the hill, just where\nthe new road strikes off from the old one, leading from the town of\nKilworth to that of Lismore. He is of a class of persons who are a\nsort of black swans in Ireland: he is a wealthy farmer. Tom's father\nhad, in the good old times, when a hundred pounds were no\ninconsiderable treasure, either to lend or spend, accommodated his\nlandlord with that sum, at interest; and obtained as a return for his\ncivility a long lease, about half-a-dozen times more valuable than the\nloan which procured it. The old man died worth several hundred pounds,\nthe greater part of which, with his farm, he bequeathed to his son\nTom. But besides all this, Tom received from his father, upon his\ndeath-bed, another gift, far more valuable than worldly riches,\ngreatly as he prized and is still known to prize them. He was invested\nwith the privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of\ncommunicating with those mysterious beings called \"the good people.\"\n\nTom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about fifty-five\nyears of age. His hair is perfectly white, short and bushy behind, but\nrising in front erect and thick above his forehead, like a new\nclothes-brush. His eyes are of that kind which I have often observed\nwith persons of a quick, but limited intellect--they are small, grey,\nand lively. The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather within,\nwhich they twinkle, give them an expression of shrewdness and\nintelligence, if not of cunning. And this is very much the character of\nthe man. If you want to make a bargain with Tom Bourke you must act as\nif you were a general besieging a town, and make your advances a long\ntime before you can hope to obtain possession; if you march up boldly,\nand tell him at once your object, you are for the most part sure to have\nthe gates closed in your teeth. Tom does not wish to part with what you\nwish to obtain; or another person has been speaking to him for the whole\nof the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems to meet the most\nfavourable reception. \"Very well, sir;\" \"That's true, sir;\" \"I'm very\nthankful to your honour,\" and other expressions of kindness and\nconfidence greet you in reply to every sentence; and you part from him\nwondering how he can have obtained the character which he universally\nbears, of being a man whom no one can make anything of in a bargain. But\nwhen you next meet him the flattering illusion is dissolved: you find\nyou are a great deal further from your object than you were when you\nthought you had almost succeeded; his eye and his tongue express a total\nforgetfulness of what the mind within never lost sight of for an\ninstant; and you have to begin operations afresh, with the disadvantage\nof having put your adversary completely upon his guard.\n\nYet, although Tom Bourke is, whether from supernatural revealings, or\n(as many will think more probable) from the tell-truth experience, so\ndistrustful of mankind, and so close in his dealings with them, he is\nno misanthrope. No man loves better the pleasures of the genial board.\nThe love of money, indeed, which is with him (and who will blame him?)\na very ruling propensity, and the gratification which it has received\nfrom habits of industry, sustained throughout a pretty long and\nsuccessful life, have taught him the value of sobriety, during those\nseasons, at least, when a man's business requires him to keep\npossession of his senses. He has, therefore, a general rule, never to\nget drunk but on Sundays. But in order that it should be a general one\nto all intents and purposes, he takes a method which, according to\nbetter logicians than he is, always proves the rule. He has many\nexceptions; among these, of course, are the evenings of all the fair\nand market-days that happen in his neighbourhood; so also all the days\nin which funerals, marriages, and christenings take place among his\nfriends within many miles of him. As to this last class of exceptions,\nit may appear at first very singular, that he is much more punctual in\nhis attendance at the funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of his\nfriends. This may be construed as an instance of disinterested\naffection for departed worth, very uncommon in this selfish world. But\nI am afraid that the motives which lead Tom Bourke to pay more court\nto the dead than the living are precisely those which lead to the\nopposite conduct in the generality of mankind--a hope of future\nbenefit and a fear of future evil. For the good people, who are a\nrace as powerful as they are capricious, have their favourites among\nthose who inhabit this world; often show their affection by easing the\nobjects of it from the load of this burdensome life; and frequently\nreward or punish the living according to the degree of reverence paid\nto the obsequies and the memory of the elected dead.\n\nSome may attribute to the same cause the apparently humane and\ncharitable actions which Tom, and indeed the other members of his\nfamily, are known frequently to perform. A beggar has seldom left\ntheir farm-yard with an empty wallet, or without obtaining a night's\nlodging, if required, with a sufficiency of potatoes and milk to\nsatisfy even an Irish beggar's appetite; in appeasing which, account\nmust usually be taken of the auxiliary jaws of a hungry dog, and of\ntwo or three still more hungry children, who line themselves well\nwithin, to atone for their nakedness without. If one of the\nneighbouring poor be seized with a fever, Tom will often supply the\nsick wretch with some untenanted hut upon one of his two large farms\n(for he has added one to his patrimony), or will send his labourers to\nconstruct a shed at a hedge-side, and supply straw for a bed while the\ndisorder continues. His wife, remarkable for the largeness of her\ndairy, and the goodness of everything it contains, will furnish milk\nfor whey; and their good offices are frequently extended to the family\nof the patient, who are, perhaps, reduced to the extremity of\nwretchedness, by even the temporary suspension of a father's or a\nhusband's labour.\n\nIf much of this arises from the hopes and fears to which I above\nalluded, I believe much of it flows from a mingled sense of compassion\nand of duty, which is sometimes seen to break from an Irish peasant's\nheart, even where it happens to be enveloped in a habitual covering of\navarice and fraud; and which I once heard speak in terms not to be\nmisunderstood: \"When we get a deal, 'tis only fair we should give back\na little of it.\"\n\nIt is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of those good people, with\nwhom he is said to hold frequent and intimate communications. To the\nfaithful, who believe in their power, and their occasional delegation\nof it to him, he seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his\nhigh prerogative when any unfortunate being is _struck_ in his\nneighbourhood. Still he will not be won unsued: he is at first\ndifficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by a little gentle\nviolence. On these occasions he is unusually solemn and mysterious,\nand if one word of reward be mentioned he at once abandons the unhappy\npatient, such a proposition being a direct insult to his supernatural\nsuperiors. It is true that, as the labourer is worthy of his hire,\nmost persons gifted as he is do not scruple to receive a token of\ngratitude from the patients or their friends _after_ their recovery.\nIt is recorded that a very handsome gratuity was once given to a\nfemale practitioner in this occult science, who deserves to be\nmentioned, not only because she was a neighbour and a rival of Tom's,\nbut from the singularity of a mother deriving her name from her son.\nHer son's name was Owen, and she was always called _Owen sa vauher_\n(Owen's mother). This person was, on the occasion to which I have\nalluded, _persuaded_ to give her assistance to a young girl who had\nlost the use of her right leg; _Owen sa vauher_ found the cure a\ndifficult one. A journey of about eighteen miles was essential for the\npurpose, probably to visit one of the good people who resided at that\ndistance; and this journey could only be performed by _Owen sa vauher_\ntravelling upon the back of a white hen. The visit, however, was\naccomplished; and at a particular hour, according to the prediction of\nthis extraordinary woman, when the hen and her rider were to reach\ntheir journey's end, the patient was seized with an irresistible\ndesire to dance, which she gratified with the most perfect freedom of\nthe diseased leg, much to the joy of her anxious family. The gratuity\nin this case was, as it surely ought to have been, unusually large,\nfrom the difficulty of procuring a hen willing to go so long a journey\nwith such a rider.\n\nTo do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these occasions, as I have heard\nfrom many competent authorities, perfectly disinterested. Not many\nmonths since he recovered a young woman (the sister of a tradesman\nliving near him), who had been struck speechless after returning from\na funeral, and had continued so for several days. He steadfastly\nrefused receiving any compensation, saying that even if he had not as\nmuch as would buy him his supper, he could take nothing in this case,\nbecause the girl had offended at the funeral of one of the _good\npeople_ belonging to his own family, and though he would do her a\nkindness, he could take none from her.\n\nAbout the time this last remarkable affair took place, my friend Mr.\nMartin, who is a neighbour of Tom's, had some business to transact with\nhim, which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a conclusion. At\nlast Mr. Martin, having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a legal\nprocess, which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was arranged to\ntheir mutual satisfaction, and with perfect good-humour between the\nparties. The accommodation took place after dinner at Mr. Martin's\nhouse, and he invited Tom to walk into the parlour and take a glass of\npunch, made of some excellent _poteen_, which was on the table: he had\nlong wished to draw out his highly-endowed neighbour on the subject of\nhis supernatural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who was in the room, was\nrather a favourite of Tom's, this seemed a good opportunity.\n\n\"Well, Tom,\" said Mr. Martin, \"that was a curious business of Molly\nDwyer's, who recovered her speech so suddenly the other day.\"\n\n\"You may say that, sir,\" replied Tom Bourke; \"but I had to travel far\nfor it: no matter for that now. Your health, ma'am,\" said he, turning\nto Mrs. Martin.\n\n\"Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once in that way\nin your own family,\" said Mrs Martin.\n\n\"So I had, ma'am; trouble enough: but you were only a child at that\ntime.\"\n\n\"Come, Tom,\" said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupting him, \"take\nanother tumbler;\" and he then added, \"I wish you would tell us\nsomething of the manner in which so many of your children died. I am\ntold they dropped off, one after another, by the same disorder, and\nthat your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way, when the\nphysicians had given him over.\"\n\n\"'Tis true for you, sir,\" returned Tom; \"your father, the doctor (God\nbe good to him, I won't belie him in his grave), told me, when my\nfourth boy was a week sick, that himself and Dr. Barry did all that\nman could do for him; but they could not keep him from going after the\nrest. No more they could, if the people that took away the rest wished\nto take him too. But they left him; and sorry to the heart I am I did\nnot know before why they were taking my boys from me; if I did, I\nwould not be left trusting to two of 'em now.\"\n\n\"And how did you find it out, Tom?\" inquired Mr. Martin.\n\n\"Why, then, I'll tell you, sir,\" said Bourke. \"When your father said\nwhat I told you, I did not know very well what to do. I walked down\nthe little _bohereen_[31] you know, sir, that goes to the river-side\nnear Dick Heafy's ground; for 'twas a lonesome place, and I wanted to\nthink of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me, when I\nthought I was to lose my little boy; and I did not well know how to\nface his mother with the news, for she doated down upon him. Besides,\nshe never got the better of all she cried at his brother's\n_berrin_[32] the week before. As I was going down the _bohereen_ I met\nan old _bocough_, that used to come about the place once or twice\na-year, and used always to sleep in our barn while he staid in the\nneighbourhood. So he asked me how I was. 'Bad enough, Shamous,'[33]\nsays I. 'I'm sorry for your trouble,' says he; 'but you're a foolish\nman, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be well enough if you would only do\nwhat you ought with him.' 'What more can I do with him, Shamous?'\nsays I; 'the doctors give him over.' 'The doctors know no more what\nails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her milk,' says\nShamous; 'but go to such a one,' telling me his name, 'and try what\nhe'll say to you.'\"\n\n\"And who was that, Tom?\" asked Mr. Martin.\n\n\"I could not tell you that, sir,\" said Bourke, with a mysterious look;\n\"howsomever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this.\nBut I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first, maybe\nI'd have now some of them that's gone, and so Shamous often told me.\nWell, sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By\ncourse, I did everything as he bid me. According to his order, I took\nthe little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was,\nand made a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay\ndown by his side in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell\nasleep. He got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was\ndrawn through the river, and breathed hard, with a great _impression_\non his chest, and was very bad--very bad entirely through the night. I\nthought about twelve o'clock he was going at last, and I was just\ngetting up to go call the man I told you of; but there was no\noccasion. My friends were getting the better of them that wanted to\ntake him away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house but the child\nand myself. There was only one halfpenny candle lighting it, and that\nwas stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough\nof light where we were lying to see a person walking or standing near\nus: and there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except\nthe cows chewing the fodder in the stalls.\n\n\"Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you--I won't belie my\nfather, sir, he was a good father to me--I saw him standing at the\nbedside, holding out his right hand to me, and leaning his other on the\nstick he used to carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and\nsmiling at me, all as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would\nnot lose the child. 'Is that you, father?' says I. He said nothing. 'If\nthat's you,' says I again, 'for the love of them that gone, let me\ncatch your hand.' And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a\nchild's. He stayed about as long as you'd be going from this to the gate\nbelow at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week\nthe child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn't\nto-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the\ntown of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains.\"\n\n\"But I think, Tom,\" said Mr. Martin, \"it appears as if you are more\nindebted to your father than to the man recommended to you by Shamous;\nor do you suppose it was he who made favour with your enemies among\nthe good people, and that then your father----\"\n\n\"I beg your pardon, sir,\" said Bourke, interrupting him; \"but don't\ncall them my enemies. 'Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to\nsit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir. Here's wishing\nyou a good health and long life.\"\n\n\"I assure you,\" returned Mr. Martin, \"I meant no offence, Tom; but was\nit not as I say?\"\n\n\"I can't tell you that, sir,\" said Bourke; \"I'm bound down, sir.\nHowsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of and my father, and those\nthey know, settled it between them.\"\n\nThere was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage to inquire of\nTom whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and a\npair of pigeons, at the time of his son's illness--circumstances often\nmysteriously hinted at by Tom.\n\n\"See that, now,\" said he, turning to Mr. Martin, \"how well she\nremembers it! True for you, ma'am. The goat I gave the mistress, your\nmother, when the doctors ordered her goats' whey?\"\n\nMrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued, \"Why, then, I'll\ntell you how that was. The goat was as well as e'er goat ever was, for\na month after she was sent to Killaan, to your father's. The morning\nafter the night I just told you of, before the child woke, his mother\nwas standing at the gap leading out of the barn-yard into the road,\nand she saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth off the\nchurch down towards her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till they\ncame to the house on the hill at the other side of the river, facing\nour farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and after\nlooking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight across the\nriver, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where the child and I\nwere lying. Do you think they came there for nothing, sir?\"\n\n\"Certainly not, Tom,\" returned Mr. Martin.\n\n\"Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to\ncry. 'Whist, you fool?' says I; 'tis all for the better.' 'Twas true\nfor me. What do you think, ma'am; the goat that I gave your mother,\nthat was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as merry\nas a bee, dropped down dead without anybody knowing why, before Jack's\nface; and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly from the top of\nthe house out of the town, towards the Lismore road. 'Twas at the same\ntime my woman saw them, as I just told you.\"\n\n\"'Twas very strange, indeed, Tom,\" said Mr. Martin; \"I wish you could\ngive us some explanation of it.\"\n\n\"I wish I could, sir,\" was Tom Bourke's answer; \"but I'm bound down. I\ncan't tell but what I'm allowed to tell, any more than a sentry is let\nwalk more than his rounds.\"\n\n\"I think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the\nman that assisted in the cure of your son,\" said Mr. Martin.\n\n\"So I had, sir,\" returned Bourke. \"I had a trial of that man. But\nthat's neither here nor there. I can't tell you anything about that,\nsir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?\"\n\n\"Oh! very much, indeed,\" said Mr. Martin.\n\n\"But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him better\nthrough the story,\" added Mrs. Martin.\n\nTom Bourke paused for a minute to consider this proposition.\n\n\"Well, I believe that I may tell you that, anyhow; his name is\nPatrick. He was always a smart, 'cute[34] boy, and would be a great\nclerk if he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my\nmother's wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to\nbury her. Her people and my father's people--I mean their friends,\nsir, among the _good people_--had the greatest battle that was known\nfor many a year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she'd\nbe taken. They fought for three nights, one after another, without\nbeing able to settle it. The neighbours wondered how long I was before\nI buried my mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them\nat that time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the\nfourth morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we\nburied her in Kilcrumper churchyard, with my father's people.\"\n\n\"He was a valuable friend, Tom,\" said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty\nsuppressing a smile. \"But you were about to tell how he became so\nskilful.\"\n\n\"So I will and welcome,\" replied Bourke. \"Your health, ma'am. I'm\ndrinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never\ntasted the like of it; it goes down one's throat like sweet oil. But\nwhat was I going to say? Yes--well--Patrick, many a long year ago, was\ncoming home from a _berrin_ late in the evening, and walking by the\nside of a river, opposite the big inch,[35] near Ballyhefaan ford. He\nhad taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a little merry, as you\nmay say, and knew very well what he was doing. The moon was shining,\nfor it was in the month of August, and the river was as smooth and as\nbright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long time but the\nfall of the water at the mill weir about a mile down the river, and\nnow and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of the river.\nAll at once there was a noise of a great number of people laughing as\nif they'd break their hearts, and of a piper playing among them. It\ncame from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw, through\nthe mist that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people dancing on\nthe inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance, as he was of a glass, and\nthat's saying enough for him; so he whipped off his shoes and\nstockings, and away with him across the ford. After putting on his\nshoes and stockings at the other side of the river he walked over to\nthe crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being minded. He\nthought, sir, that he'd show them better dancing than any of\nthemselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and a good right he\nhad, for there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or\ntreble with him. But pwah! his dancing was no more to theirs than mine\nwould be to the mistress' there. They did not seem as if they had a\nbone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire\nthem. Patrick was 'shamed within himself, for he thought he had not\nhis fellow in all the country round; and was going away, when a little\nold man, that was looking at the company bitterly, as if he did not\nlike what was going on, came up to him. 'Patrick,' says he. Patrick\nstarted, for he did not think anybody there knew him. 'Patrick,' says\nhe, 'you're discouraged, and no wonder for you. But you have a friend\nnear you. I'm your friend, and your father's friend, and I think\nworse[36] of your little finger than I do of all that are here, though\nthey think no one is as good as themselves. Go into the ring and call\nfor a lilt. Don't be afeard. I tell you the best of them did not do it\nas well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.' Patrick felt\nsomething within him as if he ought not to gainsay the old man. He\nwent into the ring, and called the piper to play up the best double he\nhad. And sure enough, all that the others were able for was nothing to\nhim! He bounded like an eel, now here and now there, as light as a\nfeather, although the people could hear the music answered by his\nsteps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the left foot of the\npiper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then they got a\ntable, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts from the\nwhole company. At last he called for a trencher; and when they saw\nhim, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not know\nwhat to make of him. Some praised him for the best dancer that ever\nentered a ring; others hated him because he was better than\nthemselves; although they had good right to think themselves better\nthan him or any other man that ever went the long journey.\"\n\n\"And what was the cause of his great success?\" inquired Mr. Martin.\n\n\"He could not help it, sir,\" replied Tom Bourke. \"They that could make\nhim do more than that made him do it. Howsomever, when he had done,\nthey wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not\npersuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your\npresence, that he would not dance a step more; and the word was hardly\nout of his mouth when he found himself all alone, with nothing but a\nwhite cow grazing by his side.\"\n\n\"Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these extraordinary\npowers in the dance, Tom?\" said Mr. Martin.\n\n\"I'll tell you that too, sir,\" answered Bourke, \"when I come to it.\nWhen he went home, sir, he was taken with a shivering, and went to\nbed; and the next day they found he had got the fever, or something\nlike it, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn't make\nout what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors\ngave him over. But it's little they knew what ailed him. When he was,\nas you may say, about ten days sick, and everybody thought he was\ngoing, one of the neighbours came in to him with a man, a friend of\nhis, from Ballinlacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I\ncan't tell you his name either, only it was Darby. The minute Darby\nsaw Patrick he took a little bottle, with the juice of herbs in it,\nout of his pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same\nevery day for three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as\nstout and as hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long\ntime before he came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day\nsometimes by the ditch-side, talking to himself, like as if there was\nsomeone along with him. And so there was, surely, or he wouldn't be\nthe man he is to-day.\"\n\n\"I suppose it was from some such companion he learned his skill,\" said\nMr. Martin.\n\n\"You have it all now, sir,\" replied Bourke. \"Darby told him his\nfriends were satisfied with what he did the night of the dance; and\nthough they couldn't hinder the fever, they'd bring him over it, and\nteach him more than many knew beside him. And so they did. For you\nsee, all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a\ndifferent faction; only the old man that spoke to him, he was a friend\nof Patrick's family, and it went again his heart, you see, that the\nothers were so light and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear\n'em boasting how they'd dance with any set in the whole country round.\nSo he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave him the\nskill that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to be sure\nit was only learning he was at that time when he was wandering in his\nmind after the fever.\"\n\n\"I have heard many strange stories about that inch near Ballyhefaan\nford,\" said Mr. Martin. \"'Tis a great place for the good people, isn't\nit, Tom?\"\n\n\"You may say that, sir,\" returned Bourke. \"I could tell you a great\ndeal about it. Many a time I sat for as good as two hours by\nmoonlight, at th' other side of the river, looking at 'em playing goal\nas if they'd break their hearts over it; with their coats and\nwaistcoats off, and white handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and\nred ones on th' other, just as you'd see on a Sunday in Mr. Simming's\nbig field. I saw 'em one night play till the moon set, without one\nparty being able to take the ball from th' other. I'm sure they were\ngoing to fight, only 'twas near morning. I'm told your grandfather,\nma'am, used to see 'em there too,\" said Bourke, turning to Mrs. Martin.\n\n\"So I have been told, Tom,\" replied Mrs. Martin. \"But don't they say\nthat the churchyard of Kilcrumper is just as favourite a place with\nthe good people as Ballyhefaan inch?\"\n\n\"Why, then, maybe you never heard, ma'am, what happened to Davy Roche\nin that same churchyard,\" said Bourke; and turning to Mr. Martin,\nadded, \"'Twas a long time before he went into your service, sir. He\nwas walking home, of an evening, from the fair of Kilcumber, a little\nmerry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin. So he\nwalked along with it, and thought it very queer that he did not know a\nmother's soul in the crowd but one man, and he was sure that man was\ndead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin till\nthey came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and, faith, he went in and stayed\nwith the rest, to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was\ncovered, what should they do but gather about a piper that _come_\nalong with 'em, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy\nlonged to be among 'em (for he hadn't a bad foot of his own, that\ntime, whatever he may now); but he was loth to begin, because they all\nseemed strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was\ndead. Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him.\n'Davy,' says he, 'take out a partner, and show what you can do, but\ntake care and don't offer to kiss her.' 'That I won't,' says Davy,\n'although her lips were made of honey.' And with that he made his bow\nto the _purtiest_ girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance.\n'Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th' admiration, do you\nsee, of all that were there. 'Twas all very well till the jig was\nover; but just as they had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was\nwarm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner,\naccording to custom. The smack was no sooner off of his lips, you see,\nthan he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him,\nand all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy said they seemed as\nif they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that\nhappened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it\nwas a great many hours later than he thought it; 'twas near morning\nwhen he came home; but they couldn't get a word out of him till the\nnext day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o'clock.\"\n\nWhen Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and the berrin, it\nbecame quite evident that spirits, of some sort, were working too strong\nwithin him to admit of his telling many more tales of the good people.\nTom seemed conscious of this. He muttered for a few minutes broken\nsentences concerning churchyards, river-sides, leprechauns, and _dina\nmagh_,[37] which were quite unintelligible, perhaps, to himself,\ncertainly to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length he made a slight motion\nof the head upwards, as if he would say, \"I can talk no more;\" stretched\nhis arm on the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly, and\nwith the most knowing and cautious air; and rising from his chair,\nwalked, or rather rolled, to the parlour door. Here he turned round to\nface his host and hostess; but after various ineffectual attempts to bid\nthem good-night, the words, as they rose, being always choked by a\nviolent hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung to\nand fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he was obliged to\ndepart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by Tom's wife, who knew well what\nsort of allurement detained him when he remained out after a certain\nhour, was in attendance to conduct his master home. I have no doubt that\nhe returned without meeting any material injury, as I know that within\nthe last month he was, to use his own words, \"as stout and hearty a man\nas any of his age in the county Cork.\"\n\n[Footnote 31: _Bohereen_, or _bogheen_, _i.e._, a green lane.]\n\n[Footnote 32: _Berrin_, burying.]\n\n[Footnote 33: _Shamous_, James.]\n\n[Footnote 34: _'Cute_, acute.]\n\n[Footnote 35: _Inch_, low meadow ground near a river.]\n\n[Footnote 36: _Worse_, more.]\n\n[Footnote 37: _Daoine maithe_, _i.e._, the good people.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE PUDDING BEWITCHED.\n\nWILLIAM CARLETON.\n\n\n\"Moll Roe Rafferty was the son--daughter I mane--of ould Jack Rafferty,\nwho was remarkable for a habit he had of always wearing his head undher\nhis hat; but indeed the same family was a quare one, as everybody knew\nthat was acquainted wid them. It was said of them--but whether it was\nthrue or not I won't undhertake to say, for 'fraid I'd tell a lie--that\nwhenever they didn't wear shoes or boots they always went barefooted;\nbut I heard aftherwards that this was disputed, so rather than say\nanything to injure their character, I'll let that pass. Now, ould Jack\nRafferty had two sons, Paddy and Molly--hut! what are you all laughing\nat?--I mane a son and daughter, and it was generally believed among the\nneighbours that they were brother and sisther, which you know might be\nthrue or it might not: but that's a thing that, wid the help o'\ngoodness, we have nothing to say to. Troth there was many ugly things\nput out on them that I don't wish to repate, such as that neither Jack\nnor his son Paddy ever walked a perch widout puttin' one foot afore the\nother like a salmon; an' I know it was whispered about, that whinever\nMoll Roe slep', she had an out-of-the-way custom of keepin' her eyes\nshut. If she did, however, for that matther the loss was her own; for\nsure we all know that when one comes to shut their eyes they can't see\nas far before them as another.\n\n\"Moll Roe was a fine young bouncin' girl, large and lavish, wid a\npurty head o' hair on her like scarlet, that bein' one of the raisons\nwhy she was called _Roe_, or red; her arms an' cheeks were much the\ncolour of the hair, an' her saddle nose was the purtiest thing of its\nkind that ever was on a face. Her fists--for, thank goodness, she was\nwell sarved wid them too--had a strong simularity to two thumpin'\nturnips, reddened by the sun; an' to keep all right and tight, she had\na temper as fiery as her head--for, indeed, it was well known that all\nthe Rafferties were _warm_-hearted. Howandiver, it appears that God\ngives nothing in vain, and of coorse the same fists, big and red as\nthey were, if all that is said about them is thrue, were not so much\ngiven to her for ornament as use. At laist, takin' them in connection\nwid her lively temper, we have it upon good authority, that there was\nno danger of their getting blue-moulded for want of practice. She had\na twist, too, in one of her eyes that was very becomin' in its way,\nand made her poor husband, when she got him, take it into his head\nthat she could see round a corner. She found him out in many quare\nthings, widout doubt; but whether it was owin' to that or not, I\nwouldn't undertake to say _for fraid I'd tell a lie_.\n\n\"Well, begad, anyhow it was Moll Roe that was the _dilsy_.[38] It\nhappened that there was a nate vagabone in the neighbourhood, just as\nmuch overburdened wid beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty\nGillespie. Gusty, the Lord guard us, was what they call a black-mouth\nProsbytarian, and wouldn't keep Christmas-day, the blagard, except\nwhat they call 'ould style.' Gusty was rather good-lookin' when seen\nin the dark, as well as Moll herself; and, indeed, it was purty well\nknown that--accordin' as the talk went--it was in nightly meetings\nthat they had an opportunity of becomin' detached to one another. The\nquensequence was, that in due time both families began to talk very\nseriously as to what was to be done. Moll's brother, Pawdien\nO'Rafferty, gave Gusty the best of two choices. What they were it's\nnot worth spakin' about; but at any rate _one_ of them was a poser,\nan' as Gusty knew his man, he soon came to his senses. Accordianly\neverything was deranged for their marriage, and it was appointed that\nthey should be spliced by the Rev. Samuel M'Shuttle, the Prosbytarian\nparson, on the following Sunday.\n\n\"Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a long time in\nthe neighbourhood betune a black-mouth an' a Catholic, an' of coorse\nthere was strong objections on both sides aginst it; an' begad, only\nfor one thing, it would never 'a tuck place at all. At any rate, faix,\nthere was one of the bride's uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairy-man,\nwho could cure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as he didn't\nwish to see his niece married upon sich a fellow, he fought bittherly\nagainst the match. All Moll's friends, however, stood up for the\nmarriage barrin' him, an' of coorse the Sunday was appointed, as I\nsaid, that they were to be dove-tailed together.\n\n\"Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went to mass, and\nGusty to meeting, afther which they were to join one another in Jack\nRafferty's, where the priest, Father M'Sorley, was to slip up afther\nmass to take his dinner wid them, and to keep Misther M'Shuttle, who\nwas to marry them, company. Nobody remained at home but ould Jack\nRafferty an' his wife, who stopped to dress the dinner, for, to tell\nthe truth, it was to be a great let-out entirely. Maybe, if all was\nknown, too, that Father M'Sorley was to give them a cast of his office\nover an' above the ministher, in regard that Moll's friends were not\naltogether satisfied at the kind of marriage which M'Shuttle could\ngive them. The sorrow may care about that--splice here--splice\nthere--all I can say is, that when Mrs. Rafferty was goin' to tie up a\nbig bag pudden, in walks Harry Connolly, the fairy-man, in a rage, and\nshouts out,--'Blood and blunderbushes, what are yez here for?'\n\n\"'Arrah why, Harry? Why, avick?'\n\n\"'Why, the sun's in the suds and the moon in the high Horicks; there's\na clipstick comin' an, an' there you're both as unconsarned as if it\nwas about to rain mether. Go out and cross yourselves three times in\nthe name o' the four Mandromarvins, for as prophecy says:--Fill the\npot, Eddy, supernaculum--a blazing star's a rare spectaculum. Go out\nboth of you and look at the sun, I say, an' ye'll see the condition\nhe's in--off!'\n\n\"Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, and his wife\nleaped like a two-year-ould, till they were both got on a stile beside\nthe house to see what was wrong in the sky.\n\n\"'Arrah, what is it, Jack,' said she; 'can you see anything?'\n\n\"'No,' says he, 'sorra the full o' my eye of anything I can spy,\nbarrin' the sun himself, that's not visible in regard of the clouds.\nGod guard us! I doubt there's something to happen.'\n\n\"'If there wasn't, Jack, what 'ud put Harry, that knows so much, in\nthe state he's in?'\n\n\"'I doubt it's this marriage,' said Jack: 'betune ourselves, it's not\nover an' above religious for Moll to marry a black-mouth, an' only\nfor----; but it can't be helped now, though you see not a taste o' the\nsun is willin' to show his face upon it.'\n\n\"'As to that,' says the wife, winkin' wid both her eyes, 'if Gusty's\nsatisfied wid Moll, it's enough. I know who'll carry the whip hand,\nanyhow; but in the manetime let us ax Harry 'ithin what ails the sun.'\n\n\"Well, they accordianly went in an' put the question to him:\n\n\"'Harry, what's wrong, ahagur? What is it now, for if anybody alive\nknows, 'tis yourself?'\n\n\"'Ah!' said Harry, screwin' his mouth wid a kind of a dhry smile, 'the\nsun has a hard twist o' the cholic; but never mind that, I tell you\nyou'll have a merrier weddin' than you think, that's all;' and havin'\nsaid this, he put on his hat and left the house.\n\n\"Now, Harry's answer relieved them very much, and so, afther calling\nto him to be back for the dinner, Jack sat down to take a shough o'\nthe pipe, and the wife lost no time in tying up the pudden and puttin'\nit in the pot to be boiled.\n\n\"In this way things went on well enough for a while, Jack smokin'\naway, an' the wife cookin' and dhressin' at the rate of a hunt. At\nlast, Jack, while sittin', as I said, contentedly at the fire, thought\nhe could persave an odd dancin' kind of motion in the pot that puzzled\nhim a good deal.\n\n\"'Katty,' said he, 'what the dickens is in this pot on the fire?'\n\n\"'Nerra thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax?' says she.\n\n\"'Why,' said he, 'if ever a pot tuck it into its head to dance a jig,\nand this did. Thundher and sparbles, look at it!'\n\n\"Begad, it was thrue enough; there was the pot bobbin' up an' down and\nfrom side to side, jiggin' it away as merry as a grig; an' it was\nquite aisy to see that it wasn't the pot itself, but what was inside\nof it, that brought about the hornpipe.\n\n\"'Be the hole o' my coat,' shouted Jack, 'there's something alive in\nit, or it would never cut sich capers!'\n\n\"'Be gorra, there is, Jack; something sthrange entirely has got into\nit. Wirra, man alive, what's to be done?'\n\n\"Jist as she spoke, the pot seemed to cut the buckle in prime style,\nand afther a spring that 'ud shame a dancin'-masther, off flew the\nlid, and out bounced the pudden itself, hoppin', as nimble as a pea on\na drum-head, about the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed\nherself. Jack shouted, and Katty screamed. 'In the name of goodness,\nkeep your distance; no one here injured you!'\n\n\"The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack lepped first on a\nchair and then on the kitchen table to avoid it. It then danced\ntowards Kitty, who was now repatin' her prayers at the top of her\nvoice, while the cunnin' thief of a pudden was hoppin' and jiggin' it\nround her, as if it was amused at her distress.\n\n\"'If I could get the pitchfork,' said Jack, 'I'd dale wid it--by goxty\nI'd thry its mettle.'\n\n\"'No, no,' shouted Katty, thinkin' there was a fairy in it; 'let us\nspake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do? Aisy now,' said she to\nthe pudden, 'aisy, dear; don't harm honest people that never meant to\noffend you. It wasn't us--no, in troth, it was ould Harry Connolly\nthat bewitched you; pursue _him_ if you wish, but spare a woman like\nme; for, whisper, dear, I'm not in a condition to be frightened--troth\nI'm not.'\n\n\"The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and danced away\nfrom her towards Jack, who, like the wife, believin' there was a fairy\nin it, an' that spakin' it fair was the best plan, thought he would\ngive it a soft word as well as her.\n\n\"'Plase your honour,' said Jack, 'she only spaiks the truth; an', upon\nmy voracity, we both feels much oblaiged to your honour for your\nquietness. Faith, it's quite clear that if you weren't a gentlemanly\npudden all out, you'd act otherwise. Ould Harry, the rogue, is your\nmark; he's jist gone down the road there, and if you go fast you'll\novertake him. Be me song, your dancin' masther did his duty, anyhow.\nThank your honour! God speed you, an' may you never meet wid a parson\nor alderman in your thravels!'\n\n\"Jist as Jack spoke the pudden appeared to take the hint, for it\nquietly hopped out, and as the house was directly on the road-side,\nturned down towards the bridge, the very way that ould Harry went. It\nwas very natural, of coorse, that Jack and Katty should go out to see\nhow it intended to thravel; and, as the day was Sunday, it was but\nnatural, too, that a greater number of people than usual were passin'\nthe road. This was a fact; and when Jack and his wife were seen\nfollowin' the pudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up and afther it.\n\n\"'Jack Rafferty, what is it? Katty, ahagur, will you tell us what it\nmanes?'\n\n\"'Why,' replied Katty, 'it's my big pudden that's bewitched, an' it's\nnow hot foot pursuin'----;' here she stopped, not wishin' to mention\nher brother's name--'_some one_ or other that surely put _pishrogues_\nan it.'[39]\n\n\"This was enough; Jack, now seein' that he had assistance, found his\ncourage comin' back to him; so says he to Katty, 'Go home,' says he,\n'an' lose no time in makin' another pudden as good, an' here's Paddy\nScanlan's wife, Bridget, says she'll let you boil it on her fire, as\nyou'll want our own to dress the rest o' the dinner: and Paddy himself\nwill lend me a pitchfork, for purshuin to the morsel of that same\npudden will escape till I let the wind out of it, now that I've the\nneighbours to back an' support me,' says Jack.\n\n\"This was agreed to, and Katty went back to prepare a fresh pudden,\nwhile Jack an' half the townland pursued the other wid spades, graips,\npitchforks, scythes, flails, and all possible description of\ninstruments. On the pudden went, however, at the rate of about six\nIrish miles an hour, an' sich a chase never was seen. Catholics,\nProdestants, an' Prosbytarians, were all afther it, armed, as I said,\nan' bad end to the thing but its own activity could save it. Here it\nmade a hop, and there a prod was made at it; but off it went, an' some\none, as eager to get a slice at it on the other side, got the prod\ninstead of the pudden. Big Frank Farrell, the miller of Ballyboulteen,\ngot a prod backwards that brought a hullabaloo out of him you might\nhear at the other end of the parish. One got a slice of a scythe,\nanother a whack of a flail, a third a rap of a spade that made him\nlook nine ways at wanst.\n\n\"'Where is it goin'?' asked one. 'My life for you, it's on it's way to\nMeeting. Three cheers for it if it turns to Carntaul.' 'Prod the sowl\nout of it, if it's a Prodestan',' shouted the others; 'if it turns to\nthe left, slice it into pancakes. We'll have no Prodestan' puddens\nhere.'\n\n\"Begad, by this time the people were on the point of beginnin' to have\na regular fight about it, when, very fortunately, it took a short turn\ndown a little by-lane that led towards the Methodist praichin-house,\nan' in an instant all parties were in an uproar against it as a\nMethodist pudden. 'It's a Wesleyan,' shouted several voices; 'an' by\nthis an' by that, into a Methodist chapel it won't put a foot to-day,\nor we'll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come, boys, where's your\npitchforks?'\n\n\"The divle purshuin to the one of them, however, ever could touch the\npudden, an' jist when they thought they had it up against the gavel of\nthe Methodist chapel, begad it gave them the slip, and hops over to\nthe left, clane into the river, and sails away before all their eyes\nas light as an egg-shell.\n\n\"Now, it so happened that a little below this place, the demesne-wall\nof Colonel Bragshaw was built up to the very edge of the river on each\nside of its banks; and so findin' there was a stop put to their\npursuit of it, they went home again, every man, woman, and child of\nthem, puzzled to think what the pudden was at all, what it meant, or\nwhere it was goin'! Had Jack Rafferty an' his wife been willin' to let\nout the opinion they held about Harry Connolly bewitchin' it, there is\nno doubt of it but poor Harry might be badly trated by the crowd,\nwhen their blood was up. They had sense enough, howandiver, to keep\nthat to themselves, for Harry bein' an' ould bachelor, was a kind\nfriend to the Raffertys. So, of coorse, there was all kinds of talk\nabout it--some guessin' this, and some guessin' that--one party sayin'\nthe pudden was of there side, another party denyin' it, an' insistin'\nit belonged to them, an' so on.\n\n\"In the manetime, Katty Rafferty, for 'fraid the dinner might come\nshort, went home and made another pudden much about the same size as\nthe one that had escaped, and bringin' it over to their next\nneighbour, Paddy Scanlan's, it was put into a pot and placed on the\nfire to boil, hopin' that it might be done in time, espishilly as they\nwere to have the ministher, who loved a warm slice of a good pudden as\nwell as e'er a gintleman in Europe.\n\n\"Anyhow, the day passed; Moll and Gusty were made man an' wife, an' no\ntwo could be more lovin'. Their friends that had been asked to the\nweddin' were saunterin' about in pleasant little groups till\ndinner-time, chattin' an' laughin'; but, above all things, sthrivin'\nto account for the figaries of the pudden; for, to tell the truth, its\nadventures had now gone through the whole parish.\n\n\"Well, at any rate, dinner-time was dhrawin' near, and Paddy Scanlan\nwas sittin' comfortably wid his wife at the fire, the pudden boilen\nbefore their eyes, when in walks Harry Connolly, in a flutter,\nshoutin'--'Blood an' blunderbushes, what are yez here for?'\n\n\"'Arra, why, Harry--why, avick?' said Mrs. Scanlan.\n\n\"'Why,' said Harry, 'the sun's in the suds an' the moon in the high\nHoricks! Here's a clipstick comin' an, an' there you sit as\nunconsarned as if it was about to rain mether! Go out both of you, an'\nlook at the sun, I say, and ye'll see the condition he's in--off!'\n\n\"'Ay, but, Harry, what's that rowled up in the tail of your\ncothamore[40] (big coat)?'\n\n\"'Out wid yez,' said Harry, 'an' pray aginst the clipstick--the sky's\nfallin'!'\n\n\"Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife got out first,\nthey were so much alarmed by Harry's wild thin face an' piercin' eyes;\nso out they went to see what was wondherful in the sky, an' kep'\nlookin' an' lookin' in every direction, but not a thing was to be\nseen, barrin' the sun shinin' down wid great good-humour, an' not a\nsingle cloud in the sky.\n\n\"Paddy an' the wife now came in laughin', to scould Harry, who, no\ndoubt, was a great wag in his way when he wished. 'Musha, bad scran to\nyou, Harry----.' They had time to say no more, howandiver, for, as\nthey were goin' into the door, they met him comin' out of it wid a\nreek of smoke out of his tail like a lime-kiln.\n\n\"'Harry,' shouted Bridget, 'my sowl to glory, but the tail of your\ncothamore's a-fire--you'll be burned. Don't you see the smoke that's\nout of it?'\n\n\"'Cross yourselves three times,' said Harry, widout stoppin', or even\nlookin' behind him, 'for, as the prophecy says--Fill the pot,\nEddy----' They could hear no more, for Harry appeared to feel like a\nman that carried something a great deal hotter than he wished, as\nanyone might see by the liveliness of his motions, and the quare faces\nhe was forced to make as he went along.\n\n\"'What the dickens is he carryin' in the skirts of his big coat?'\nasked Paddy.\n\n\"'My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stole the pudden,' said\nBridget, 'for it's known that many a sthrange thing he does.'\n\n\"They immediately examined the pot, but found that the pudden was\nthere as safe as tuppence, an' this puzzled them the more, to think\nwhat it was he could be carryin' about wid him in the manner he did.\nBut little they knew what he had done while they were sky-gazin'!\n\n\"Well, anyhow, the day passed and the dinner was ready, an' no doubt\nbut a fine gatherin' there was to partake of it. The Prosbytarian\nministher met the Methodist praicher--a divilish stretcher of an\nappetite he had, in throth--on their way to Jack Rafferty's, an' as he\nknew he could take the liberty, why he insisted on his dinin' wid\nhim; for, afther all, begad, in thim times the clargy of all\ndescriptions lived upon the best footin' among one another, not all as\none as now--but no matther. Well, they had nearly finished their\ndinner, when Jack Rafferty himself axed Katty for the pudden; but,\njist as he spoke, in it came as big as a mess-pot.\n\n\"'Gintlemen,' said he, 'I hope none of you will refuse tastin' a bit\nof Katty's pudden; I don't mane the dancin' one that tuck to its\nthravels to-day, but a good solid fellow that she med since.'\n\n\"'To be sure we won't,' replied the priest; 'so, Jack, put a thrifle\non them three plates at your right hand, and send them over here to\nthe clargy, an' maybe,' he said, laughin'--for he was a droll\ngood-humoured man--'maybe, Jack, we won't set you a proper example.'\n\n\"'Wid a heart an' a half, yer reverence an' gintlemen; in throth, it's\nnot a bad example ever any of you set us at the likes, or ever will\nset us, I'll go bail. An' sure I only wish it was betther fare I had\nfor you; but we're humble people, gintlemen, and so you can't expect\nto meet here what you would in higher places.'\n\n\"'Betther a male of herbs,' said the Methodist praicher, 'where pace\nis----.' He had time to go no farther, however; for much to his\namazement, the priest and the ministher started up from the table jist\nas he was goin' to swallow the first spoonful of the pudden, and\nbefore you could say Jack Robinson, started away at a lively jig down\nthe floor.\n\n\"At this moment a neighbour's son came runnin' in, an' tould them that\nthe parson was comin' to see the new-married couple, an' wish them all\nhappiness; an' the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he made\nhis appearance. What to think he knew not, when he saw the ministher\nfooting it away at the rate of a weddin'. He had very little time,\nhowever, to think; for, before he could sit down, up starts the\nMethodist praicher, and clappin' his two fists in his sides chimes in\nin great style along wid him.\n\n\"'Jack Rafferty,' says he--and, by the way, Jack was his tenant--'what\nthe dickens does all this mane?' says he; 'I'm amazed!'\n\n\"'The not a particle o' me can tell you,' says Jack; 'but will your\nreverence jist taste a morsel o' pudden, merely that the young couple\nmay boast that you ait at their weddin'; for sure if _you_ wouldn't,\n_who_ would?'\n\n\"'Well,' says he, 'to gratify them I will; so just a morsel. But,\nJack, this bates Bannagher,' says he again, puttin' the spoonful o'\npudden into his mouth; 'has there been dhrink here?'\n\n\"'Oh, the divle a _spudh_,' says Jack, 'for although there's plinty in\nthe house, faith, it appears the gintlemen wouldn't wait for it.\nUnless they tuck it elsewhere, I can make nothin' of this.'\n\n\"He had scarcely spoken, when the parson, who was an active man, cut a\ncaper a yard high, an' before you could bless yourself, the three\nclargy were hard at work dancin', as if for a wager. Begad, it would\nbe unpossible for me to tell you the state the whole meetin' was in\nwhen they seen this. Some were hoarse wid laughin'; some turned up\ntheir eyes wid wondher; many thought them mad, an' others thought they\nhad turned up their little fingers a thrifle too often.\n\n\"'Be goxty, it's a burnin' shame,' said one, 'to see three black-mouth\nclargy in sich a state at this early hour!' 'Thundher an' ounze,\nwhat's over them at all?' says others; 'why, one would think they're\nbewitched. Holy Moses, look at the caper the Methodis cuts! An' as for\nthe Recther, who would think he could handle his feet at such a rate!\nBe this an' be that, he cuts the buckle, and does the threblin' step\naiquil to Paddy Horaghan, the dancin'-masther himself? An' see! Bad\ncess to the morsel of the parson that's not hard at _Peace upon a\ntrancher_, an' it of a Sunday too! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun's in\nyez afther all--whish! more power to yez!'\n\n\"The sorra's own fun they had, an' no wondher; but judge of what they\nfelt, when all at once they saw ould Jack Rafferty himself bouncin' in\namong them, and footing it away like the best o' them. Bedad, no play\ncould come up to it, an' nothin' could be heard but laughin', shouts of\nencouragement, and clappin' of hands like mad. Now the minute Jack\nRafferty left the chair where he had been carvin' the pudden, ould Harry\nConnolly comes over and claps himself down in his place, in ordher to\nsend it round, of coorse; an' he was scarcely sated, when who should\nmake his appearance but Barney Hartigan, the piper. Barney, by the way,\nhad been sent for early in the day, but bein' from home when the message\nfor him went, he couldn't come any sooner.\n\n\"'Begorra,' said Barney, 'you're airly at the work, gintlemen! but\nwhat does this mane? But, divle may care, yez shan't want the music\nwhile there's a blast in the pipes, anyhow!' So sayin' he gave them\n_Jig Polthogue_, an' after that _Kiss my Lady_, in his best style.\n\n\"In the manetime the fun went on thick an' threefold, for it must be\nremimbered that Harry, the ould knave, was at the pudden; an' maybe he\ndidn't sarve it about in double quick time too. The first he helped\nwas the bride, and, before you could say chopstick, she was at it hard\nan' fast before the Methodist praicher, who gave a jolly spring before\nher that threw them into convulsions. Harry liked this, and made up\nhis mind soon to find partners for the rest; so he accordianly sent\nthe pudden about like lightnin'; an' to make a long story short,\nbarrin' the piper an' himself, there wasn't a pair o' heels in the\nhouse but was as busy at the dancin' as if their lives depinded on it.\n\n\"'Barney,' says Harry, 'just taste a morsel o' this pudden; divle the\nsuch a bully of a pudden ever you ett; here, your sowl! thry a snig of\nit--it's beautiful.'\n\n\"'To be sure I will,' says Barney. 'I'm not the boy to refuse a good\nthing; but, Harry, be quick, for you know my hands is engaged, an' it\nwould be a thousand pities not to keep them in music, an' they so well\ninclined. Thank you, Harry; begad that is a famous pudden; but blood\nan' turnips, what's this for?'\n\n\"The word was scarcely out of his mouth when he bounced up, pipes an'\nall, an' dashed into the middle of the party. 'Hurroo, your sowls, let\nus make a night of it! The Ballyboulteen boys for ever! Go it, your\nreverence--turn your partner--heel an' toe, ministher. Good! Well done\nagain--Whish! Hurroo! Here's for Ballyboulteen, an' the sky over it!'\n\n\"Bad luck to the sich a set ever was seen together in this world, or\nwill again, I suppose. The worst, however, wasn't come yet, for jist\nas they were in the very heat an' fury of the dance, what do you think\ncomes hoppin' in among them but another pudden, as nimble an' merry as\nthe first! That was enough; they all had heard of--the ministhers\namong the rest--an' most o' them had seen the other pudden, and knew\nthat there must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I said, in it\ncomes to the thick o' them; but the very appearance of it was enough.\nOff the three clargy danced, and off the whole weddiners danced afther\nthem, every one makin' the best of their way home; but not a sowl of\nthem able to break out of the step, if they were to be hanged for it.\nThroth it wouldn't lave a laugh in you to see the parson dancin' down\nthe road on his way home, and the ministher and Methodist praicher\ncuttin' the buckle as they went along in the opposite direction. To\nmake short work of it, they all danced home at last, wid scarce a puff\nof wind in them; the bride and bridegroom danced away to bed; an' now,\nboys, come an' let us dance the _Horo Lheig_ in the barn 'idout. But\nyou see, boys, before we go, an' in ordher that I may make everything\nplain, I had as good tell you that Harry, in crossing the bridge of\nBallyboulteen, a couple of miles below Squire Bragshaw's demense-wall,\nsaw the pudden floatin' down the river--the truth is he was waitin'\nfor it; but be this as it may, he took it out, for the wather had made\nit as clane as a new pin, and tuckin' it up in the tail of his big\ncoat, contrived, as you all guess, I suppose, to change it while Paddy\nScanlan an' the wife were examinin' the sky; an' for the other, he\ncontrived to bewitch it in the same manner, by gettin' a fairy to go\ninto it, for, indeed, it was purty well known that the same Harry was\nhand an' glove wid the _good people_. Others will tell you that it was\nhalf a pound of quicksilver he put into it; but that doesn't stand to\nraison. At any rate, boys, I have tould you the adventures of the Mad\nPudden of Ballyboulteen; but I don't wish to tell you many other\nthings about it that happened--_for fraid I'd tell a lie_.\"[41]\n\n[Footnote 38: Perhaps from Irish _dilse_--_i.e._, love.]\n\n[Footnote 39: Put it under fairy influence.]\n\n[Footnote 40: Irish, _c\u00f3ta m\u00f3r_.]\n\n[Footnote 41: Some will insist that a fairy-man or fairy-woman has the\npower to bewitch a pudding by putting a fairy into it; whilst others\nmaintain that a competent portion of quicksilver will make it dance\nover half the parish.]\n\n\n\n\nT'YEER-NA-N-OGE.\n\n\n [There is a country called T\u00edr-na-n-Og, which means the Country of\n the Young, for age and death have not found it; neither tears nor\n loud laughter have gone near it. The shadiest boskage covers it\n perpetually. One man has gone there and returned. The bard, Oisen,\n who wandered away on a white horse, moving on the surface of the\n foam with his fairy Niamh, lived there three hundred years, and\n then returned looking for his comrades. The moment his foot touched\n the earth his three hundred years fell on him, and he was bowed\n double, and his beard swept the ground. He described his sojourn in\n the Land of Youth to Patrick before he died. Since then many have\n seen it in many places; some in the depths of lakes, and have heard\n rising therefrom a vague sound of bells; more have seen it far off\n on the horizon, as they peered out from the western cliffs. Not\n three years ago a fisherman imagined that he saw it. It never\n appears unless to announce some national trouble.\n\n There are many kindred beliefs. A Dutch pilot, settled in Dublin,\n told M. De La Boullage Le Cong, who travelled in Ireland in 1614,\n that round the poles were many islands; some hard to be\n approached because of the witches who inhabit them and destroy by\n storms those who seek to land. He had once, off the coast of\n Greenland, in sixty-one degrees of latitude, seen and approached\n such an island only to see it vanish. Sailing in an opposite\n direction, they met with the same island, and sailing near, were\n almost destroyed by a furious tempest.\n\n According to many stories, T\u00edr-na-n-Og is the favourite dwelling\n of the fairies. Some say it is triple--the island of the living,\n the island of victories, and an underwater land.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF O'DONOGHUE.[42]\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nIn an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain\nnamed O'Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic\nLough Lean, now called the lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and\njustice distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of\nhis subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as\nrenowned for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a\nproof that his domestic administration was not the less rigorous\nbecause it was mild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers,\ncalled \"O'Donoghue's Prison,\" in which this prince once confined his\nown son for some act of disorder and disobedience.\n\nHis end--for it cannot correctly be called his death--was singular and\nmysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was\ncelebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he\nwas engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen\nin ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now\nfired with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as\nhe faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the\nmiseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions he rose\nslowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic\ntread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its\nunyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre he paused\nfor a moment, then, turning slowly round, looked toward his friends,\nand waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a\nshort farewell, disappeared from their view.\n\nThe memory of the good O'Donoghue has been cherished by successive\ngenerations with affectionate reverence; and it is believed that at\nsunrise, on every May-day morning, the anniversary of his departure,\nhe revisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are in general\npermitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good\nfortune to the beholders; when it is granted to many it is a sure\ntoken of an abundant harvest,--a blessing, the want of which during\nthis prince's reign was never felt by his people.\n\nSome years have elapsed since the last appearance of O'Donoghue. The\nApril of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on\nMay-morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air\nwas hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene\nlake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles,\nafter the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe\nthat it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled.\n\nThe first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit\nof Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern shore of the lake became\nsuddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface\nlay smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble, the next morning a\nfoaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse,\nexulting in his strength, rushed across the lake toward Toomies\nmountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior fully armed,\nmounted upon a milk-white steed; his snowy plume waved gracefully from\na helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue\nscarf. The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burden, sprung\nafter the wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth,\nwhile showers of spray that glittered brightly in the morning sun were\ndashed up at every bound.\n\nThe warrior was O'Donoghue; he was followed by numberless youths and\nmaidens, who moved lightly and unconstrained over the watery plain, as\nthe moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air; they were\nlinked together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they\ntimed their movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O'Donoghue\nhad nearly reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned\nhis steed, and directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of\nGlenaa, preceded by the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as\nthe horse's neck, whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long\ntrain of attendants followed with playful deviations the track of\ntheir leader, and moved on with unabated fleetness to their celestial\nmusic, till gradually, as they entered the narrow strait between\nGlenaa and Dinis, they became involved in the mists which still\npartially floated over the lakes, and faded from the view of the\nwondering beholders: but the sound of their music still fell upon the\near, and echo, catching up the harmonious strains, fondly repeated and\nprolonged them in soft and softer tones, till the last faint\nrepetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from a dream of bliss.\n\n[Footnote 42: _Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland._]\n\n\n\n\nRENT-DAY.\n\n\n\"Oh, ullagone! ullagone! this is a wide world, but what will we do in\nit, or where will we go?\" muttered Bill Doody, as he sat on a rock by\nthe Lake of Killarney. \"What will we do? To-morrow's rent-day, and Tim\nthe Driver swears if we don't pay our rent, he'll cant every\n_ha'perth_ we have; and then, sure enough, there's Judy and myself,\nand the poor _grawls_,[43] will be turned out to starve on the\nhigh-road, for the never a halfpenny of rent have I!--Oh hone, that\never I should live to see this day!\"\n\nThus did Bill Doody bemoan his hard fate, pouring his sorrows to the\nreckless waves of the most beautiful of lakes, which seemed to mock\nhis misery as they rejoiced beneath the cloudless sky of a May\nmorning. That lake, glittering in sunshine, sprinkled with fairy isles\nof rock and verdure, and bounded by giant hills of ever-varying hues,\nmight, with its magic beauty, charm all sadness but despair; for alas,\n\n \"How ill the scene that offers rest\n And heart that cannot rest agree!\"\n\nYet Bill Doody was not so desolate as he supposed; there was one\nlistening to him he little thought of, and help was at hand from a\nquarter he could not have expected.\n\n\"What's the matter with you, my poor man?\" said a tall, portly-looking\ngentleman, at the same time stepping out of a furze-brake. Now Bill\nwas seated on a rock that commanded the view of a large field. Nothing\nin the field could be concealed from him, except this furze-brake,\nwhich grew in a hollow near the margin of the lake. He was, therefore,\nnot a little surprised at the gentleman's sudden appearance, and began\nto question whether the personage before him belonged to this world or\nnot. He, however, soon mustered courage sufficient to tell him how his\ncrops had failed, how some bad member had charmed away his butter, and\nhow Tim the Driver threatened to turn him out of the farm if he didn't\npay up every penny of the rent by twelve o'clock next day.\n\n\"A sad story, indeed,\" said the stranger; \"but surely, if you\nrepresented the case to your landlord's agent, he won't have the heart\nto turn you out.\"\n\n\"Heart, your honour; where would an agent get a heart!\" exclaimed\nBill. \"I see your honour does not know him; besides, he has an eye on\nthe farm this long time for a fosterer of his own; so I expect no\nmercy at all at all, only to be turned out.\"\n\n\"Take this, my poor fellow, take this,\" said the stranger, pouring a\npurse full of gold into Bill's old hat, which in his grief he had\nflung on the ground. \"Pay the fellow your rent, but I'll take care it\nshall do him no good. I remember the time when things went otherwise\nin this country, when I would have hung up such a fellow in the\ntwinkling of an eye!\"\n\nThese words were lost upon Bill, who was insensible to everything but\nthe sight of the gold, and before he could unfix his gaze, and lift up\nhis head to pour out his hundred thousand blessings, the stranger was\ngone. The bewildered peasant looked around in search of his\nbenefactor, and at last he thought he saw him riding on a white horse\na long way off on the lake.\n\n\"O'Donoghue, O'Donoghue!\" shouted Bill; \"the good, the blessed\nO'Donoghue!\" and he ran capering like a madman to show Judy the gold,\nand to rejoice her heart with the prospect of wealth and happiness.\n\nThe next day Bill proceeded to the agent's; not sneakingly, with his\nhat in his hand, his eyes fixed on the ground, and his knees bending\nunder him; but bold and upright, like a man conscious of his\nindependence.\n\n\"Why don't you take off your hat, fellow? don't you know you are\nspeaking to a magistrate?\" said the agent.\n\n\"I know I'm not speaking to the king, sir,\" said Bill; \"and I never\ntakes off my hat but to them I can respect and love. The Eye that sees\nall knows I've no right either to respect or love an agent!\"\n\n\"You scoundrel!\" retorted the man in office, biting his lips with rage\nat such an unusual and unexpected opposition, \"I'll teach you how to\nbe insolent again; I have the power, remember.\"\n\n\"To the cost of the country, I know you have,\" said Bill, who still\nremained with his head as firmly covered as if he was the Lord\nKingsale himself.\n\n\"But, come,\" said the magistrate; \"have you got the money for me? this\nis rent-day. If there's one penny of it wanting, or the running gale\nthat's due, prepare to turn out before night, for you shall not remain\nanother hour in possession.\n\n\"There is your rent,\" said Bill, with an unmoved expression of tone\nand countenance; \"you'd better count it, and give me a receipt in full\nfor the running gale and all.\"\n\nThe agent gave a look of amazement at the gold; for it was gold--real\nguineas! and not bits of dirty ragged small notes, that are only fit\nto light one's pipe with. However willing the agent may have been to\nruin, as he thought, the unfortunate tenant, he took up the gold, and\nhanded the receipt to Bill, who strutted off with it as proud as a\ncat of her whiskers.\n\nThe agent going to his desk shortly after, was confounded at beholding\na heap of gingerbread cakes instead of the money he had deposited\nthere. He raved and swore, but all to no purpose; the gold had become\ngingerbread cakes, just marked like the guineas, with the king's head;\nand Bill had the receipt in his pocket; so he saw there was no use in\nsaying anything about the affair, as he would only get laughed at for\nhis pains.\n\nFrom that hour Bill Doody grew rich; all his undertakings prospered;\nand he often blesses the day that he met with O'Donoghue, the great\nprince that lives down under the lake of Killarney.\n\n[Footnote 43: Children.]\n\n\n\n\nLOUGHLEAGH (LAKE OF HEALING).[44]\n\n\n\"Do you see that bit of a lake,\" said my companion, turning his eyes\ntowards the acclivity that overhung Loughleagh. \"Troth, and as little\nas you think of it, and as ugly as it looks with its weeds and its\nflags, it is the most famous one in all Ireland. Young and ould, rich\nand poor, far and near, have come to that lake to get cured of all\nkinds of scurvy and sores. The Lord keep us our limbs whole and sound,\nfor it's a sorrowful thing not to have the use o' them. 'Twas but last\nweek we had a great grand Frenchman here; and, though he came upon\ncrutches, faith he went home sound as a bell; and well he paid Billy\nReily for curing him.\"\n\n\"And, pray, how did Billy Reily cure him?\"\n\n\"Oh, well enough. He took his long pole, dipped it down to the bottom\nof the lake, and brought up on the top of it as much plaster as would\ndo for a thousand sores!\"\n\n\"What kind of plaster?\"\n\n\"What kind of plaster? why, black plaster to be sure; for isn't the\nbottom of the lake filled with a kind of black mud which cures all the\nworld?\"\n\n\"Then it ought to be a famous lake indeed.\"\n\n\"Famous, and so it is,\" replied my companion, \"but it isn't for its\ncures neather that it is famous; for, sure, doesn't all the world know\nthere is a fine beautiful city at the bottom of it, where the good\npeople live just like Christians. Troth, it is the truth I tell you;\nfor _Shemus-a-sneidh_ saw it all when he followed his dun cow that was\nstolen.\"\n\n\"Who stole her?\"\n\n\"I'll tell you all about it:--Shemus was a poor gossoon, who lived on\nthe brow of the hill, in a cabin with his ould mother. They lived by\nhook and by crook, one way and another, in the best way they could.\nThey had a bit of ground that gave 'em the preaty, and a little dun\ncow that gave 'em the drop o' milk; and, considering how times go,\nthey weren't badly off, for Shemus was a handy gossoon to boot; and,\nwhile minden the cow, cut heath and made brooms, which his mother\nsould on a market-day, and brought home the bit o' tobaccy, the grain\nof salt, and other nic-nackenes, which a poor body can't well do\nwidout. Once upon a time, however, Shemus went farther than usual up\nthe mountain, looken for long heath, for town's-people don't like to\nstoop, and so like long handles to their brooms. The little dun cow\nwas a'most as cunning as a Christian sinner, and followed Shemus like\na lap-dog everywhere he'd go, so that she required little or no\nherden. On this day she found nice picken on a round spot as green as\na leek; and, as poor Shemus was weary, as a body would be on a fine\nsummer's day, he lay down on the grass to rest himself, just as we're\nresten ourselves on the cairn here. Begad, he hadn't long lain there,\nsure enough, when, what should he see but whole loads of ganconers[45]\ndancing about the place. Some o' them were hurlen, some kicking a\nfootball, and others leaping a kick-step-and-a-lep. They were so\nsoople and so active that Shemus was highly delighted with the sport,\nand a little tanned-skinned chap in a red cap pleased him better than\nany o' them, bekase he used to tumble the other fellows like\nmushrooms. At one time he had kept the ball up for as good as\nhalf-an-hour, when Shemus cried out, 'Well done, my hurler!' The word\nwasn't well out of his mouth when whap went the ball on his eye, and\nflash went the fire. Poor Shemus thought he was blind, and roared out,\n'Mille murdher!'[46] but the only thing he heard was a loud laugh.\n'Cross o' Christ about us,' says he to himself, 'what is this for?'\nand afther rubbing his eyes they came to a little, and he could see\nthe sun and the sky, and, by-and-by, he could see everything but his\ncow and the mischievous ganconers. They were gone to their rath or\nmote; but where was the little dun cow? He looked, and he looked, and\nhe might have looked from that day to this, bekase she wasn't to be\nfound, and good reason why--the ganconers took her away with 'em.\n\n\"Shemus-a-sneidh, however, didn't think so, but ran home to his mother.\n\n\"'Where is the cow, Shemus?' axed the ould woman.\n\n\"'Och, musha, bad luck to her,' said Shemus, 'I donna where she is!'\n\n\"'Is that an answer, you big blaggard, for the likes o' you to give\nyour poor ould mother?' said she.\n\n\"'Och, musha,' said Shemus, I don't kick up saich a _bollhous_ about\nnothing. The ould cow is safe enough, I'll be bail, some place or\nother, though I could find her if I put my eyes upon _kippeens_,[47]\nand, speaking of eyes, faith, I had very good luck o' my side, or I\nhad naver a one to look after her.'\n\n\"'Why, what happened your eyes, agrah?' axed the ould woman.\n\n\"'Oh! didn't the ganconers--the Lord save us from all hurt and\nharm!--drive their hurlen ball into them both! and sure I was stone\nblind for an hour.'\n\n\"'And may be,' said the mother, 'the good people took our cow?'\n\n\"'No, nor the devil a one of them,' said Shemus, 'for, by the powers,\nthat same cow is as knowen as a lawyer, and wouldn't be such a fool as\nto go with the ganconers while she could get such grass as I found for\nher to-day.'\"\n\nIn this way, continued my informant, they talked about the cow all\nthat night, and next mornen both o' them set off to look for her.\nAfter searching every place, high and low, what should Shemus see\nsticking out of a bog-hole but something very like the horns of his\nlittle beast!\n\n\"Oh, mother, mother,\" said he, \"I've found her!\"\n\n\"Where, alanna?\" axed the ould woman.\n\n\"In the bog-hole, mother,\" answered Shemus.\n\nAt this the poor ould creathure set up such a _pullallue_ that she\nbrought the seven parishes about her; and the neighbours soon pulled\nthe cow out of the bog-hole. You'd swear it was the same, and yet it\nwasn't, as you shall hear by-and-by.\n\nShemus and his mother brought the dead beast home with them; and, after\nskinnen her, hung the meat up in the chimney. The loss of the drop o'\nmilk was a sorrowful thing, and though they had a good deal of meat,\nthat couldn't last always; besides, the whole parish _faughed_ upon them\nfor eating the flesh of a beast that died without bleeden. But the\npretty thing was, they couldn't eat the meat after all, for when it was\nboiled it was as tough as carrion, and as black as a turf. You might as\nwell think of sinking your teeth in an oak plank as into a piece of it,\nand then you'd want to sit a great piece from the wall for fear of\nknocking your head against it when pulling it through your teeth. At\nlast and at long run they were forced to throw it to the dogs, but the\ndogs wouldn't smell to it, and so it was thrown into the ditch, where it\nrotted. This misfortune cost poor Shemus many a salt tear, for he was\nnow obliged to work twice as hard as before, and be out cutten heath on\nthe mountain late and early. One day he was passing by this cairn with a\nload of brooms on his back, when what should he see but the little dun\ncow and two red-headed fellows herding her.\n\n\"That's my mother's cow,\" said Shemus-a-sneidh.\n\n\"No, it is not,\" said one of the chaps.\n\n\"But I say it is,\" said Shemus, throwing the brooms on the ground, and\nseizing the cow by the horns. At that the red fellows drove her as\nfast as they could to this steep place, and with one leap she bounced\nover, with Shemus stuck fast to her horns. They made only one splash\nin the lough, when the waters closed over 'em, and they sunk to the\nbottom. Just as Shemus-a-sneidh thought that all was over with him, he\nfound himself before a most elegant palace built with jewels, and all\nmanner of fine stones. Though his eyes were dazzled with the splendour\nof the place, faith he had gomsh[48] enough not to let go his holt,\nbut in spite of all they could do, he held his little cow by the\nhorns. He was axed into the palace, but wouldn't go.\n\nThe hubbub at last grew so great that the door flew open, and out\nwalked a hundred ladies and gentlemen, as fine as any in the land.\n\n\"What does this boy want?\" axed one o' them, who seemed to be the\nmasther.\n\n\"I want my mother's cow,\" said Shemus.\n\n\"That's not your mother's cow,\" said the gentleman.\n\n\"Bethershin!\"[49] cried Shemus-a-sneidh; \"don't I know her as well as\nI know my right hand?\"\n\n\"Where did you lose her?\" axed the gentleman. And so Shemus up and\ntould him all about it: how he was on the mountain--how he saw the\ngood people hurlen--how the ball was knocked in his eye, and his cow\nwas lost.\n\n\"I believe you are right,\" said the gentleman, pulling out his purse,\n\"and here is the price of twenty cows for you.\"\n\n\"No, no,\" said Shemus, \"you'll not catch ould birds wid chaff. I'll\nhave my cow and nothen else.\"\n\n\"You're a funny fellow,\" said the gentleman; \"stop here and live in a\npalace.\"\n\n\"I'd rather live with my mother.\"\n\n\"Foolish boy!\" said the gentleman; \"stop here and live in a palace.\"\n\n\"I'd rather live in my mother's cabin.\"\n\n\"Here you can walk through gardens loaded with fruit and flowers.\"\n\n\"I'd rather,\" said Shemus, \"be cutting heath on the mountain.\"\n\n\"Here you can eat and drink of the best.\"\n\n\"Since I've got my cow, I can have milk once more with the praties.\"\n\n\"Oh!\" cried the ladies, gathering round him, \"sure you wouldn't take\naway the cow that gives us milk for our tea?\"\n\n\"Oh!\" said Shemus, \"my mother wants milk as bad as anyone, and she\nmust have it; so there is no use in your palaver--I must have my cow.\"\n\nAt this they all gathered about him and offered him bushels of gould,\nbut he wouldn't have anything but his cow. Seeing him as obstinate as\na mule, they began to thump and beat him; but still he held fast by\nthe horns, till at length a great blast of wind blew him out of the\nplace, and in a moment he found himself and the cow standing on the\nside of the lake, the water of which looked as if it hadn't been\ndisturbed since Adam was a boy--and that's a long time since.\n\nWell, Shemus-a-sneidh drove home his cow, and right glad his mother\nwas to see her; but the moment she said \"God bless the beast,\" she\nsunk down like the _breesha_[50] of a turf rick. That was the end of\nShemus-a-sneidh's dun cow.\n\n\"And, sure,\" continued my companion, standing up, \"it is now time for\nme to look after my brown cow, and God send the ganconers haven't\ntaken her!\"\n\nOf this I assured him there could be no fear; and so we parted.\n\n[Footnote 44: _Dublin and London Magazine, 1825._]\n\n[Footnote 45: Ir. _gean-canach_--_i.e._, love-talker, a kind of fairy\nappearing in lonesome valleys, a dudeen (tobacco-pipe) in his mouth,\nmaking love to milk-maids, etc.]\n\n[Footnote 46: A thousand murders.]\n\n[Footnote 47: Ir. _cipin_--_i.e._, a stick, a twig.] [Footnote 48:\nOtherwise \"gumshun--\" _i.e._, sense, cuteness.]\n\n[Footnote 49: Ir. _B'\u00e9idir sin_--_i.e._, \"that is possible.\"]\n\n[Footnote 50: Ir. _briscadh_--_i.e._, breaking.]\n\n\n\n\nHY-BRASAIL--THE ISLE OF THE BLEST.\n\nBY GERALD GRIFFIN.\n\n\n On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell,\n A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell;\n Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest,\n And they called it _Hy-Brasail_, the isle of the blest.\n From year unto year on the ocean's blue rim,\n The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim;\n The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay,\n And it looked like an Eden, away, far away!\n\n A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale,\n In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail;\n From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west,\n For though Ara was holy, _Hy-Brasail_ was blest.\n He heard not the voices that called from the shore--\n He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar;\n Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day,\n And he sped to _Hy-Brasail_, away, far away!\n\n Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle,\n O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile;\n Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore\n Seemed lovelily distant, and faint as before;\n Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track,\n And to Ara again he looked timidly back;\n Oh! far on the verge of the ocean it lay,\n Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away!\n\n Rash dreamer, return! O, ye winds of the main,\n Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again.\n Rash fool! for a vision of fanciful bliss,\n To barter thy calm life of labour and peace.\n The warning of reason was spoken in vain;\n He never revisited Ara again!\n Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray,\n And he died on the waters, away, far away!\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHANTOM ISLE.\n\nGIRALDUS CAMBRENSIS.[51]\n\n\nAmong the other islands is one newly formed, which they call the\nPhantom Isle, which had its origin in this manner. One calm day a\nlarge mass of earth rose to the surface of the sea, where no land had\never been seen before, to the great amazement of islanders who\nobserved it. Some of them said that it was a whale, or other immense\nsea-monster; others, remarking that it continued motionless, said,\n\"No; it is land.\" In order, therefore, to reduce their doubts to\ncertainty, some picked young men of the island determined to approach\nnearer the spot in a boat. When, however, they came so near to it that\nthey thought they should go on shore, the island sank in the water and\nentirely vanished from sight. The next day it re-appeared, and again\nmocked the same youths with the like delusion. At length, on their\nrowing towards it on the third day, they followed the advice of an\nolder man, and let fly an arrow, barbed with red-hot steel, against\nthe island; and then landing, found it stationary and habitable.\n\nThis adds one to the many proofs that fire is the greatest of enemies\nto every sort of phantom; in so much that those who have seen\napparitions, fall into a swoon as soon as they are sensible of the\nbrightness of fire. For fire, both from its position and nature, is\nthe noblest of the elements, being a witness of the secrets of the\nheavens.\n\nThe sky is fiery; the planets are fiery; the bush burnt with fire, but\nwas not consumed; the Holy Ghost sat upon the apostles in tongues of\nfire.\n\n[Footnote 51: \"Giraldus Cambrensis\" was born in 1146, and wrote a\ncelebrated account of Ireland.]\n\n\n\n\nSAINTS, PRIESTS.\n\n\nEverywhere in Ireland are the holy wells. People as they pray by them\nmake little piles of stones, that will be counted at the last day and\nthe prayers reckoned up. Sometimes they tell stories. These following\nare their stories. They deal with the old times, whereof King Alfred\nof Northumberland wrote--\n\n \"I found in Innisfail the fair,\n In Ireland, while in exile there,\n Women of worth, both grave and gay men,\n Many clericks and many laymen.\n\n Gold and silver I found, and money,\n Plenty of wheat, and plenty of honey;\n I found God's people rich in pity,\n Found many a feast, and many a city.\"\n\nThere are no martyrs in the stories. That ancient chronicler Giraldus\ntaunted the Archbishop of Cashel because no one in Ireland had\nreceived the crown of martyrdom. \"Our people may be barbarous,\" the\nprelate answered, \"but they have never lifted their hands against\nGod's saints; but now that a people have come amongst us who know how\nto make them (it was just after the English invasion), we shall have\nmartyrs plentifully.\"\n\nThe bodies of saints are fastidious things. At a place called\nFour-mile-Water, in Wexford, there is an old graveyard full of saints.\nOnce it was on the other side of the river, but they buried a rogue\nthere, and the whole graveyard moved across in the night, leaving the\nrogue-corpse in solitude. It would have been easier to move merely the\nrogue-corpse, but they were saints, and had to do things in style.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRIEST'S SOUL.[52]\n\nLADY WILDE.\n\n\nIn former days there were great schools in Ireland, where every sort of\nlearning was taught to the people, and even the poorest had more\nknowledge at that time than many a gentleman has now. But as to the\npriests, their learning was above all, so that the fame of Ireland went\nover the whole world, and many kings from foreign lands used to send\ntheir sons all the way to Ireland to be brought up in the Irish schools.\n\nNow, at this time there was a little boy learning at one of them who\nwas a wonder to everyone for his cleverness. His parents were only\nlabouring people, and of course poor; but young as he was, and as poor\nas he was, no king's or lord's son could come up to him in learning.\nEven the masters were put to shame; for when they were trying to teach\nhim he would tell them something they never heard of before, and show\nthem their ignorance. One of his great triumphs was in argument; and\nhe would go on till he proved to you that black was white, and then\nwhen you gave in, for no one could beat him in talk, he would turn\nround and show you that white was black, or maybe that there was no\ncolour at all in the world. When he grew up his poor father and mother\nwere so proud of him that they resolved to make him a priest, which\nthey did at last, though they nearly starved themselves to get the\nmoney. Well, such another learned man was not in Ireland, and he was\nas great in argument as ever, so that no one could stand before him.\nEven the bishops tried to talk to him, but he showed them at once they\nknew nothing at all.\n\nNow, there were no schoolmasters in those times, but it was the\npriests taught the people; and as this man was the cleverest in\nIreland, all the foreign kings sent their sons to him, as long as he\nhad house-room to give them. So he grew very proud, and began to\nforget how low he had been, and worst of all, even to forget God, who\nhad made him what he was. And the pride of arguing got hold of him, so\nthat from one thing to another he went on to prove that there was no\nPurgatory, and then no Hell, and then no Heaven, and then no God; and\nat last that men had no souls, but were no more than a dog or a cow,\nand when they died there was an end of them. \"Whoever saw a soul?\" he\nwould say. \"If you can show me one, I will believe.\" No one could make\nany answer to this; and at last they all came to believe that as there\nwas no other world, everyone might do what they liked in this; the\npriest setting the example, for he took a beautiful young girl to\nwife. But as no priest or bishop in the whole land could be got to\nmarry them, he was obliged to read the service over for himself. It\nwas a great scandal, yet no one dared to say a word, for all the\nking's sons were on his side, and would have slaughtered anyone who\ntried to prevent his wicked goings-on. Poor boys; they all believed in\nhim, and thought every word he said was the truth. In this way his\nnotions began to spread about, and the whole world was going to the\nbad, when one night an angel came down from Heaven, and told the\npriest he had but twenty-four hours to live. He began to tremble, and\nasked for a little more time.\n\nBut the angel was stiff, and told him that could not be.\n\n\"What do you want time for, you sinner?\" he asked.\n\n\"Oh, sir, have pity on my poor soul!\" urged the priest.\n\n\"Oh, no! You have a soul, then,\" said the angel. \"Pray, how did you\nfind that out?\"\n\n\"It has been fluttering in me ever since you appeared,\" answered the\npriest. \"What a fool I was not to think of it before.\"\n\n\"A fool, indeed,\" said the angel. \"What good was all your learning,\nwhen it could not tell you that you had a soul?\"\n\n\"Ah, my lord,\" said the priest, \"If I am to die, tell me how soon I\nmay be in Heaven?\"\n\n\"Never,\" replied the angel. \"You denied there was a Heaven.\"\n\n\"Then, my lord, may I go to Purgatory?\"\n\n\"You denied Purgatory also; you must go straight to Hell,\" said the\nangel.\n\n\"But, my lord, I denied Hell also,\" answered the priest, \"so you can't\nsend me there either.\"\n\nThe angel was a little puzzled.\n\n\"Well,\" said he, \"I'll tell you what I can do for you. You may either\nlive now on earth for a hundred years, enjoying every pleasure, and\nthen be cast into Hell for ever; or you may die in twenty-four hours\nin the most horrible torments, and pass through Purgatory, there to\nremain till the Day of Judgment, if only you can find some one person\nthat believes, and through his belief mercy will be vouchsafed to you,\nand your soul will be saved.\"\n\nThe priest did not take five minutes to make up his mind.\n\n\"I will have death in the twenty-four hours,\" he said, \"so that my\nsoul may be saved at last.\"\n\nOn this the angel gave him directions as to what he was to do, and\nleft him.\n\nThen immediately the priest entered the large room where all the\nscholars and the kings' sons were seated, and called out to them--\n\n\"Now, tell me the truth, and let none fear to contradict me; tell me\nwhat is your belief--have men souls?\"\n\n\"Master,\" they answered, \"once we believed that men had souls; but\nthanks to your teaching, we believe so no longer. There is no Hell,\nand no Heaven, and no God. This is our belief, for it is thus you\ntaught us.\"\n\nThen the priest grew pale with fear, and cried out--\"Listen! I taught\nyou a lie. There is a God, and man has an immortal soul. I believe now\nall I denied before.\"\n\nBut the shouts of laughter that rose up drowned the priest's voice,\nfor they thought he was only trying them for argument.\n\n\"Prove it, master,\" they cried. \"Prove it. Who has ever seen God? Who\nhas ever seen the soul?\"\n\nAnd the room was stirred with their laughter.\n\nThe priest stood up to answer them, but no word could he utter. All\nhis eloquence, all his powers of argument had gone from him; and he\ncould do nothing but wring his hands and cry out, \"There is a God!\nthere is a God! Lord have mercy on my soul!\"\n\nAnd they all began to mock him! and repeat his own words that he had\ntaught them--\n\n\"Show him to us; show us your God.\" And he fled from them, groaning\nwith agony, for he saw that none believed; and how, then, could his\nsoul be saved?\n\nBut he thought next of his wife. \"She will believe,\" he said to\nhimself; \"women never give up God.\"\n\nAnd he went to her; but she told him that she believed only what he\ntaught her, and that a good wife should believe in her husband first\nand before and above all things in Heaven or earth.\n\nThen despair came on him, and he rushed from the house, and began to\nask every one he met if they believed. But the same answer came from\none and all--\"We believe only what you have taught us,\" for his\ndoctrine had spread far and wide through the country.\n\nThen he grew half mad with fear, for the hours were passing, and he\nflung himself down on the ground in a lonesome spot, and wept and\ngroaned in terror, for the time was coming fast when he must die.\n\nJust then a little child came by. \"God save you kindly,\" said the\nchild to him.\n\nThe priest started up.\n\n\"Do you believe in God?\" he asked.\n\n\"I have come from a far country to learn about him,\" said the child.\n\"Will your honour direct me to the best school they have in these\nparts?\"\n\n\"The best school and the best teacher is close by,\" said the priest,\nand he named himself.\n\n\"Oh, not to that man,\" answered the child, \"for I am told he denies\nGod, and Heaven, and Hell, and even that man has a soul, because he\ncannot see it; but I would soon put him down.\"\n\nThe priest looked at him earnestly. \"How?\" he inquired.\n\n\"Why,\" said the child, \"I would ask him if he believed he had life to\nshow me his life.\"\n\n\"But he could not do that, my child,\" said the priest. \"Life cannot be\nseen; we have it, but it is invisible.\"\n\n\"Then if we have life, though we cannot see it, we may also have a\nsoul, though it is invisible,\" answered the child.\n\nWhen the priest heard him speak these words, he fell down on his knees\nbefore him, weeping for joy, for now he knew his soul was safe; he had\nmet one at last that believed. And he told the child his whole\nstory--all his wickedness, and pride, and blasphemy against the great\nGod; and how the angel had come to him, and told him of the only way\nin which he could be saved, through the faith and prayers of someone\nthat believed.\n\n\"Now, then,\" he said to the child, \"take this penknife and strike it\ninto my breast, and go on stabbing the flesh until you see the\npaleness of death on my face. Then watch--for a living thing will soar\nup from my body as I die, and you will then know that my soul has\nascended to the presence of God. And when you see this thing, make\nhaste and run to my school, and call on all my scholars to come and\nsee that the soul of their master has left the body, and that all he\ntaught them was a lie, for that there is a God who punishes sin, and a\nHeaven, and a Hell, and that man has an immortal soul destined for\neternal happiness or misery.\"\n\n\"I will pray,\" said the child, \"to have courage to do this work.\"\n\nAnd he kneeled down and prayed. Then when he rose up he took the\npenknife and struck it into the priest's heart, and struck and struck\nagain till all the flesh was lacerated; but still the priest lived,\nthough the agony was horrible, for he could not die until the\ntwenty-four hours had expired.\n\nAt last the agony seemed to cease, and the stillness of death settled\non his face. Then the child, who was watching, saw a beautiful living\ncreature, with four snow-white wings, mount from the dead man's body\ninto the air and go fluttering round his head.\n\nSo he ran to bring the scholars; and when they saw it, they all knew\nit was the soul of their master; and they watched with wonder and awe\nuntil it passed from sight into the clouds.\n\nAnd this was the first butterfly that was ever seen in Ireland; and\nnow all men know that the butterflies are the souls of the dead,\nwaiting for the moment when they may enter Purgatory, and so pass\nthrough torture to purification and peace.\n\nBut the schools of Ireland were quite deserted after that time, for\npeople said, What is the use of going so far to learn, when the wisest\nman in all Ireland did not know if he had a soul till he was near\nlosing it, and was only saved at last through the simple belief of a\nlittle child.\n\n[Footnote 52: _Ancient Legends of Ireland._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRIEST OF COLOONY.\n\nW. B. YEATS.\n\n\n Good Father John O'Hart\n In penal days rode out\n To a _shoneen_[53] in his freelands,\n With his snipe marsh and his trout.\n\n In trust took he John's lands,\n --_Sleiveens_[54] were all his race--\n And he gave them as dowers to his daughters,\n And they married beyond their place.\n\n But Father John went up,\n And Father John went down;\n And he wore small holes in his shoes,\n And he wore large holes in his gown.\n\n All loved him, only the _shoneen_,\n Whom the devils have by the hair,\n From their wives and their cats and their children,\n To the birds in the white of the air.\n\n The birds, for he opened their cages,\n As he went up and down;\n And he said with a smile, \"Have peace, now,\"\n And went his way with a frown.\n\n But if when anyone died,\n Came keeners hoarser than rooks,\n He bade them give over their keening,\n For he was a man of books.\n\n And these were the works of John,\n When weeping score by score,\n People came into Coloony,\n For he'd died at ninety-four.\n\n There was no human keening;\n The birds from Knocknarea,\n And the world round Knocknashee,\n Came keening in that day,--\n\n Keening from Innismurry,\n Nor stayed for bit or sup;\n This way were all reproved\n Who dig old customs up.\n\n [Coloony is a few miles south of the town of Sligo. Father O'Hart\n lived there in the last century, and was greatly beloved. These\n lines accurately record the tradition. No one who has held the\n stolen land has prospered. It has changed owners many times.]\n\n[Footnote 53: _Shoneen_--_i.e._, upstart.]\n\n[Footnote 54: _Sleiveen_--_i.e._, mean fellow.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF THE LITTLE BIRD.[55]\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nMany years ago there was a very religious and holy man, one of the\nmonks of a convent, and he was one day kneeling at his prayers in the\ngarden of his monastery, when he heard a little bird singing in one of\nthe rose-trees of the garden, and there never was anything that he had\nheard in the world so sweet as the song of that little bird.\n\nAnd the holy man rose up from his knees where he was kneeling at his\nprayers to listen to its song; for he thought he never in all his life\nheard anything so heavenly.\n\nAnd the little bird, after singing for some time longer on the\nrose-tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from the monastery,\nand the holy man followed it to listen to its singing, for he felt as\nif he would never be tired of listening to the sweet song it was\nsinging out of its throat.\n\nAnd the little bird after that went away to another distant tree, and\nsung there for a while, and then to another tree, and so on in the\nsame manner, but ever further and further away from the monastery, and\nthe holy man still following it farther, and farther, and farther,\nstill listening delighted to its enchanting song.\n\nBut at last he was obliged to give up, as it was growing late in the\nday, and he returned to the convent; and as he approached it in the\nevening, the sun was setting in the west with all the most heavenly\ncolours that were ever seen in the world, and when he came into the\nconvent, it was nightfall.\n\nAnd he was quite surprised at everything he saw, for they were all\nstrange faces about him in the monastery that he had never seen\nbefore, and the very place itself, and everything about it, seemed to\nbe strangely altered; and, altogether, it seemed entirely different\nfrom what it was when he had left in the morning; and the garden was\nnot like the garden where he had been kneeling at his devotion when\nhe first heard the singing of the little bird.\n\nAnd while he was wondering at all he saw, one of the monks of the\nconvent came up to him, and the holy man questioned him, \"Brother,\nwhat is the cause of all these strange changes that have taken place\nhere since the morning?\"\n\nAnd the monk that he spoke to seemed to wonder greatly at his\nquestion, and asked him what he meant by the change since morning?\nfor, sure, there was no change; that all was just as before. And then\nhe said, \"Brother, why do you ask these strange questions, and what is\nyour name? for you wear the habit of our order, though we have never\nseen you before.\"\n\nSo upon this the holy man told his name, and said that he had been at\nmass in the chapel in the morning before he had wandered away from the\ngarden listening to the song of a little bird that was singing among\nthe rose-trees, near where he was kneeling at his prayers.\n\nAnd the brother, while he was speaking, gazed at him very earnestly,\nand then told him that there was in the convent a tradition of a\nbrother of his name, who had left it two hundred years before, but\nthat what was become of him was never known.\n\nAnd while he was speaking, the holy man said, \"My hour of death is\ncome; blessed be the name of the Lord for all his mercies to me,\nthrough the merits of his only-begotten Son.\"\n\nAnd he kneeled down that very moment, and said, \"Brother, take my\nconfession, for my soul is departing.\"\n\nAnd he made his confession, and received his absolution, and was\nanointed, and before midnight he died.\n\nThe little bird, you see, was an angel, one of the cherubims or\nseraphims; and that was the way the Almighty was pleased in His mercy\nto take to Himself the soul of that holy man.\n\n[Footnote 55: _Amulet_, 1827. T. C. Croker wrote this, he says, word\nfor word as he heard it from an old woman at a holy well.]\n\n\n\n\nCONVERSION OF KING LAOGHAIRE'S DAUGHTERS.\n\n\nOnce when Patrick and his clericks were sitting beside a well in the\nRath of Croghan, with books open on their knees, they saw coming\ntowards them the two young daughters of the King of Connaught. 'Twas\nearly morning, and they were going to the well to bathe.\n\nThe young girls said to Patrick, \"Whence are ye, and whence come ye?\"\nand Patrick answered, \"It were better for you to confess to the true\nGod than to inquire concerning our race.\"\n\n\"Who is God?\" said the young girls, \"and where is God, and of what\nnature is God, and where is His dwelling-place? Has your God sons and\ndaughters, gold and silver? Is he everlasting? Is he beautiful? Did\nMary foster her son? Are His daughters dear and beauteous to men of\nthe world? Is He in heaven, or on earth, in the sea, in rivers, in\nmountainous places, in valleys?\"\n\nPatrick answered them, and made known who God was, and they believed\nand were baptised, and a white garment put upon their heads; and\nPatrick asked them would they live on, or would they die and behold\nthe face of Christ? They chose death, and died immediately, and were\nburied near the well Clebach.\n\n\n\n\nKING O'TOOLE AND HIS GOOSE.\n\nS. LOVER.\n\n\n\"By Gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o' King\nO'Toole--well, well, but the darkness of mankind is ontellible! Well,\nsir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was a\nking, called King O'Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould\nancient times, long ago; and it was him that owned the churches in the\nearly days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the rale\nboy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin' in partic'lar;\nand from the risin' o' the sun, up he got, and away he wint over the\nmountains beyant afther the deer; and the fine times them wor.\n\n\"Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health;\nbut, you see, in coorse of time the king grew ould, by raison he was\nstiff in his limbs, and when he got sthriken in years, his heart\nfailed him, and he was lost intirely for want o' divarshin, bekase he\ncouldn't go a huntin' no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was\nobleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him. Oh, you may laugh,\nif you like, but it's truth I'm tellin' you; and the way the goose\ndivarted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used for to swim\nacrass the lake, and go divin' for throut, and cotch fish on a Friday\nfor the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, divartin'\nthe poor king. All went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got\nsthriken in years like her master, and couldn't divart him no longer,\nand then it was that the poor king was lost complate. The king was\nwalkin' one mornin' by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate,\nand thinkin' o' drownin' himself, that could get no divarshun in life,\nwhen all of a suddint, turnin' round the corner beyant, who should he\nmeet but a mighty dacent young man comin' up to him.\n\n\"'God save you,' says the king to the young man.\n\n\"'God save you kindly, King O'Toole,' says the young man. 'Thrue for\nyou,' says the king. 'I am King O'Toole,' says he, 'prince and\nplennypennytinchery o' these parts,' says he; 'but how kem ye to know\nthat?' says he. 'Oh, never mind,' says St. Kavin.\n\n\"You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough--the saint himself in\ndisguise, and nobody else. 'Oh, never mind,' says he, 'I know more\nthan that. May I make bowld to ax how is your goose, King O'Toole?'\nsays he. 'Blur-an-agers, how kem ye to know about my goose?' says the\nking. 'Oh, no matther; I was given to understand it,' says Saint\nKavin. After some more talk the king says, 'What are you?' 'I'm an\nhonest man,' says Saint Kavin. 'Well, honest man,' says the king, 'and\nhow is it you make your money so aisy?' 'By makin' ould things as good\nas new,' says Saint Kavin. 'Is it a tinker you are?' says the king.\n'No,' says the saint; 'I'm no tinker by thrade, King O'Toole; I've a\nbetther thrade than a tinker,' says he--'what would you say,' says he,\n'if I made your ould goose as good as new?'\n\n\"My dear, at the word o' making his goose as good as new, you'd think\nthe poor ould king's eyes was ready to jump out iv his head. With that\nthe king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound,\nwaddlin' up to the poor cripple, her masther, and as like him as two\npays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, 'I'll do the\njob for you,' says he, 'King O'Toole.' 'By _Jaminee_!' says King\nO'Toole, 'if you do, bud I'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the\nsivin parishes.' 'Oh, by dad,' says St. Kavin, 'you must say more nor\nthat--my horn's not so soft all out,' says he, 'as to repair your ould\ngoose for nothin'; what'll you gi' me if I do the job for you?--that's\nthe chat,' says St. Kavin. 'I'll give you whatever you ax,' says the\nking; 'isn't that fair?' 'Divil a fairer,' says the saint; 'that's the\nway to do business. Now,' says he, 'this is the bargain I'll make with\nyou, King O'Toole: will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies\nover, the first offer, afther I make her as good as new?' 'I will,'\nsays the king. 'You won't go back o' your word?' says St. Kavin.\n'Honor bright!' says King O'Toole, howldin' out his fist. 'Honor\nbright!' says St. Kavin, back agin, 'it's a bargain. Come here!' says\nhe to the poor ould goose--'come here, you unfort'nate ould cripple,\nand it's I that'll make you the sportin' bird.' With that, my dear, he\ntook up the goose by the two wings--'Criss o' my crass an you,' says\nhe, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute--and\nthrowin' her up in the air, 'whew,' says he, jist givin' her a blast\nto help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her heels, flyin'\nlike one o' the aigles themselves, and cuttin' as many capers as a\nswallow before a shower of rain.\n\n\"Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin' with\nhis mouth open, lookin' at his poor ould goose flyin' as light as a\nlark, and betther nor ever she was: and when she lit at his fut,\npatted her an the head, and, '_Ma vourneen_,' says he, 'but you are\nthe _darlint_ o' the world.' 'And what do you say to me,' says Saint\nKavin, 'for makin' her the like?' 'By gor,' says the king, 'I say\nnothin' bates the art o' man, barrin' the bees.' 'And do you say no\nmore nor that?' says Saint Kavin. 'And that I'm behoulden to you,'\nsays the king. 'But will you gi'e me all the ground the goose flew\nover?' says Saint Kavin. 'I will,' says King O'Toole, 'and you're\nwelkim to it,' says he, 'though it's the last acre I have to give.'\n'But you'll keep your word thrue?' says the saint. 'As thrue as the\nsun,' says the king. 'It's well for you, King O'Toole, that you said\nthat word,' says he; 'for if you didn't say that word, _the devil\nreceave the bit o' your goose id ever fly agin_.' Whin the king was as\ngood as his word, Saint Kavin was _plazed_ with him, and thin it was\nthat he made himself known to the king. 'And,' says he, 'King O'Toole,\nyou're a decent man, for I only kem here to _thry you_. You don't know\nme,\" says he, \"bekase I'm disguised.' 'Musha! thin,' says the king,\n'who are you?' 'I'm Saint Kavin,' said the saint, blessin' himself.\n'Oh, queen iv heaven!' says the king, makin' the sign 'o the crass\nbetune his eyes, and fallin' down on his knees before the saint; 'is\nit the great Saint Kavin,' says he, 'that I've been discoorsin' all\nthis time without knowin' it,' says he, 'all as one as if he was a\nlump iv a _gossoon_?--and so you're a saint?' says the king. 'I am,'\nsays Saint Kavin. 'By gor, I thought I was only talking to a dacent\nboy,' says the king. 'Well, you know the differ now,' says the saint.\n'I'm Saint Kavin,' says he, 'the greatest of all the saints.' And so\nthe king had his goose as good as new, to divart him as long as he\nlived: and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as\nI tould you, until the day iv his death--and that was soon afther;\nfor the poor goose thought he was ketchin' a throut one Friday; but,\nmy jewel, it was a mistake he made--and instead of a throut, it was a\nthievin' horse-eel; and by gor, instead iv the goose killin' a throut\nfor the king's supper,--by dad, the eel killed the king's goose--and\nsmall blame to him; but he didn't ate her, bekase he darn't ate what\nSaint Kavin laid his blessed hands on.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEVIL.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEMON CAT.[56]\n\nLADY WILDE.\n\n\nThere was a woman in Connemara, the wife of a fisherman; as he had\nalways good luck, she had plenty of fish at all times stored away in\nthe house ready for market. But, to her great annoyance, she found\nthat a great cat used to come in at night and devour all the best and\nfinest fish. So she kept a big stick by her, and determined to watch.\n\nOne day, as she and a woman were spinning together, the house suddenly\nbecame quite dark; and the door was burst open as if by the blast of\nthe tempest, when in walked a huge black cat, who went straight up to\nthe fire, then turned round and growled at them.\n\n\"Why, surely this is the devil,\" said a young girl, who was by,\nsorting fish.\n\n\"I'll teach you how to call me names,\" said the cat; and, jumping at\nher, he scratched her arm till the blood came. \"There, now,\" he said,\n\"you will be more civil another time when a gentleman comes to see\nyou.\" And with that he walked over to the door and shut it close, to\nprevent any of them going out, for the poor young girl, while crying\nloudly from fright and pain, had made a desperate rush to get away.\n\nJust then a man was going by, and hearing the cries, he pushed open\nthe door and tried to get in; but the cat stood on the threshold, and\nwould let no one pass. On this the man attacked him with his stick,\nand gave him a sound blow; the cat, however, was more than a match in\nthe fight, for it flew at him and tore his face and hands so badly\nthat the man at last took to his heels and ran away as fast as he could.\n\n\"Now, it's time for my dinner,\" said the cat, going up to examine the\nfish that was laid out on the tables. \"I hope the fish is good to-day.\nNow, don't disturb me, nor make a fuss; I can help myself.\" With that\nhe jumped up, and began to devour all the best fish, while he growled\nat the woman.\n\n\"Away, out of this, you wicked beast,\" she cried, giving it a blow\nwith the tongs that would have broken its back, only it was a devil;\n\"out of this; no fish shall you have to-day.\"\n\nBut the cat only grinned at her, and went on tearing and spoiling and\ndevouring the fish, evidently not a bit the worse for the blow. On\nthis, both the women attacked it with sticks, and struck hard blows\nenough to kill it, on which the cat glared at them, and spit fire;\nthen, making a leap, it tore their heads and arms till the blood came,\nand the frightened women rushed shrieking from the house.\n\nBut presently the mistress returned, carrying with her a bottle of holy\nwater; and, looking in, she saw the cat still devouring the fish, and\nnot minding. So she crept over quietly and threw holy water on it\nwithout a word. No sooner was this done than a dense black smoke filled\nthe place, through which nothing was seen but the two red eyes of the\ncat, burning like coals of fire. Then the smoke gradually cleared away,\nand she saw the body of the creature burning slowly till it became\nshrivelled and black like a cinder, and finally disappeared. And from\nthat time the fish remained untouched and safe from harm, for the power\nof the evil one was broken, and the demon cat was seen no more.\n\n[Footnote 56: _Ancient Legends of Ireland._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LONG SPOON.[57]\n\nPATRICK KENNEDY.\n\n\nThe devil and the hearth-money collector for Bantry set out one summer\nmorning to decide a bet they made the night before over a jug of\npunch. They wanted to see which would have the best load at sunset,\nand neither was to pick up anything that wasn't offered with the\ngood-will of the giver. They passed by a house, and they heard the\npoor ban-a-t'yee[58] cry out to her lazy daughter, \"Oh, musha, ----\ntake you for a lazy sthronsuch[59] of a girl! do you intend to get up\nto-day?\" \"Oh, oh,\" says the taxman, \"there's a job for you, Nick.\"\n\"Ovock,\" says the other, \"it wasn't from her heart she said it; we\nmust pass on.\" The next cabin they were passing, the woman was on the\nbawn-ditch[60] crying out to her husband that was mending one of his\nbrogues inside: \"Oh, tattheration to you, Nick! you never rung them\npigs, and there they are in the potato drills rootin' away; the ----\nrun to Lusk with them.\" \"Another windfall for you,\" says the man of\nthe ink-horn, but the old thief only shook his horns and wagged his\ntail. So they went on, and ever so many prizes were offered to the\nblack fellow without him taking one. Here it was a gorsoon playing\n_marvels_ when he should be using his clappers in the corn-field; and\nthen it was a lazy drone of a servant asleep with his face to the sod\nwhen he ought to be weeding. No one thought of offering the\nhearth-money man even a drink of buttermilk, and at last the sun was\nwithin half a foot of the edge of Cooliagh. They were just then\npassing Monamolin, and a poor woman that was straining her supper in a\nskeeoge outside her cabin-door, seeing the two standing at the bawn\ngate, bawled out, \"Oh, here's the hearth-money man--run away wid him.\"\n\"Got a bite at last,\" says Nick. \"Oh, no, no! it wasn't from her\nheart,\" says the collector. \"Indeed, an' it was from the very\nfoundation-stones it came. No help for misfortunes; in with you,\" says\nhe, opening the mouth of his big black bag; and whether the devil was\never after seen taking the same walk or not, nobody ever laid eyes on\nhis fellow-traveller again.\n\n[Footnote 57: _Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts._]\n\n[Footnote 58: Woman of the house.]\n\n[Footnote 59: Ir. _str[)o]inse_--_i.e._, a lazy thing.]\n\n[Footnote 60: Ir. _b\u00e1dhun_--_i.e._, enclosure, or wall round a house.\nFrom _ba_, cows, and _d\u00fan_, a fortress. Properly, cattle-fortress.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE COUNTESS KATHLEEN O'SHEA.[61]\n\n\nA very long time ago, there suddenly appeared in old Ireland two\nunknown merchants of whom nobody had ever heard, and who nevertheless\nspoke the language of the country with the greatest perfection. Their\nlocks were black, and bound round with gold, and their garments were\nof rare magnificence.\n\nBoth seemed of like age; they appeared to be men of fifty, for their\nforeheads were wrinkled and their beards tinged with grey.\n\nIn the hostelry where the pompous traders alighted it was sought to\npenetrate their designs; but in vain--they led a silent and retired\nlife. And whilst they stopped there, they did nothing but count over\nand over again out of their money-bags pieces of gold, whose yellow\nbrightness could be seen through the windows of their lodging.\n\n\"Gentlemen,\" said the landlady one day, \"how is it that you are so\nrich, and that, being able to succour the public misery, you do no\ngood works?\"\n\n\"Fair hostess,\" replied one of them, \"we didn't like to present alms\nto the honest poor, in dread we might be deceived by make-believe\npaupers. Let want knock at our door, we shall open it.\"\n\nThe following day, when the rumour spread that two rich strangers had\ncome, ready to lavish their gold, a crowd besieged their dwelling; but\nthe figures of those who came out were widely different. Some carried\npride in their mien; others were shame-faced.\n\nThe two chapmen traded in souls for the demon. The souls of the aged\nwas worth twenty pieces of gold, not a penny more; for Satan had had\ntime to make his valuation. The soul of a matron was valued at fifty,\nwhen she was handsome, and a hundred when she was ugly. The soul of a\nyoung maiden fetched an extravagant sum; the freshest and purest\nflowers are the dearest.\n\nAt that time there lived in the city an angel of beauty, the Countess\nKathleen O'Shea. She was the idol of the people and the providence of\nthe indigent. As soon as she learned that these miscreants profited to\nthe public misery to steal away hearts from God, she called to her\nbutler.\n\n\"Patrick,\" said she to him, \"how many pieces of gold in my coffers?\"\n\n\"A hundred thousand.\"\n\n\"How many jewels?\"\n\n\"The money's worth of the gold.\"\n\n\"How much property in castles, forests, and lands?\"\n\n\"Double the rest.\"\n\n\"Very well, Patrick; sell all that is not gold; and bring me the\naccount. I only wish to keep this mansion and the demesne that\nsurrounds it.\"\n\nTwo days afterwards the orders of the pious Kathleen were executed,\nand the treasure was distributed to the poor in proportion to their\nwants. This, says the tradition, did not suit the purposes of the Evil\nSpirit, who found no more souls to purchase. Aided by an infamous\nservant, they penetrated into the retreat of the noble dame, and\npurloined from her the rest of her treasure. In vain she struggled\nwith all her strength to save the contents of her coffers; the\ndiabolical thieves were the stronger. If Kathleen had been able to\nmake the sign of the Cross, adds the legend, she would have put them\nto flight, but her hands were captive. The larceny was effected.\n\nThen the poor called for aid to the plundered Kathleen, alas, to no\ngood: she was able to succour their misery no longer; she had to\nabandon them to the temptation.\n\nMeanwhile, but eight days had to pass before the grain and provender\nwould arrive in abundance from the western lands. Eight such days were\nan age. Eight days required an immense sum to relieve the exigencies\nof the dearth, and the poor should either perish in the agonies of\nhunger, or, denying the holy maxims of the Gospel, vend, for base\nlucre, their souls, the richest gift from the bounteous hand of the\nAlmighty. And Kathleen hadn't anything, for she had given up her\nmansion to the unhappy. She passed twelve hours in tears and mourning,\nrending her sun-tinted hair, and bruising her breast, of the whiteness\nof the lily; afterwards she stood up, resolute, animated by a vivid\nsentiment of despair.\n\nShe went to the traders in souls.\n\n\"What do you want?\" they said.\n\n\"You buy souls?\"\n\n\"Yes, a few still, in spite of you. Isn't that so, saint, with the\neyes of sapphire?\"\n\n\"To-day I am come to offer you a bargain,\" replied she.\n\n\"What?\"\n\n\"I have a soul to sell, but it is costly.\"\n\n\"What does that signify if it is precious? The soul, like the diamond,\nis appraised by its transparency.\"\n\n\"It is mine.\"\n\nThe two emissaries of Satan started. Their claws were clutched under\ntheir gloves of leather; their grey eyes sparkled; the soul, pure,\nspotless, virginal of Kathleen--it was a priceless acquisition!\n\n\"Beauteous lady, how much do you ask?\"\n\n\"A hundred and fifty thousand pieces of gold.\"\n\n\"It's at your service,\" replied the traders, and they tendered Kathleen\na parchment sealed with black, which she signed with a shudder.\n\nThe sum was counted out to her.\n\nAs soon as she got home she said to the butler, \"Here, distribute\nthis: with this money that I give you the poor can tide over the\neight days that remain, and not one of of their souls will be\ndelivered to the demon.\"\n\nAfterwards she shut herself up in her room, and gave orders that none\nshould disturb her.\n\nThree days passed; she called nobody, she did not come out.\n\nWhen the door was opened, they found her cold and stiff; she was dead\nof grief.\n\nBut the sale of this soul, so adorable in its charity, was declared\nnull by the Lord; for she had saved her fellow-citizens from eternal\ndeath.\n\nAfter the eight days had passed, numerous vessels brought into\nfamished Ireland immense provisions in grain. Hunger was no longer\npossible. As to the traders, they disappeared from their hotel without\nanyone knowing what became of them. But the fishermen of the\nBlackwater pretend that they are enchained in a subterranean prison by\norder of Lucifer, until they shall be able to render up the soul of\nKathleen, which escaped from them.\n\n[Footnote 61: This was quoted in a London-Irish newspaper. I am unable\nto find out the original source.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE THREE WISHES.\n\nW. CARLETON.\n\n\nIn ancient times there lived a man called Billy Dawson, and he was\nknown to be a great rogue. They say he was descended from the family\nof the Dawsons, which was the reason, I suppose, of his carrying their\nname upon him.\n\nBilly, in his youthful days, was the best hand at doing nothing in all\nEurope; devil a mortal could come next or near him at idleness; and,\nin consequence of his great practice that way, you may be sure that if\nany man could make a fortune by it he would have done it.\n\nBilly was the only son of his father, barring two daughters; but they\nhave nothing to do with the story I'm telling you. Indeed it was kind\nfather and grandfather for Billy to be handy at the knavery as well as\nat the idleness; for it was well known that not one of their blood\never did an honest act, except with a roguish intention. In short,\nthey were altogether a _dacent_ connection, and a credit to the name.\nAs for Billy, all the villainy of the family, both plain and\nornamental, came down to him by way of legacy; for it so happened that\nthe father, in spite of all his cleverness, had nothing but his\nroguery to _lave_ him.\n\nBilly, to do him justice, improved the fortune he got: every day\nadvanced him farther into dishonesty and poverty, until, at the long\nrun, he was acknowledged on all hands to be the completest swindler\nand the poorest vagabond in the whole parish.\n\nBilly's father, in his young days, had often been forced to\nacknowledge the inconvenience of not having a trade, in consequence of\nsome nice point in law, called the \"Vagrant Act,\" that sometimes\ntroubled him. On this account he made up his mind to give Bill an\noccupation, and he accordingly bound him to a blacksmith; but whether\nBill was to _live_ or _die_ by _forgery_ was a puzzle to his\nfather,--though the neighbours said that _both_ was most likely. At\nall events, he was put apprentice to a smith for seven years, and a\nhard card his master had to play in managing him. He took the proper\nmethod, however, for Bill was so lazy and roguish that it would vex a\nsaint to keep him in order.\n\n\"Bill,\" says his master to him one day that he had been sunning\nhimself about the ditches, instead of minding his business, \"Bill, my\nboy, I'm vexed to the heart to see you in such a bad state of health.\nYou're very ill with that complaint called an _All-overness_;\nhowever,\" says he, \"I think I can cure you. Nothing will bring you\nabout but three or four sound doses every day of a medicine called\n'the oil o' the hazel.' Take the first dose now,\" says he; and he\nimmediately banged him with a hazel cudgel until Bill's bones ached\nfor a week afterwards.\n\n\"If you were my son,\" said his master, \"I tell you that, as long as I\ncould get a piece of advice growing convenient in the hedges, I'd\nhave you a different youth from what you are. If working was a sin,\nBill, not an innocenter boy ever broke bread than you would be. Good\npeople's scarce, you think; but however that may be, I throw it out as\na hint, that you must take your medicine till you're cured, whenever\nyou happen to get unwell in the same way.\"\n\nFrom this out he kept Bill's nose to the grinding-stone; and whenever\nhis complaint returned, he never failed to give him a hearty dose for\nhis improvement.\n\nIn the course of time, however, Bill was his own man and his own\nmaster; but it would puzzle a saint to know whether the master or the\nman was the more precious youth in the eyes of the world.\n\nHe immediately married a wife, and devil a doubt of it, but if _he_\nkept _her_ in whiskey and sugar, _she_ kept _him_ in hot water. Bill\ndrank and she drank; Bill fought and she fought; Bill was idle and she\nwas idle; Bill whacked her and she whacked Bill. If Bill gave her one\nblack eye, she gave him another; _just to keep herself in\ncountenance_. Never was there a blessed pair so well met; and a\nbeautiful sight it was to see them both at breakfast-time, blinking at\neach other across the potato-basket, Bill with his right eye black,\nand she with her left.\n\nIn short, they were the talk of the whole town: and to see Bill of a\nmorning staggering home drunk, his shirt sleeves rolled up on his\nsmutted arms, his breast open, and an old tattered leather apron, with\none corner tucked up under his belt, singing one minute, and fighting\nwith his wife the next;--she, reeling beside him, with a discoloured\neye, as aforesaid, a dirty ragged cap on one side of her head, a pair\nof Bill's old slippers on her feet, a squalling child on her arm--now\ncuffing and dragging Bill, and again kissing and hugging him! Yes, it\nwas a pleasant picture to see this loving pair in such a state!\n\nThis might do for a while, but it could not last. They were idle,\ndrunken, and ill-conducted; and it was not to be supposed that they\nwould get a farthing candle on their words. They were, of course,\n_dhruv_ to great straits; and faith, they soon found that their\nfighting, and drinking, and idleness made them the laughing-sport of\nthe neighbours; but neither brought food to their _childhre_, put a\ncoat upon their backs, nor satisfied their landlord when he came to\nlook for his own. Still, the never a one of Bill but was a funny\nfellow with strangers, though, as we said, the greatest rogue unhanged.\n\nOne day he was standing against his own anvil, completely in a brown\nstudy--being brought to his wit's end how to make out a breakfast for\nthe family. The wife was scolding and cursing in the house, and the\nnaked creatures of childhre squalling about her knees for food. Bill\nwas fairly at an amplush, and knew not where or how to turn himself,\nwhen a poor withered old beggar came into the forge, tottering on his\nstaff. A long white beard fell from his chin, and he looked as thin\nand hungry that you might blow him, one would think, over the house.\nBill at this moment had been brought to his senses by distress, and\nhis heart had a touch of pity towards the old man; for, on looking at\nhim a second time, he clearly saw starvation and sorrow in his face.\n\n\"God save you, honest man!\" said Bill.\n\nThe old man gave a sigh, and raising himself with great pain, on his\nstaff, he looked at Bill in a very beseeching way.\n\n\"Musha, God save you kindly!\" says he; \"maybe you could give a poor,\nhungry, helpless ould man a mouthful of something to ait? You see\nyourself I'm not able to work; if I was, I'd scorn to be behoulding to\nanyone.\"\n\n\"Faith, honest man,\" said Bill, \"if you knew who you're speaking to,\nyou'd as soon ask a monkey for a churn-staff as me for either mate or\nmoney. There's not a blackguard in the three kingdoms so fairly on the\n_shaughran_ as I am for both the one and the other. The wife within is\nsending the curses thick and heavy on me, and the childhre's playing\nthe cat's melody to keep her in comfort. Take my word for it, poor\nman, if I had either mate or money I'd help you, for I know\nparticularly well what it is to want them at the present spaking; an\nempty sack won't stand, neighbour.\"\n\nSo far Bill told him truth. The good thought was in his heart, because\nhe found himself on a footing with the beggar; and nothing brings down\npride, or softens the heart, like feeling what it is to want.\n\n\"Why, you are in a worse state than I am,\" said the old man; \"you have\na family to provide for, and I have only myself to support.\"\n\n\"You may kiss the book on that, my old worthy,\" replied Bill; \"but\ncome, what I can do for you I will; plant yourself up here beside the\nfire, and I'll give it a blast or two of my bellows that will warm the\nold blood in your body. It's a cold, miserable, snowy day, and a good\nheat will be of service.\"\n\n\"Thank you kindly,\" said the old man; \"I _am_ cold, and a warming at\nyour fire will do me good, sure enough. Oh, it _is a bitter, bitter\nday; God bless it!\" _ He then sat down, and Bill blew a rousing blast\nthat soon made the stranger edge back from the heat. In a short time\nhe felt quite comfortable, and when the numbness was taken out of his\njoints, he buttoned himself up and prepared to depart.\n\n\"Now,\" says he to Bill, \"you hadn't the food to give me, but _what you\ncould you did_. Ask any three wishes you choose, and be they what they\nmay, take my word for it, they shall be granted.\"\n\nNow, the truth is, that Bill, though he believed himself a great man\nin point of 'cuteness, wanted, after all, a full quarter of being\nsquare; for there is always a great difference between a wise man and\na knave. Bill was so much of a rogue that he could not, for the blood\nof him, ask an honest wish, but stood scratching his head in a puzzle.\n\n\"Three wishes!\" said he. \"Why, let me see--did you say _three_?\"\n\n\"Ay,\" replied the stranger, \"three wishes--that was what I said.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Bill, \"here goes,--aha!--let me alone, my old\nworthy!--faith I'll overreach the parish, if what you say is true.\nI'll cheat them in dozens, rich and poor, old and young: let me alone,\nman,--I have it here;\" and he tapped his forehead with great glee.\n\"Faith, you're the sort to meet of a frosty morning, when a man wants\nhis breakfast; and I'm sorry that I have neither money nor credit to\nget a bottle of whiskey, that we might take our _morning_ together.\"\n\n\"Well, but let us hear the wishes,\" said the old man; \"my time is\nshort, and I cannot stay much longer.\"\n\n\"Do you see this sledge-hammer?\" said Bill; \"I wish, in the first\nplace, that whoever takes it up in their hands may never be able to\nlay it down till I give them lave; and that whoever begins to sledge\nwith it may never stop sledging till it's my pleasure to release him.\"\n\n\"Secondly--I have an arm-chair, and I wish that whoever sits down in\nit may never rise out of it till they have my consent.\"\n\n\"And, thirdly--that whatever money I put into my purse, nobody may\nhave power to take it out of it but myself!\"\n\n\"You devil's rip!\" says the old man in a passion, shaking his staff\nacross Bill's nose, \"why did you not ask something that would sarve\nyou both here and hereafter? Sure it's as common as the market-cross,\nthat there's not a vagabone in his Majesty's dominions stands more in\nneed of both.\"\n\n\"Oh! by the elevens,\" said Bill, \"I forgot that altogether! Maybe\nyou'd be civil enough to let me change one of them? The sorra purtier\nwish ever was made than I'll make, if you'll give me another chance.\"\n\n\"Get out, you reprobate,\" said the old fellow, still in a passion.\n\"Your day of grace is past. Little you knew who was speaking to you\nall this time. I'm St. Moroky, you blackguard, and I gave you an\nopportunity of doing something for yourself and your family; but you\nneglected it, and now your fate is cast, you dirty, bog-trotting\nprofligate. Sure, it's well known what you are! Aren't you a by-word\nin everybody's mouth, you and your scold of a wife? By this and by\nthat, if ever you happen to come across me again, I'll send you to\nwhere you won't freeze, you villain!\"\n\nHe then gave Bill a rap of his cudgel over the head, and laid him at\nhis length beside the bellows, kicked a broken coal-scuttle out of his\nway, and left the forge in a fury.\n\nWhen Billy recovered himself from the effects of the blow, and began\nto think on what had happened, he could have quartered himself with\nvexation for not asking great wealth as one of the wishes at least;\nbut now the die was cast on him, and he could only make the most of\nthe three he pitched upon.\n\nHe now bethought him how he might turn them to the best account, and\nhere his cunning came to his aid. He began by sending for his\nwealthiest neighbours on pretence of business; and when he got them\nunder his roof, he offered them the arm-chair to sit down in. He now\nhad them safe, nor could all the art of man relieve them except worthy\nBill was willing. Bill's plan was to make the best bargain he could\nbefore he released his prisoners; and let him alone for knowing how to\nmake their purses bleed. There wasn't a wealthy man in the country he\ndid not fleece. The parson of the parish bled heavily; so did the\nlawyer; and a rich attorney, who had retired from practice, swore that\nthe Court of Chancery itself was paradise compared to Bill's chair.\n\nThis was all very good for a time. The fame of his chair, however,\nsoon spread; so did that of his sledge. In a short time neither man,\nwoman, nor child would darken his door; all avoided him and his\nfixtures as they would a spring-gun or man-trap. Bill, so long as he\nfleeced his neighbours, never wrought a hand's turn; so that when his\nmoney was out, he found himself as badly off as ever. In addition to\nall this, his character was fifty times worse than before; for it was\nthe general belief that he had dealings with the old boy. Nothing now\ncould exceed his misery, distress, and ill-temper. The wife and he and\ntheir children all fought among one another. Everybody hated them,\ncursed them, and avoided them. The people thought they were acquainted\nwith more than Christian people ought to know. This, of course, came\nto Bill's ears, and it vexed him very much.\n\nOne day he was walking about the fields, thinking of how he could\nraise the wind once more; the day was dark, and he found himself,\nbefore he stopped, in the bottom of a lonely glen covered by great\nbushes that grew on each side. \"Well,\" thought he, when every other\nmeans of raising money failed him, \"it's reported that I'm in league\nwith the old boy, and as it's a folly to have the name of the\nconnection without the profit, I'm ready to make a bargain with him\nany day;--so,\" said he, raising his voice, \"Nick, you sinner, if you\nbe convanient and willing, why stand out here; show your best\nleg--here's your man.\"\n\nThe words were hardly out of his mouth when a dark, sober-looking old\ngentleman, not unlike a lawyer, walked up to him. Bill looked at the\nfoot and saw the hoof.--\"Morrow, Nick,\" says Bill.\n\n\"Morrow, Bill,\" says Nick. \"Well, Bill, what's the news?\"\n\n\"Devil a much myself hears of late,\" says Bill; \"is there anything\n_fresh_ below?\"\n\n\"I can't exactly say, Bill; I spend little of my time down now; the\nTories are in office, and my hands are consequently too full of\nbusiness here to pay much attention to anything else.\"\n\n\"A fine place this, sir,\" says Bill, \"to take a constitutional walk\nin; when I want an appetite I often come this way myself--hem! _High_\nfeeding is very bad without exercise.\"\n\n\"High feeding! Come, come, Bill, you know you didn't taste a morsel\nthese four-and-twenty hours.\"\n\n\"You know that's a bounce, Nick. I eat a breakfast this morning that\nwould put a stone of flesh on you, if you only smelt at it.\"\n\n\"No matter; this is not to the purpose. What's that you were\nmuttering to yourself awhile ago? If you want to come to the brunt,\nhere I'm for you.\"\n\n\"Nick,\" said Bill, \"you're complate; you want nothing barring a pair\nof Brian O'Lynn's breeches.\"\n\nBill, in fact, was bent on making his companion open the bargain,\nbecause he had often heard that, in that case, with proper care on his\nown part, he might defeat him in the long run. The other, however, was\nhis match.\n\n\"What was the nature of Brian's garment,\" inquired Nick. \"Why, you\nknow the song,\" said Bill--\n\n \"'Brian O'Lynn had no breeches to wear,\n So he got a sheep's skin for to make him a pair;\n With the fleshy side out and the woolly side in,\n They'll be pleasant and _cool_, says Brian O'Lynn.'\n\n\"A _cool_ pare would sarve you, Nick.\"\n\n\"You're mighty waggish to-day, Misther Dawson.\"\n\n\"And good right I have,\" said Bill; \"I'm a man snug and well to do in\nthe world; have lots of money, plenty of good eating and drinking, and\nwhat more need a man wish for?\"\n\n\"True,\" said the other; \"in the meantime it's rather odd that so\nrespectable a man should not have six inches of unbroken cloth in his\napparel. You are as naked a tatterdemalion as I ever laid my eyes on;\nin full dress for a party of scare-crows, William.\"\n\n\"That's my own fancy, Nick; I don't work at my trade like a gentleman.\nThis is my forge dress, you know.\"\n\n\"Well, but what did you summon me here for?\" said the other; \"you may\nas well speak out, I tell you; for, my good friend, unless _you_ do,\n_I_ shan't. Smell that.\"\n\n\"I smell more than that,\" said Bill; \"and by the way, I'll thank you\nto give me the windy side of you--curse all sulphur, I say. There,\nthat's what I call an improvement in my condition. But as you _are_ so\nstiff,\" says Bill, \"why, the short and long of it is--that--hem--you\nsee I'm--tut--sure you know I have a thriving trade of my own, and\nthat if I like I needn't be at a loss; but in the meantime I'm rather\nin a kind of a so--so--don't you _take_?\"\n\nAnd Bill winked knowingly, hoping to trick him into the first proposal.\n\n\"You must speak above-board, my friend,\" says the other. \"I'm a man of\nfew words, blunt and honest. If you have anything to say, be plain.\nDon't think I can be losing my time with such a pitiful rascal as you\nare.\"\n\n\"Well,\" says Bill, \"I want money, then, and am ready to come into\nterms. What have you to say to that, Nick?\"\n\n\"Let me see--let me look at you,\" says his companion, turning him\nabout. \"Now, Bill, in the first place, are you not as finished a\nscare-crow as ever stood upon two legs?\"\n\n\"I play second fiddle to you there again,\" says Bill.\n\n\"There you stand, with the blackguards' coat of arms quartered under\nyour eye, and----\"\n\n\"Don't make little of _black_guards,\" said Bill, \"nor spake\ndisparagingly of _your own_ crest.\"\n\n\"Why, what would you bring, you brazen rascal, if you were fairly put\nup at auction?\"\n\n\"Faith, I'd bring more bidders than you would,\" said Bill, \"if you\nwere to go off at auction to-morrow. I tell you they should bid\n_downwards_ to come to your value, Nicholas. We have no coin _small_\nenough to purchase you.\"\n\n\"Well, no matter,\" said Nick. \"If you are willing to be mine at the\nexpiration of seven years, I will give you more money than ever the\nrascally breed of you was worth.\"\n\n\"Done!\" said Bill; \"but no disparagement to my family, in the\nmeantime; so down with the hard cash, and don't be a _neger_.\"\n\nThe money was accordingly paid down! but as nobody was present, except\nthe giver and receiver, the amount of what Bill got was never known.\n\n\"Won't you give me a luck-penny?\" said the old gentleman.\n\n\"Tut,\" said Billy, \"so prosperous an old fellow as you cannot want it;\nhowever, bad luck to you, with all my heart! and it's rubbing grease\nto a fat pig to say so. Be off now, or I'll commit suicide on you.\nYour absence is a cordial to most people, you infernal old profligate.\nYou have injured my morals even for the short time you have been with\nme; for I don't find myself so virtuous as I was.\"\n\n\"Is that your gratitude, Billy?\"\n\n\"Is it gratitude _you_ speak of, man? I wonder you don't blush when\nyou name it. However, when you come again, if you bring a third eye in\nyour head you will see what I mane, Nicholas, ahagur.\"\n\nThe old gentleman, as Bill spoke, hopped across the ditch, on his way\nto _Downing_-street, where of late 'tis thought he possesses much\ninfluence.\n\nBill now began by degrees to show off; but still wrought a little at\nhis trade to blindfold the neighbours. In a very short time, however,\nhe became a great man. So long indeed as he was a _poor_ rascal, no\ndecent person would speak to him; even the proud serving-men at the\n\"Big House\" would turn up their noses at him. And he well deserved to\nbe made little of by others, because he was mean enough to make little\nof himself. But when it was seen and known that he had oceans of\nmoney, it was wonderful to think, although he was _now_ a greater\nblackguard than ever, how those who despised him before began to come\nround him and court his company. Bill, however, had neither sense nor\nspirit to make those sunshiny friends know their distance; not\nhe--instead of that he was proud to be seen in decent company, and so\nlong as the money lasted, it was, \"hail fellow, well met,\" between\nhimself and every fair-faced _spunger_ who had a horse under him, a\ndecent coat to his back, and a good appetite to eat his dinners. With\nriches and all, Bill was the same man still; but, somehow or other,\nthere is a great difference between a rich profligate and a poor one,\nand Bill found it so to his cost in _both_ cases.\n\nBefore half the seven years was passed, Bill had his carriage, and his\nequipages; was hand and glove with my Lord This, and my Lord That;\nkept hounds and hunters; was the first sportsman at the Curragh;\npatronised every boxing ruffian he could pick up; and betted night and\nday on cards, dice, and horses. Bill, in short, _should_ be a blood,\nand except he did all this, he could not presume to mingle with the\nfashionable bloods of his time.\n\nIt's an old proverb, however, that \"what is got over the devil's back\nis sure to go off under it;\" and in Bill's case this proved true. In\nshort, the old boy himself could not supply him with money so fast as\nhe made it fly; it was \"come easy, go easy,\" with Bill, and so sign\nwas on it, before he came within two years of his time he found his\npurse empty.\n\nAnd now came the value of his summer friends to be known. When it was\ndiscovered that the cash was no longer flush with him--that stud, and\ncarriage, and hounds were going to the hammer--whish! off they went,\nfriends, relations, pot-companions, dinner-eaters, black-legs, and\nall, like a flock of crows that had smelt gunpowder. Down Bill soon\nwent, week after week, and day after day, until at last he was obliged\nto put on the leather apron, and take to the hammer again; and not\nonly that, for as no experience could make him wise, he once more\nbegan his tap-room brawls, his quarrels with Judy, and took to his\n\"high feeding\" at the dry potatoes and salt. Now, too, came the\ncutting tongues of all who knew him, like razors upon him. Those that\nhe scorned because they were poor and himself rich, now paid him back\nhis own with interest; and those that he measured himself with,\nbecause they were rich, and who only countenanced him in consequence\nof his wealth, gave him the hardest word in their cheeks. The devil\nmend him! He deserved it all, and more if he had got it.\n\nBill, however, who was a hardened sinner, never fretted himself down\nan ounce of flesh by what was said to him, or of him. Not he; he\ncursed, and fought, and swore, and schemed away as usual, taking in\nevery one he could; and surely none could match him at villainy of all\nsorts, and sizes.\n\nAt last the seven years became expired, and Bill was one morning\nsitting in his forge, sober and hungry, the wife cursing him, and the\nchildhre squalling, as before; he was thinking how he might defraud\nsome honest neighbour out of a breakfast to stop their mouths and his\nown too, when who walks in to him but old Nick, to demand his bargain.\n\n\"Morrow, Bill!\" says he with a sneer.\n\n\"The devil welcome you!\" says Bill; \"but you have a fresh memory.\"\n\n\"A bargain's a bargain between two _honest_ men, any day,\" says Satan;\n\"when I speak of _honest_ men, I mean _yourself_ and _me_, Bill;\" and\nhe put his tongue in his cheek to make game of the unfortunate rogue\nhe had come for.\n\n\"Nick, my worthy fellow,\" said Bill, \"have bowels; you wouldn't do a\nshabby thing; you wouldn't disgrace your own character by putting more\nweight upon a falling man. You know what it is to get a _come down_\nyourself, my worthy; so just keep your toe in your pump, and walk off\nwith yourself somewhere else. A _cool_ walk will sarve you better than\nmy company, Nicholas.\"\n\n\"Bill, it's no use in shirking,\" said his friend; \"your swindling\ntricks may enable you to cheat others, but you won't cheat _me_, I\nguess. You want nothing to make you perfect in your way but to travel;\nand travel you shall under my guidance, Billy. No, no--_I'm_ not to be\nswindled, my good fellow. I have rather a--a--better opinion of\nmyself, Mr. D., than to think that you could outwit one Nicholas\nClutie, Esq.--ahem!\"\n\n\"You may sneer, you sinner,\" replied Bill; \"but I tell you that I have\noutwitted men who could buy and sell you to your face. Despair, you\nvillain, when I tell you that _no attorney_ could stand before me.\"\n\nSatan's countenance got blank when he heard this; he wriggled and\nfidgeted about, and appeared to be not quite comfortable.\n\n\"In that case, then,\" says he, \"the sooner I _deceive_ you the better;\nso turn out for the _Low Countries_.\"\n\n\"Is it come to that in earnest?\" said Bill, \"and are you going to act\nthe rascal at the long run?\"\n\n\"'Pon honour, Bill.\"\n\n\"Have patience, then, you sinner, till I finish this horse shoe--it's\nthe last of a set I'm finishing for one of your friend the attorney's\nhorses. And here, Nick, I hate idleness, you know it's the mother of\nmischief; take this sledge-hammer, and give a dozen strokes or so, till\nI get it out of hands, and then here's with you, since it must be so.\"\n\nHe then gave the bellows a puff that blew half a peck of dust in\nClub-foot's face, whipped out the red-hot iron, and set Satan sledging\naway for bare life.\n\n\"Faith,\" says Bill to him, when the shoe was finished, \"it's a\nthousand pities ever the sledge should be out of your hand; the great\n_Parra Gow_ was a child to you at sledging, you're such an able tyke.\nNow just exercise yourself till I bid the wife and childhre good-bye,\nand then I'm off.\"\n\nOut went Bill, of course, without the slightest notion of coming back;\nno more than Nick had that he could not give up the sledging, and\nindeed neither could he, but was forced to work away as if he was\nsledging for a wager. This was just what Bill wanted. He was now\ncompelled to sledge on until it was Bill's pleasure to release him;\nand so we leave him very industriously employed, while we look after\nthe worthy who outwitted him.\n\nIn the meantime, Bill broke cover, and took to the country at large;\nwrought a little journey-work wherever he could get it, and in this\nway went from one place to another, till, in the course of a month, he\nwalked back very coolly into his own forge, to see how things went on\nin his absence. There he found Satan in a rage, the perspiration\npouring from him in torrents, hammering with might and main upon the\nnaked anvil. Bill calmly leaned his back against the wall, placed his\nhat upon the side of his head, put his hands into his breeches\npockets, and began to whistle _Shaun Gow's_ hornpipe. At length he\nsays, in a very quiet and good-humoured way--\n\n\"Morrow, Nick!\"\n\n\"Oh!\" says Nick, still hammering away--\"Oh! you double-distilled\nvillain (hech!), may the most refined, ornamental (hech!),\ndouble-rectified, super-extra, and original (hech!) collection of\ncurses that ever was gathered (hech!) into a single nosegay of\nill-fortune (hech!), shine in the button-hole of your conscience\n(hech!) while your name is Bill Dawson! I denounce you (hech!) as a\ndouble-milled villain, a finished, hot-pressed knave (hech!), in\ncomparison of whom all the other knaves I ever knew (hech!), attorneys\nincluded, are honest men. I brand you (hech!) as the pearl of cheats,\na tip-top take-in (hech!). I denounce you, I say again, for the\nvillainous treatment (hech!) I have received at your hands in this\nmost untoward (hech!) and unfortunate transaction between us; for\n(hech!) unfortunate, in every sense, is he that has anything to do\nwith (hech!) such a prime and finished impostor.\"\n\n\"You're very warm, Nicky,\" says Bill; \"what puts you into a passion,\nyou old sinner? Sure if it's your own will and pleasure to take\nexercise at my anvil, _I'm_ not to be abused for it. Upon my credit,\nNicky, you ought to blush for using such blackguard language, so\nunbecoming your grave character. You cannot say that it was I set you\na hammering at the empty anvil, you profligate. However, as you are so\nindustrious, I simply say it would be a thousand pities to take you\nfrom it. Nick, I love industry in my heart, and I always encourage it;\nso work away, it's not often you spend your time so creditably. I'm\nafraid if you weren't at that you'd be worse employed.\"\n\n\"Bill, have bowels,\" said the operative; \"you wouldn't go to lay more\nweight on a falling man, you know; you wouldn't disgrace your\ncharacter by such a piece of iniquity as keeping an inoffensive\ngentleman, advanced in years, at such an unbecoming and rascally job\nas this. Generosity's your top virtue, Bill; not but that you have\nmany other excellent ones, as well as that, among which, as you say\nyourself, I reckon industry; but still it is in generosity you\n_shine_. Come, Bill, honour bright, and release me.\"\n\n\"Name the terms, you profligate.\"\n\n\"You're above terms, William; a generous fellow like you never thinks\nof terms.\"\n\n\"Good-bye, old gentleman!\" said Bill, very coolly; \"I'll drop in to\nsee you once a month.\"\n\n\"No, no, Bill, you infern--a--a--you excellent, worthy, delightful\nfellow, not so fast; not so fast. Come, name your terms, you\nsland----my dear Bill, name your terms.\"\n\n\"Seven years more.\"\n\n\"I agree; but----\"\n\n\"And the same supply of cash as before, down on the nail here.\"\n\n\"Very good; very good. You're rather simple, Bill; rather soft, I must\nconfess. Well, no matter. I shall yet turn the tab--a--hem! You are an\nexceedingly simple fellow, Bill; still there will come a day, my\n_dear_ Bill--there will come----\"\n\n\"Do you grumble, you vagrant? Another word, and I double the terms.\"\n\n\"Mum, William--mum; _tace_ is Latin for a candle.\"\n\n\"Seven years more of grace, and the same measure of the needful that I\ngot before. Ay or no?\"\n\n\"Of grace, Bill! Ay! ay! ay! There's the cash. I accept the terms. Oh\nblood! the rascal--of grace!! Bill!\"\n\n\"Well, now drop the hammer, and vanish,\" says Billy; \"but what would\nyou think to take this sledge, while you stay, and give me a----eh!\nwhy in such a hurry?\" he added, seeing that Satan withdrew in\ndouble-quick time.\n\n\"Hollo! Nicholas!\" he shouted, \"come back; you forgot something!\" and\nwhen the old gentleman looked behind him, Billy shook the hammer at\nhim, on which he vanished altogether.\n\nBilly now got into his old courses; and what shows the kind of people\nthe world is made of, he also took up with his old company. When they\nsaw that he had the money once more, and was sowing it about him in\nall directions, they immediately began to find excuses for his former\nextravagance.\n\n\"Say what you will,\" said one, \"Bill Dawson's a spirited fellow, and\nbleeds like a prince.\"\n\n\"He's a hospitable man in his own house, or out of it, as ever lived,\"\nsaid another.\n\n\"His only fault is,\" observed a third, \"that he is, if anything, too\ngenerous, and doesn't know the value of money; his fault's on the\nright side, however.\"\n\n\"He has the spunk in him,\" said a fourth; \"keeps a capital table,\nprime wines, and a standing welcome for his friends.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said a fifth, \"if he doesn't enjoy his money while he lives, he\nwon't when he's dead; so more power to him, and a wider throat to his\npurse.\"\n\nIndeed, the very persons who were cramming themselves at his expense\ndespised him at heart. They knew very well, however, how to take him\non the weak side. Praise his generosity, and he would do anything;\ncall him a man of spirit, and you might fleece him to his face.\nSometimes he would toss a purse of guineas to this knave, another to\nthat flatterer, a third to a bully, and a fourth to some broken down\nrake--and all to convince them that _he_ was a sterling friend--a man\nof mettle and liberality. But never was he known to help a virtuous\nand struggling family--to assist the widow or the fatherless, or to do\nany other act that was _truly_ useful. It is to be supposed the reason\nof this was, that as he spent it, as most of the world do, in the\nservice of the devil, by whose aid he got it, he was prevented from\nturning it to a good account. Between you and me, dear reader, there\nare more persons acting after Bill's fashion in the same world than\nyou dream about.\n\nWhen his money was out again, his friends played him the same rascally\ngame once more. No sooner did his poverty become plain, than the knaves\nbegan to be troubled with small fits of modesty, such as an\nunwillingness to come to his place when there was no longer anything to\nbe got there. A kind of virgin bashfulness prevented them from speaking\nto him when they saw him getting out on the wrong side of his clothes.\nMany of them would turn away from him in the prettiest and most delicate\nmanner when they thought he wanted to borrow money from them--all for\nfear of putting him to the blush by asking it. Others again, when they\nsaw him coming towards their houses about dinner hour, would become so\nconfused, from mere gratitude, as to think themselves in another place;\nand their servants, seized, as it were, with the same feeling, would\ntell Bill that their masters were \"not at home.\"\n\nAt length, after travelling the same villainous round as before, Bill\nwas compelled to betake himself, as the last remedy, to the forge; in\nother words, he found that there is, after all, nothing in this world\nthat a man can rely on so firmly and surely as his own industry. Bill,\nhowever, wanted the organ of common sense; for his experience--and it\nwas sharp enough to leave an impression--ran off him like water off a\nduck.\n\nHe took to his employment sorely against his grain; but he had now no\nchoice. He must either work or starve, and starvation is like a great\ndoctor--nobody tries it till every other remedy fails them. Bill had\nbeen twice rich; twice a gentleman among blackguards, but always a\nblackguard among gentlemen; for no wealth or acquaintance with decent\nsociety could rub the rust of his native vulgarity off him. He was now\na common blinking sot in his forge; a drunken bully in the tap-room,\ncursing and brow-beating every one as well as his wife; boasting of\nhow much money he had spent in his day; swaggering about the high\ndoings he carried on; telling stories about himself and Lord This at\nthe Curragh; the dinners he gave--how much they cost him, and\nattempting to extort credit upon the strength of his former wealth. He\nwas too ignorant, however, to know that he was publishing his own\ndisgrace, and that it was a mean-spirited thing to be proud of what\nought to make him blush through a deal board nine inches thick.\n\nHe was one morning industriously engaged in a quarrel with his wife,\nwho, with a three-legged stool in her hand, appeared to mistake his\nhead for his own anvil; he, in the meantime, paid his addresses to her\nwith his leather apron, when who steps in to jog his memory about the\nlittle agreement that was between them, but old Nick. The wife, it\nseems, in spite of all her exertions to the contrary, was getting the\nworst of it; and Sir Nicholas, willing to appear a gentleman of great\ngallantry, thought he could not do less than take up the lady's\nquarrel, particularly as Bill had laid her in a sleeping posture. Now\nSatan thought this too bad; and as he felt himself under many\nobligations to the sex, he determined to defend one of them on the\npresent occasion; so as Judy rose, he turned upon the husband, and\nfloored him by a clever facer.\n\n\"You unmanly villain,\" said he, \"is this the way you treat your wife?\n'Pon honour, Bill, I'll chastise you on the spot. I could not stand\nby, a spectator of such ungentlemanly conduct without giving up all\nclaim to gallant----\" Whack! the word was divided in his mouth by the\nblow of a churn-staff from Judy, who no sooner saw Bill struck, than\nshe nailed Satan, who \"fell\" once more.\n\n\"What, you villain! that's for striking my husband like a murderer\nbehind his back,\" said Judy, and she suited the action to the word,\n\"that's for interfering between man and wife. Would you murder the\npoor man before my face? eh? If _he_ bates me, you shabby dog you, who\nhas a better right? I'm sure it's nothing out of your pocket. Must you\nhave your finger in every pie?\"\n\nThis was anything but _idle_ talk; for at every word she gave him a\nremembrance, hot and heavy. Nicholas backed, danced, and hopped; she\nadvanced, still drubbing him with great perseverance, till at length\nhe fell into the redoubtable arm-chair, which stood exactly behind\nhim. Bill, who had been putting in two blows for Judy's one, seeing\nthat his enemy was safe, now got between the devil and his wife, _a\nsituation that few will be disposed to envy him_.\n\n\"Tenderness, Judy,\" said the husband, \"I hate cruelty. Go put the\ntongs in the fire, and make them red hot. Nicholas, you have a nose,\"\nsaid he.\n\nSatan began to rise, but was rather surprised to find that he could\nnot budge.\n\n\"Nicholas,\" says Bill, \"how is your pulse? you don't look well; that\nis to say, you look worse than usual.\"\n\nThe other attempted to rise, but found it a mistake.\n\n\"I'll thank you to come along,\" said Bill. \"I have a fancy to travel\nunder your guidance, and we'll take the _Low Countries_ in our way,\nwon't we? Get to your legs, you sinner; you know a bargain's a bargain\nbetween two _honest men_, Nicholas; meaning _yourself_ and _me_. Judy,\nare the tongs hot?\"\n\nSatan's face was worth looking at, as he turned his eyes from the\nhusband to the wife, and then fastened them on the tongs, now nearly\nat a furnace heat in the fire, conscious at the same time that he\ncould not move out of the chair.\n\n\"Billy,\" said he, \"you won't forget that I rewarded your generosity\nthe last time I saw you, in the way of business.\" \"Faith, Nicholas, it\nfails me to remember any generosity I ever showed you. Don't be\nwomanish. I simply want to see what kind of stuff your nose is made\nof, and whether it will stretch like a rogue's conscience. If it does,\nwe will flatter it up the _chimly_ with red-hot tongs, and when this\nold hat is fixed on the top of it, let us alone for a weather-cock.\"\n\"Have a _fellow-feeling_, Mr. Dawson; you know _we_ ought not to\ndispute. Drop the matter, and I give you the next seven years.\" \"We\nknow all that,\" says Billy, opening the red-hot tongs very coolly.\n\"Mr. Dawson,\" said Satan, \"if you cannot remember my friendship to\nyourself, don't forget how often I stood your father's friend, your\ngrandfather's friend, and the friend of all your relations up to the\ntenth generation. I intended, also, to stand by your children after\nyou, so long as the name of Dawson, and a respectable one it is, might\nlast.\" \"Don't be blushing, Nick,\" says Bill, \"you are too modest; that\nwas ever your failing; hould up your head, there's money bid for you.\nI'll give you such a nose, my good friend, that you will have to keep\nan outrider before you, to carry the end of it on his shoulder.\" \"Mr.\nDawson, I pledge my honour to raise your children in the world as high\nas they can go; no matter whether they desire it or not.\" \"That's very\nkind of you,\" says the other, \"and I'll do as much for your nose.\"\n\nHe gripped it as he spoke, and the old boy immediately sung out; Bill\npulled, and the nose went with him like a piece of warm wax. He then\ntransferred the tongs to Judy, got a ladder, resumed the tongs,\nascended the chimney, and tugged stoutly at the nose until he got it\nfive feet above the roof. He then fixed the hat upon the top of it,\nand came down.\n\n\"There's a weather-cock,\" said Billy; \"I defy Ireland to show such a\nbeauty. Faith, Nick, it would make the purtiest steeple for a church,\nin all Europe, and the old hat fits it to a shaving.\"\n\nIn this state, with his nose twisted up the chimney, Satan sat for\nsome time, experiencing the novelty of what might be termed a peculiar\nsensation. At last the worthy husband and wife began to relent.\n\n\"I think,\" said Bill, \"that we have made the most of the nose, as well\nas the joke; I believe, Judy, it's long enough.\" \"What is?\" says Judy.\n\n\"Why, the joke,\" said the husband.\n\n\"Faith, and I think so is the nose,\" said Judy.\n\n\"What do you say yourself, Satan?\" said Bill.\n\n\"Nothing at all, William,\" said the other; \"but that--ha! ha!--it's a\ngood joke--an excellent joke, and a goodly nose, too, as it _stands_.\nYou were always a gentlemanly man, Bill, and did things with a grace;\nstill, if I might give an opinion on such a trifle----\"\n\n\"It's no trifle at all,\" says Bill, \"if you spake of the nose.\" \"Very\nwell, it is not,\" says the other; \"still, I am decidedly of opinion,\nthat if you could shorten both the joke and the nose without further\nviolence, you would lay me under very heavy obligations, which I shall\nbe ready to acknowledge and _repay_ as I ought.\" \"Come,\" said Bill,\n\"shell out once more, and be off for seven years. As much as you came\ndown with the last time, and vanish.\"\n\nThe words were scarcely spoken, when the money was at his feet, and\nSatan invisible. Nothing could surpass the mirth of Bill and his wife\nat the result of this adventure. They laughed till they fell down on\nthe floor.\n\nIt is useless to go over the same ground again. Bill was still\nincorrigible. The money went as the devil's money always goes. Bill\ncaroused and squandered, but could never turn a penny of it to a good\npurpose. In this way, year after year went, till the seventh was\nclosed, and Bill's hour come. He was now, and had been for some time\npast, as miserable a knave as ever. Not a shilling had he, nor a\nshilling's worth, with the exception of his forge, his cabin, and a\nfew articles of crazy furniture. In this state he was standing in his\nforge as before, straining his ingenuity how to make out a breakfast,\nwhen Satan came to look after him. The old gentleman was sorely\npuzzled how to get at him. He kept skulking and sneaking about the\nforge for some time, till he saw that Bill hadn't a cross to bless\nhimself with. He immediately changed himself into a guinea, and lay in\nan open place where he knew Bill would see him. \"If,\" said he, \"I once\nget into his possession, I can manage him.\" The honest smith took the\nbait, for it was well gilded; he clutched the guinea, put it into his\npurse, and closed it up. \"Ho! ho!\" shouted the devil out of the purse,\n\"you're caught, Bill; I've secured you at last, you knave you. Why\ndon't you despair, you villain, when you think of what's before you?\"\n\"Why, you unlucky ould dog,\" said Bill, \"is it there you are? Will you\nalways drive your head into every loop-hole that's set for you? Faith,\nNick achora, I never had you bagged till now.\"\n\nSatan then began to tug and struggle with a view of getting out of the\npurse, but in vain.\n\n\"Mr. Dawson,\" said he, \"we understand each other. I'll give the seven\nyears additional, and the cash on the nail.\" \"Be aisey, Nicholas. You\nknow the weight of the hammer, that's enough. It's not a whipping with\nfeathers you're going to get, anyhow. Just be aisey.\" \"Mr. Dawson, I\ngrant I'm not your match. Release me, and I double the cash. I was\nmerely trying your temper when I took the shape of a guinea.\"\n\n\"Faith and I'll try yours before I lave it, I've a notion.\" He\nimmediately commenced with the sledge, and Satan sang out with a\nconsiderable want of firmness. \"Am I heavy enough!\" said Bill.\n\n\"Lighter, lighter, William, if you love me. I haven't been well\nlatterly, Mr. Dawson--I have been delicate--my health, in short, is in\na very precarious state, Mr. Dawson.\" \"I can believe _that_,\" said\nBill, \"and it will be more so before I have done with you. Am I doing\nit right?\" \"Bill,\" said Nick, \"is this gentlemanly treatment in your\nown respectable shop? Do you think, if you dropped into my little\nplace, that I'd act this rascally part towards you? Have you no\ncompunction?\" \"I know,\" replied Bill, sledging away with vehemence,\n\"that you're notorious for giving your friends a _warm_ welcome. Divil\nan ould youth more so; but you must be daling in bad coin, must you?\nHowever, good or bad, you're in for a sweat now, you sinner. Am I\ndoin' it purty?\"\n\n\"Lovely, William--but, if possible, a little more delicate.\"\n\n\"Oh, how delicate you are! Maybe a cup o' tay would sarve you, or a\nlittle small gruel to compose your stomach.\"\n\n\"Mr. Dawson,\" said the gentleman in the purse, \"hold your hand and let\nus understand one another. I have a proposal to make.\" \"Hear the\nsinner anyhow,\" said the wife. \"Name your own sum,\" said Satan, \"only\nset me free.\" \"No, the sorra may take the toe you'll budge till you\nlet Bill off,\" said the wife; \"hould him hard, Bill, barrin' he sets\n_you_ clear of your engagement.\" \"There it is, my posy,\" said Bill;\n\"that's the condition. If you don't give _me up_, here's at you once\nmore--and you must double the cash you gave the last time, too. So, if\nyou're of that opinion, say _ay_--leave the cash and be off.\"\n\nThe money again appeared in a glittering heap before Bill, upon which\nhe exclaimed--\"The _ay_ has it, you dog. Take to your pumps now, and\nfair weather after you, you vagrant; but Nicholas--Nick--here,\nhere----\" The other looked back, and saw Bill, with a broad grin upon\nhim, shaking the purse at him--\"Nicholas come back,\" said he. \"I'm\nshort a guinea.\" Nick shook his fist, and disappeared.\n\nIt would be useless to stop now, merely to inform our readers that\nBill was beyond improvement. In short, he once more took to his old\nhabits, and lived on exactly in the same manner as before. He had two\nsons--one as great a blackguard as himself, and who was also named\nafter him; the other was a well-conducted, virtuous young man, called\nJames, who left his father, and having relied upon his own industry\nand honest perseverance in life, arrived afterwards to great wealth,\nand built the town called Castle Dawson; which is so called from its\nfounder until this day.\n\nBill, at length, in spite of all his wealth, was obliged, as he\nhimself said, \"to travel,\"--in other words, he fell asleep one day,\nand forgot to awaken; or, in still plainer terms, he died.\n\nNow, it is usual, when a man dies, to close the history of his life\nand adventures at once; but with our hero this cannot be the case. The\nmoment Bill departed, he very naturally bent his steps towards the\nresidence of St. Moroky, as being, in his opinion, likely to lead him\ntowards the snuggest berth he could readily make out. On arriving, he\ngave a very humble kind of a knock, and St. Moroky appeared.\n\n\"God save your Reverence!\" said Bill, very submissively.\n\n\"Be off; there's no admittance here for so poor a youth as you are,\"\nsaid St Moroky.\n\nHe was now so cold and fatigued that he cared little where he went,\nprovided only, as he said himself, \"he could rest his bones, and get\nan air of the fire.\" Accordingly, after arriving at a large black\ngate, he knocked, as before, and was told he would get _instant_\nadmittance the moment he gave his name.\n\n\"Billy Dawson,\" he replied.\n\n\"Off, instantly,\" said the porter to his companions, \"and let his\nMajesty know that the rascal he dreads so much is here at the gate.\"\n\nSuch a racket and tumult were never heard as the very mention of Billy\nDawson created.\n\nIn the meantime, his old acquaintance came running towards the gate\nwith such haste and consternation, that his tail was several times\nnearly tripping up his heels.\n\n\"Don't admit that rascal,\" he shouted; \"bar the gate--make every\nchain, and lock and bolt, fast--I won't be safe--and I won't stay\nhere, nor none of us need stay here, if he gets in--my bones are sore\nyet after him. No, no--begone you villain--you'll get no entrance\nhere--I know you too well.\"\n\nBill could not help giving a broad, malicious grin at Satan, and,\nputting his nose through the bars, he exclaimed--\"Ha! you ould dog, I\nhave you afraid of me at last, have I?\"\n\nHe had scarcely uttered the words, when his foe, who stood inside,\ninstantly tweaked him by the nose, and Bill felt as if he had been\ngripped by the same red-hot tongs with which he himself had formerly\ntweaked the nose of Nicholas.\n\nBill then departed, but soon found that in consequence of the\ninflammable materials which strong drink had thrown into his nose,\nthat organ immediately took fire, and, indeed, to tell the truth, kept\nburning night and day, winter and summer, without ever once going out,\nfrom that hour to this.\n\nSuch was the sad fate of Billy Dawson, who has been walking without\nstop or stay, from place to place, ever since; and in consequence of\nthe flame on his nose, and his beard being tangled like a wisp of hay,\nhe has been christened by the country folk Will-o'-the-Wisp, while, as\nit were, to show the mischief of his disposition, the circulating\nknave, knowing that he must seek the coldest bogs and quagmires in\norder to cool his nose, seizes upon that opportunity of misleading the\nunthinking and tipsy night travellers from their way, just that he may\nhave the satisfaction of still taking in as many as possible.\n\n\n\n\nGIANTS.\n\n\nWhen the pagan gods of Ireland--the _Tuath-De-Dan[=a]n_--robbed of\nworship and offerings, grew smaller and smaller in the popular\nimagination, until they turned into the fairies, the pagan heroes grew\nbigger and bigger, until they turned into the giants.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GIANT'S STAIRS.[62]\n\nT. CROFTON CROKER.\n\n\nOn the road between Passage and Cork there is an old mansion called\nRonayne's Court. It may be easily known from the stack of chimneys and\nthe gable-ends, which are to be seen, look at it which way you will.\nHere it was that Maurice Ronayne and his wife Margaret Gould kept\nhouse, as may be learned to this day from the great old chimney-piece,\non which is carved their arms. They were a mighty worthy couple, and\nhad but one son, who was called Philip, after no less a person than\nthe King of Spain.\n\nImmediately on his smelling the cold air of this world the child\nsneezed, which was naturally taken to be a good sign of his having a\nclear head; and the subsequent rapidity of his learning was truly\namazing, for on the very first day a primer was put into his hands he\ntore out the A, B, C page and destroyed it, as a thing quite beneath\nhis notice. No wonder, then, that both father and mother were proud of\ntheir heir, who gave such indisputable proofs of genius, or, as they\ncalled it in that part of the world, \"_genus_.\"\n\nOne morning, however, Master Phil, who was then just seven years old,\nwas missing, and no one could tell what had become of him: servants\nwere sent in all directions to seek him, on horseback and on foot, but\nthey returned without any tidings of the boy, whose disappearance\naltogether was most unaccountable. A large reward was offered, but it\nproduced them no intelligence, and years rolled away without Mr. and\nMrs. Ronayne having obtained any satisfactory account of the fate of\ntheir lost child.\n\nThere lived at this time, near Carrigaline, one Robert Kelly, a\nblacksmith by trade. He was what is termed a handy man, and his\nabilities were held in much estimation by the lads and the lasses of\nthe neighbourhood; for, independent of shoeing horses, which he did to\ngreat perfection, and making plough-irons, he interpreted dreams for\nthe young women, sung \"Arthur O'Bradley\" at their weddings, and was so\ngood-natured a fellow at a christening, that he was gossip to half the\ncountry round.\n\nNow it happened that Robin had a dream himself, and young Philip\nRonayne appeared to him in it, at the dead hour of the night. Robin\nthought he saw the boy mounted upon a beautiful white horse, and that\nhe told him how he was made a page to the giant Mahon MacMahon, who\nhad carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of the\nrock. \"The seven years--my time of service--are clean out, Robin,\"\nsaid he, \"and if you release me this night I will be the making of you\nfor ever after.\"\n\n\"And how will I know,\" said Robin--cunning enough, even in his\nsleep--\"but this is all a dream?\"\n\n\"Take that,\" said the boy, \"for a token\"--and at the word the white\nhorse struck out with one of his hind legs, and gave poor Robin such a\nkick in the forehead that, thinking he was a dead man, he roared as\nloud as he could after his brains, and woke up, calling a thousand\nmurders. He found himself in bed, but he had the mark of the blow, the\nregular print of a horse-shoe, upon his forehead as red as blood; and\nRobin Kelly, who never before found himself puzzled at the dream of\nany other person, did not know what to think of his own.\n\nRobin was well acquainted with the Giant's Stairs--as, indeed, who is\nnot that knows the harbour? They consist of great masses of rock,\nwhich, piled one above another, rise like a flight of steps from very\ndeep water, against the bold cliff of Carrigmahon. Nor are they badly\nsuited for stairs to those who have legs of sufficient length to\nstride over a moderate-sized house, or to enable them to clear the\nspace of a mile in a hop, step, and jump. Both these feats the giant\nMacMahon was said to have performed in the days of Finnian glory; and\nthe common tradition of the country placed his dwelling within the\ncliff up whose side the stairs led.\n\nSuch was the impression which the dream made on Robin, that he\ndetermined to put its truth to the test. It occurred to him, however,\nbefore setting out on this adventure, that a plough-iron may be no bad\ncompanion, as, from experience, he knew it was an excellent knock-down\nargument, having on more occasions than one settled a little\ndisagreement very quietly: so, putting one on his shoulder, off he\nmarched, in the cool of the evening, through Glaun a Thowk (the Hawk's\nGlen) to Monkstown. Here an old gossip of his (Tom Clancey by name)\nlived, who, on hearing Robin's dream, promised him the use of his skiff,\nand, moreover, offered to assist in rowing it to the Giant's Stairs.\n\nAfter a supper, which was of the best, they embarked. It was a\nbeautiful still night, and the little boat glided swiftly along. The\nregular dip of the oars, the distant song of the sailor, and sometimes\nthe voice of a belated traveller at the ferry of Carrigaloe, alone\nbroke the quietness of the land and sea and sky. The tide was in their\nfavour, and in a few minutes Robin and his gossip rested on their oars\nunder the dark shadow of the Giant's Stairs. Robin looked anxiously\nfor the entrance to the Giant's palace, which, it was said, may be\nfound by any one seeking it at midnight; but no such entrance could he\nsee. His impatience had hurried him there before that time, and after\nwaiting a considerable space in a state of suspense not to be\ndescribed, Robin, with pure vexation, could not help exclaiming to\nhis companion, \"'Tis a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancey, for coming\nhere at all on the strength of a dream.\"\n\n\"And whose doing is it,\" said Tom, \"but your own?\"\n\nAt the moment he spoke they perceived a faint glimmering of light to\nproceed from the cliff, which gradually increased until a porch big\nenough for a king's palace unfolded itself almost on a level with the\nwater. They pulled the skiff directly towards the opening, and Robin\nKelly, seizing his plough-iron, boldly entered with a strong hand and\na stout heart. Wild and strange was that entrance, the whole of which\nappeared formed of grim and grotesque faces, blending so strangely\neach with the other that it was impossible to define any: the chin of\none formed the nose of another; what appeared to be a fixed and stern\neye, if dwelt upon, changed to a gaping mouth; and the lines of the\nlofty forehead grew into a majestic and flowing beard. The more Robin\nallowed himself to contemplate the forms around him, the more terrific\nthey became; and the stoney expression of this crowd of faces assumed\na savage ferocity as his imagination converted feature after feature\ninto a different shape and character. Losing the twilight in which\nthese indefinite forms were visible, he advanced through a dark and\ndevious passage, whilst a deep and rumbling noise sounded as if the\nrock was about to close upon him, and swallow him up alive for ever.\nNow, indeed, poor Robin felt afraid.\n\n\"Robin, Robin,\" said he, \"if you were a fool for coming here, what in\nthe name of fortune are you now?\" But, as before, he had scarcely\nspoken, when he saw a small light twinkling through the darkness of\nthe distance, like a star in the midnight sky. To retreat was out of\nthe question; for so many turnings and windings were in the passage,\nthat he considered he had but little chance of making his way back.\nHe, therefore, proceeded towards the bit of light, and came at last\ninto a spacious chamber, from the roof of which hung the solitary lamp\nthat had guided him. Emerging from such profound gloom, the single\nlamp afforded Robin abundant light to discover several gigantic\nfigures seated round a massive stone table, as if in serious\ndeliberation, but no word disturbed the breathless silence which\nprevailed. At the head of this table sat Mahon MacMahon himself, whose\nmajestic beard had taken root, and in the course of ages grown into\nthe stone slab. He was the first who perceived Robin; and instantly\nstarting up, drew his long beard from out the huge piece of rock in\nsuch haste and with so sudden a jerk that it was shattered into a\nthousand pieces.\n\n\"What seek you?\" he demanded in a voice of thunder.\n\n\"I come,\" answered Robin, with as much boldness as he could put on,\nfor his heart was almost fainting within him; \"I come,\" said he, \"to\nclaim Philip Ronayne, whose time of service is out this night.\"\n\n\"And who sent you here?\" said the giant.\n\n\"'Twas of my own accord I came,\" said Robin.\n\n\"Then you must single him out from among my pages,\" said the giant;\n\"and if you fix on the wrong one, your life is the forfeit. Follow\nme.\" He led Robin into a hall of vast extent, and filled with lights;\nalong either side of which were rows of beautiful children, all\napparently seven years old, and none beyond that age, dressed in\ngreen, and every one exactly dressed alike.\n\n\"Here,\" said Mahon, \"you are free to take Philip Ronayne, if you will;\nbut, remember, I give but one choice.\"\n\nRobin was sadly perplexed; for there were hundreds upon hundreds of\nchildren; and he had no very clear recollection of the boy he sought.\nBut he walked along the hall, by the side of Mahon, as if nothing was\nthe matter, although his great iron dress clanked fearfully at every\nstep, sounding louder than Robin's own sledge battering on his anvil.\n\nThey had nearly reached the end without speaking, when Robin, seeing\nthat the only means he had was to make friends with the giant,\ndetermined to try what effect a few soft words might have.\n\n\"'Tis a fine wholesome appearance the poor children carry,\" remarked\nRobin, \"although they have been here so long shut out from the fresh\nair and the blessed light of heaven. 'Tis tenderly your honour must\nhave reared them!\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said the giant, \"that is true for you; so give me your hand; for\nyou are, I believe, a very honest fellow for a blacksmith.\"\n\nRobin at the first look did not much like the huge size of the hand,\nand, therefore, presented his plough-iron, which the giant seizing,\ntwisted in his grasp round and round again as if it had been a potato\nstalk. On seeing this all the children set up a shout of laughter. In\nthe midst of their mirth Robin thought he heard his name called; and\nall ear and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he fancied had spoken,\ncrying out at the same time, \"Let me live or die for it, but this is\nyoung Phil Ronayne.\"\n\n\"It is Philip Ronayne--happy Philip Ronayne,\" said his young\ncompanions; and in an instant the hall became dark. Crashing noises\nwere heard, and all was in strange confusion; but Robin held fast his\nprize, and found himself lying in the grey dawn of the morning at the\nhead of the Giant's Stairs with the boy clasped in his arms.\n\nRobin had plenty of gossips to spread the story of his wonderful\nadventure: Passage, Monkstown, Carrigaline--the whole barony of\nKerricurrihy rung with it.\n\n\"Are you quite sure, Robin, it is young Phil Ronayne you have brought\nback with you?\" was the regular question; for although the boy had\nbeen seven years away, his appearance now was just the same as on the\nday he was missed. He had neither grown taller nor older in look, and\nhe spoke of things which had happened before he was carried off as one\nawakened from sleep, or as if they had occurred yesterday.\n\n\"Am I sure? Well, that's a queer question,\" was Robin's reply; \"seeing\nthe boy has the blue eye of the mother, with the foxy hair of the\nfather; to say nothing of the _purty_ wart on the right side of his\nlittle nose.\"\n\nHowever Robin Kelly may have been questioned, the worthy couple of\nRonayne's Court doubted not that he was the deliverer of their child\nfrom the power of the giant MacMahon; and the reward they bestowed on\nhim equalled their gratitude.\n\nPhilip Ronayne lived to be an old man; and he was remarkable to the\nday of his death for his skill in working brass and iron, which it was\nbelieved he had learned during his seven years' apprenticeship to the\ngiant Mahon MacMahon.\n\n[Footnote 62: _Fairy Legends of the South of Ireland._]\n\n\n\n\nA LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY.\n\nWILLIAM CARLETON.\n\n\nWhat Irish man, woman, or child has not heard of our renowned\nHibernian Hercules, the great and glorious Fin M'Coul? Not one, from\nCape Clear to the Giant's Causeway, nor from that back again to Cape\nClear. And, by-the-way, speaking of the Giant's Causeway brings me at\nonce to the beginning of my story. Well, it so happened that Fin and\nhis gigantic relatives were all working at the Causeway, in order to\nmake a bridge, or what was still better, a good stout pad-road, across\nto Scotland; when Fin, who was very fond of his wife Oonagh, took it\ninto his head that he would go home and see how the poor woman got on\nin his absence. To be sure, Fin was a true Irishman, and so the sorrow\nthing in life brought him back, only to see that she was snug and\ncomfortable, and, above all things, that she got her rest well at\nnight; for he knew that the poor woman, when he was with her, used to\nbe subject to nightly qualms and configurations, that kept him very\nanxious, decent man, striving to keep her up to the good spirits and\nhealth that she had when they were first married. So, accordingly, he\npulled up a fir-tree, and, after lopping off the roots and branches,\nmade a walking-stick of it, and set out on his way to Oonagh.\n\nOonagh, or rather Fin, lived at this time on the very tip-top of\nKnockmany Hill, which faces a cousin of its own called Cullamore, that\nrises up, half-hill, half-mountain, on the opposite side--east-east by\nsouth, as the sailors say, when they wish to puzzle a landsman.\n\nNow, the truth is, for it must come out, that honest Fin's affection\nfor his wife, though cordial enough in itself, was by no manner of\nmeans the real cause of his journey home. There was at that time\nanother giant, named Cucullin--some say he was Irish, and some say he\nwas Scotch--but whether Scotch or Irish, sorrow doubt of it but he was\na _targer_. No other giant of the day could stand before him; and such\nwas his strength, that, when well vexed, he could give a stamp that\nshook the country about him. The fame and name of him went far and\nnear; and nothing in the shape of a man, it was said, had any chance\nwith him in a fight. Whether the story is true or not, I cannot say,\nbut the report went that, by one blow of his fists he flattened a\nthunderbolt, and kept it in his pocket, in the shape of a pancake, to\nshow to all his enemies, when they were about to fight him.\nUndoubtedly he had given every giant in Ireland a considerable\nbeating, barring Fin M'Coul himself; and he swore, by the solemn\ncontents of Moll Kelly's Primer, that he would never rest, night or\nday, winter or summer, till he would serve Fin with the same sauce, if\nhe could catch him. Fin, however, who no doubt was the cock of the\nwalk on his own dunghill, had a strong disinclination to meet a giant\nwho could make a young earthquake, or flatten a thunderbolt when he\nwas angry; so he accordingly kept dodging about from place to place,\nnot much to his credit as a Trojan, to be sure, whenever he happened\nto get the hard word that Cucullin was on the scent of him. This,\nthen, was the marrow of the whole movement, although he put it on his\nanxiety to see Oonagh; and I am not saying but there was some truth in\nthat too. However, the short and long of it was, with reverence be it\nspoken, that he heard Cucullin was coming to the Causeway to have a\ntrial of strength with him; and he was naturally enough seized, in\nconsequence, with a very warm and sudden sit of affection for his\nwife, poor woman, who was delicate in her health, and leading,\nbesides, a very lonely, uncomfortable life of it (he assured them) in\nhis absence. He accordingly pulled up the fir-tree, as I said before,\nand having _snedded_ it into a walking-stick, set out on his\naffectionate travels to see his darling Oonagh on the top of\nKnockmany, by the way.\n\nIn truth, to state the suspicions of the country at the time, the people\nwondered very much why it was that Fin selected such a windy spot for\nhis dwelling-house, and they even went so far as to tell him as much.\n\n\"What can you mane, Mr. M'Coul,\" said they, \"by pitching your tent\nupon the top of Knockmany, where you never are without a breeze, day\nor night, winter or summer, and where you're often forced to take your\nnightcap[63] without either going to bed or turning up your little\nfinger; ay, an' where, besides this, there's the sorrow's own want of\nwater?\"\n\n\"Why,\" said Fin, \"ever since I was the height of a round tower, I was\nknown to be fond of having a good prospect of my own; and where the\ndickens, neighbours, could I find a better spot for a good prospect\nthan the top of Knockmany? As for water, I am sinking a pump,[64] and,\nplase goodness, as soon as the Causeway's made, I intend to finish it.\"\n\nNow, this was more of Fin's philosophy; for the real state of the case\nwas, that he pitched upon the top of Knockmany in order that he might\nbe able to see Cucullin coming towards the house, and, of course, that\nhe himself might go to look after his distant transactions in other\nparts of the country, rather than--but no matter--we do not wish to\nbe too hard on Fin. All we have to say is, that if he wanted a spot\nfrom which to keep a sharp look-out--and, between ourselves, he did\nwant it grievously--barring Slieve Croob, or Slieve Donard, or its own\ncousin, Cullamore, he could not find a neater or more convenient\nsituation for it in the sweet and sagacious province of Ulster.\n\n\"God save all here!\" said Fin, good-humouredly, on putting his honest\nface into his own door.\n\n\"Musha, Fin, avick, an' you're welcome home to your own Oonagh, you\ndarlin' bully.\" Here followed a smack that is said to have made the\nwaters of the lake at the bottom of the hill curl, as it were, with\nkindness and sympathy.\n\n\"Faith,\" said Fin, \"beautiful; an' how are you, Oonagh--and how did\nyou sport your figure during my absence, my bilberry?\"\n\n\"Never a merrier--as bouncing a grass widow as ever there was in sweet\n'Tyrone among the bushes.'\"\n\nFin gave a short, good-humoured cough, and laughed most heartily, to\nshow her how much he was delighted that she made herself happy in his\nabsence.\n\n\"An' what brought you home so soon, Fin?\" said she.\n\n\"Why, avourneen,\" said Fin, putting in his answer in the proper way,\n\"never the thing but the purest of love and affection for yourself.\nSure you know that's truth, anyhow, Oonagh.\"\n\nFin spent two or three happy days with Oonagh, and felt himself very\ncomfortable, considering the dread he had of Cucullin. This, however,\ngrew upon him so much that his wife could not but perceive something\nlay on his mind which he kept altogether to himself. Let a woman\nalone, in the meantime, for ferreting or wheedling a secret out of her\ngood man, when she wishes. Fin was a proof of this.\n\n\"It's this Cucullin,\" said he, \"that's troubling me. When the fellow\ngets angry, and begins to stamp, he'll shake you a whole townland;\nand it's well known that he can stop a thunderbolt, for he always\ncarries one about him in the shape of a pancake, to show to anyone\nthat might misdoubt it.\"\n\nAs he spoke, he clapped his thumb in his mouth, which he always did\nwhen he wanted to prophesy, or to know anything that happened in his\nabsence; and the wife, who knew what he did it for, said, very sweetly,\n\n\"Fin, darling, I hope you don't bite your thumb at me, dear?\"\n\n\"No,\" said Fin; \"but I bite my thumb, acushla,\" said he.\n\n\"Yes, jewel; but take care and don't draw blood,\" said she. \"Ah, Fin!\ndon't, my bully--don't.\"\n\n\"He's coming,\" said Fin; \"I see him below Dungannon.\"\n\n\"Thank goodness, dear! an' who is it, avick? Glory be to God!\"\n\n\"That baste, Cucullin,\" replied Fin; \"and how to manage I don't know.\nIf I run away, I am disgraced; and I know that sooner or later I must\nmeet him, for my thumb tells me so.\"\n\n\"When will he be here?\" said she.\n\n\"To-morrow, about two o'clock,\" replied Fin, with a groan.\n\n\"Well, my bully, don't be cast down,\" said Oonagh; \"depend on me, and\nmaybe I'll bring you better out of this scrape than ever you could\nbring yourself, by your rule o' thumb.\"\n\nThis quieted Fin's heart very much, for he knew that Oonagh was hand\nand glove with the fairies; and, indeed, to tell the truth, she was\nsupposed to be a fairy herself. If she was, however, she must have\nbeen a kind-hearted one, for, by all accounts, she never did anything\nbut good in the neighbourhood.\n\nNow it so happened that Oonagh had a sister named Granua, living\nopposite them, on the very top of Cullamore, which I have mentioned\nalready, and this Granua was quite as powerful as herself. The\nbeautiful valley that lies between them is not more than about three\nor four miles broad, so that of a summer's evening, Granua and Oonagh\nwere able to hold many an agreeable conversation across it, from the\none hill-top to the other. Upon this occasion Oonagh resolved to\nconsult her sister as to what was best to be done in the difficulty\nthat surrounded them.\n\n\"Granua,\" said she, \"are you at home?\"\n\n\"No,\" said the other; \"I'm picking bilberries in Althadhawan\"\n(_Anglic\u00e9_, the Devil's Glen).\n\n\"Well,\" said Oonagh, \"get up to the top of Cullamore, look about you,\nand then tell us what you see.\"\n\n\"Very well,\" replied Granua; after a few minutes, \"I am there now.\"\n\n\"What do you see?\" asked the other.\n\n\"Goodness be about us!\" exclaimed Granua, \"I see the biggest giant\nthat ever was known coming up from Dungannon.\"\n\n\"Ay,\" said Oonagh, \"there's our difficulty. That giant is the great\nCucullin; and he's now commin' up to leather Fin. What's to be done?\"\n\n\"I'll call to him,\" she replied, \"to come up to Cullamore and refresh\nhimself, and maybe that will give you and Fin time to think of some plan\nto get yourselves out of the scrape. But,\" she proceeded, \"I'm short of\nbutter, having in the house only half-a-dozen firkins, and as I'm to\nhave a few giants and giantesses to spend the evenin' with me, I'd feel\nthankful, Oonagh, if you'd throw me up fifteen or sixteen tubs, or the\nlargest miscaun you have got, and you'll oblige me very much.\"\n\n\"I'll do that with a heart and a-half,\" replied Oonagh; \"and, indeed,\nGranua, I feel myself under great obligations to you for your kindness\nin keeping him off of us till we see what can be done; for what would\nbecome of us all if anything happened Fin, poor man.\"\n\nShe accordingly got the largest miscaun of butter she had--which might\nbe about the weight of a couple a dozen mill-stones, so that you may\neasily judge of its size--and calling up to her sister, \"Granua,\"\nsaid she, \"are you ready? I'm going to throw you up a miscaun, so be\nprepared to catch it.\"\n\n\"I will,\" said the other; \"a good throw now, and take care it does not\nfall short.\"\n\nOonagh threw it; but, in consequence of her anxiety about Fin and\nCucullin, she forgot to say the charm that was to send it up, so that,\ninstead of reaching Cullamore, as she expected, it fell about half-way\nbetween the two hills, at the edge of the Broad Bog near Augher.\n\n\"My curse upon you!\" she exclaimed; \"you've disgraced me. I now change\nyou into a grey stone. Lie there as a testimony of what has happened;\nand may evil betide the first living man that will ever attempt to\nremove or injure you!\"\n\nAnd, sure enough, there it lies to this day, with the mark of the four\nfingers and thumb imprinted in it, exactly as it came out of her hand.\n\n\"Never mind,\" said Granua, \"I must only do the best I can with\nCucullin. If all fail, I'll give him a cast of heather broth to keep\nthe wind out of his stomach, or a panada of oak-bark to draw it in a\nbit; but, above all things, think of some plan to get Fin out of the\nscrape he's in, otherwise he's a lost man. You know you used to be\nsharp and ready-witted; and my own opinion, Oonagh, is, that it will\ngo hard with you, or you'll outdo Cucullin yet.\"\n\nShe then made a high smoke on the top of the hill, after which she put\nher finger in her mouth, and gave three whistles, and by that Cucullin\nknew he was invited to Cullamore--for this was the way that the Irish\nlong ago gave a sign to all strangers and travellers, to let them know\nthey were welcome to come and take share of whatever was going.\n\nIn the meantime, Fin was very melancholy, and did not know what to do,\nor how to act at all. Cucullin was an ugly customer, no doubt, to meet\nwith; and, moreover, the idea of the confounded \"cake\" aforesaid\nflattened the very heart within him. What chance could he have,\nstrong and brave though he was, with a man who could, when put in a\npassion, walk the country into earthquakes and knock thunderbolts into\npancakes? The thing was impossible; and Fin knew not on what hand to\nturn him. Right or left--backward or forward--where to go he could\nform no guess whatsoever.\n\n\"Oonagh,\" said he, \"can you do nothing for me? Where's all your\ninvention? Am I to be skivered like a rabbit before your eyes, and to\nhave my name disgraced forever in the sight of all my tribe, and me\nthe best man among them? How am I to fight this man-mountain--this\nhuge cross between an earthquake and a thunderbolt?--with a pancake in\nhis pocket that was once----\"\n\n\"Be easy, Fin,\" replied Oonagh; \"troth, I'm ashamed of you. Keep your\ntoe in your pump, will you? Talking of pancakes, maybe we'll give him\nas good as any he brings with him--thunderbolt or otherwise. If I\ndon't treat him to as smart feeding as he's got this many a day, never\ntrust Oonagh again. Leave him to me, and do just as I bid you.\"\n\nThis relieved Fin very much; for, after all, he had great confidence\nin his wife, knowing, as he did, that she had got him out of many a\nquandary before. The present, however, was the greatest of all; but\nstill he began to get courage, and was able to eat his victuals as\nusual. Oonagh then drew the nine woollen threads of different colours,\nwhich she always did to find out the best way of succeeding in\nanything of importance she went about. She then platted them into\nthree plats with three colours in each, putting one on her right arm,\none round her heart, and the third round her right ankle, for then she\nknew that nothing could fail with her that she undertook.\n\nHaving everything now prepared, she sent round to the neighbours and\nborrowed one-and-twenty iron griddles, which she took and kneaded into\nthe hearts of one-and-twenty cakes of bread, and these she baked on\nthe fire in the usual way, setting them aside in the cupboard\naccording as they were done. She then put down a large pot of new\nmilk, which she made into curds and whey, and gave Fin due\ninstructions how to use the curds when Cucullin should come. Having\ndone all this, she sat down quite contented, waiting for his arrival\non the next day about two o'clock, that being the hour at which he was\nexpected--for Fin knew as much by the sucking of his thumb. Now, this\nwas a curious property that Fin's thumb had; but, notwithstanding all\nthe wisdom and logic he used, to suck out of it, it could never have\nstood to him here were it not for the wit of his wife. In this very\nthing, moreover, he was very much resembled by his great foe,\nCucullin; for it was well known that the huge strength he possessed\nall lay in the middle finger of his right hand, and that, if he\nhappened by any mischance to lose it, he was no more, notwithstanding\nhis bulk, than a common man.\n\nAt length, the next day, he was seen coming across the valley, and\nOonagh knew that it was time to commence operations. She immediately\nmade the cradle, and desired Fin to lie down in it, and cover himself\nup with the clothes.\n\n\"You must pass for you own child,\" said she; \"so just lie there snug,\nand say nothing, but be guided by me.\" This, to be sure, was wormwood\nto Fin--I mean going into the cradle in such a cowardly manner--but he\nknew Oonagh well; and finding that he had nothing else for it, with a\nvery rueful face he gathered himself into it, and lay snug, as she had\ndesired him.\n\nAbout two o'clock, as he had been expected, Cucullin came in. \"God\nsave all here!\" said he; \"is this where the great Fin M'Coul lives?\"\n\n\"Indeed it is, honest man,\" replied Oonagh; \"God save you\nkindly--won't you be sitting?\"\n\n\"Thank you, ma'am,\" says he, sitting down; \"you're Mrs. M'Coul, I\nsuppose?\"\n\n\"I am,\" said she; \"and I have no reason, I hope, to be ashamed of my\nhusband.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the other, \"he has the name of being the strongest and\nbravest man in Ireland; but for all that, there's a man not far from\nyou that's very desirous of taking a shake with him. Is he at home?\"\n\n\"Why, then, no,\" she replied; \"and if ever a man left his house in a\nfury, he did. It appears that some one told him of a big basthoon of a\ngiant called Cucullin being down at the Causeway to look for him, and\nso he set out there to try if he could catch him. Troth, I hope, for\nthe poor giant's sake, he won't meet with him, for if he does, Fin\nwill make paste of him at once.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said the other, \"I am Cucullin, and I have been seeking him\nthese twelve months, but he always kept clear of me; and I will never\nrest night or day till I lay my hands on him.\"\n\nAt this Oonagh set up a loud laugh, of great contempt, by-the-way, and\nlooked at him as if he was only a mere handful of a man.\n\n\"Did you ever see Fin?\" said she, changing her manner all at once.\n\n\"How could I?\" said he; \"he always took care to keep his distance.\"\n\n\"I thought so,\" she replied; \"I judged as much; and if you take my\nadvice, you poor-looking creature, you'll pray night and day that you\nmay never see him, for I tell you it will be a black day for you when\nyou do. But, in the meantime, you perceive that the wind's on the\ndoor, and as Fin himself is from home, maybe you'd be civil enough to\nturn the house, for it's always what Fin does when he's here.\"\n\nThis was a startler even to Cucullin; but he got up, however, and\nafter pulling the middle finger of his right hand until it cracked\nthree times, he went outside, and getting his arms about the house,\ncompletely turned it as she had wished. When Fin saw this, he felt a\ncertain description of moisture, which shall be nameless, oozing out\nthrough every pore of his skin; but Oonagh, depending upon her woman's\nwit, felt not a whit daunted.\n\n\"Arrah, then,\" said she, \"as you are so civil, maybe you'd do another\nobliging turn for us, as Fin's not here to do it himself. You see,\nafter this long stretch of dry weather we've had, we feel very badly\noff for want of water. Now, Fin says there's a fine spring-well\nsomewhere under the rocks behind the hill here below, and it was his\nintention to pull them asunder; but having heard of you, he left the\nplace in such a fury, that he never thought of it. Now, if you try to\nfind it, troth I'd feel it a kindness.\"\n\nShe then brought Cucullin down to see the place, which was then all\none solid rock; and, after looking at it for some time, he cracked his\nright middle finger nine times, and, stooping down, tore a cleft about\nfour hundred feet deep, and a quarter of a mile in length, which has\nsince been christened by the name of Lumford's Glen. This feat nearly\nthrew Oonagh herself off her guard; but what won't a woman's sagacity\nand presence of mind accomplish?\n\n\"You'll now come in,\" said she, \"and eat a bit of such humble fare as\nwe can give you. Fin, even although he and you are enemies, would\nscorn not to treat you kindly in his own house; and, indeed, if I\ndidn't do it even in his absence, he would not be pleased with me.\"\n\nShe accordingly brought him in, and placing half-a-dozen of the cakes we\nspoke of before him, together with a can or two of butter, a side of\nboiled bacon, and a stack of cabbage, she desired him to help\nhimself--for this, be it known, was long before the invention of\npotatoes. Cucullin, who, by the way, was a glutton as well as a hero,\nput one of the cakes in his mouth to take a huge whack out of it, when\nboth Fin and Oonagh were stunned with a noise that resembled something\nbetween a growl and a yell. \"Blood and fury!\" he shouted; \"how is this?\nHere are two of my teeth out! What kind of bread is this you gave me?\"\n\n\"What's the matter?\" said Oonagh coolly.\n\n\"Matter!\" shouted the other again; \"why, here are the two best teeth\nin my head gone.\"\n\n\"Why,\" said she, \"that's Fin's bread--the only bread he ever eats when\nat home; but, indeed, I forgot to tell you that nobody can eat it but\nhimself, and that child in the cradle there. I thought, however, that,\nas you were reported to be rather a stout little fellow of your size,\nyou might be able to manage it, and I did not wish to affront a man\nthat thinks himself able to fight Fin. Here's another cake--maybe it's\nnot so hard as that.\"\n\nCucullin at the moment was not only hungry, but ravenous, so he\naccordingly made a fresh set at the second cake, and immediately\nanother yell was heard twice as loud as the first. \"Thunder and\ngiblets!\" he roared, \"take your bread out of this, or I will not have\na tooth in my head; there's another pair of them gone!\"\n\n\"Well, honest man,\" replied Oonagh, \"if you're not able to eat the\nbread, say so quietly, and don't be wakening the child in the cradle\nthere. There, now, he's awake upon me.\"\n\nFin now gave a skirl that startled the giant, as coming from such a\nyoungster as he was represented to be. \"Mother,\" said he, \"I'm\nhungry--get me something to eat.\" Oonagh went over, and putting into his\nhand a cake _that had no griddle in it_, Fin, whose appetite in the\nmeantime was sharpened by what he saw going forward, soon made it\ndisappear. Cucullin was thunderstruck, and secretly thanked his stars\nthat he had the good fortune to miss meeting Fin, for, as he said to\nhimself, I'd have no chance with a man who could eat such bread as that,\nwhich even his son that's but in his cradle can munch before my eyes.\n\n\"I'd like to take a glimpse at the lad in the cradle,\" said he to\nOonagh; \"for I can tell you that the infant who can manage that\nnutriment is no joke to look at, or to feed of a scarce summer.\"\n\n\"With all the veins of my heart,\" replied Oonagh; \"get up, acushla,\nand show this decent little man something that won't be unworthy of\nyour father, Fin M'Coul.\"\n\nFin, who was dressed for the occasion as much like a boy as possible,\ngot up, and bringing Cucullin out, \"Are you strong?\" said he.\n\n\"Thunder an' ounds!\" exclaimed the other, \"what a voice in so small a\nchap!\"\n\n\"Are you strong?\" said Fin again; \"are you able to squeeze water out\nof that white stone?\" he asked, putting one into Cucullin's hand. The\nlatter squeezed and squeezed the stone, but to no purpose; he might\npull the rocks of Lumford's Glen asunder, and flatten a thunderbolt,\nbut to squeeze water out of a white stone was beyond his strength. Fin\neyed him with great contempt, as he kept straining and squeezing and\nsqueezing and straining, till he got black in the face with the efforts.\n\n\"Ah, you're a poor creature!\" said Fin. \"You a giant! Give me the\nstone here, and when I'll show what Fin's little son can do; you may\nthen judge of what my daddy himself is.\"\n\nFin then took the stone, and slyly exchanging it for the curds, he\nsqueezed the latter until the whey, as clear as water, oozed out in a\nlittle shower from his hand.\n\n\"I'll now go in,\" said he \"to my cradle; for I scorn to lose my time\nwith any one that's not able to eat my daddy's bread, or squeeze water\nout of a stone. Bedad, you had better be off out of this before he\ncomes back; for if he catches you, it's in flummery he'd have you in\ntwo minutes.\"\n\nCucullin, seeing what he had seen, was of the same opinion himself; his\nknees knocked together with the terror of Fin's return, and he\naccordingly hastened in to bid Oonagh farewell, and to assure her, that\nfrom that day out, he never wished to hear of, much less to see, her\nhusband. \"I admit fairly that I'm not a match for him,\" said he, \"strong\nas I am; tell him I will avoid him as I would the plague, and that I\nwill make myself scarce in this part of the country while I live.\"\n\nFin, in the meantime, had gone into the cradle, where he lay very\nquietly, his heart at his mouth with delight that Cucullin was about\nto take his departure, without discovering the tricks that had been\nplayed off on him.\n\n\"It's well for you,\" said Oonagh, \"that he doesn't happen to be here,\nfor it's nothing but hawk's meat he'd make of you.\"\n\n\"I know that,\" says Cucullin; \"divil a thing else he'd make of me; but\nbefore I go, will you let me feel what kind of teeth they are that\ncan eat griddle-bread like _that_?\"--and he pointed to it as he spoke.\n\n\"With all pleasure in life,\" said she; \"only, as they're far back in\nhis head, you must put your finger a good way in.\"\n\nCucullin was surprised to find such a powerful set of grinders in one\nso young; but he was still much more so on finding, when he took his\nhand from Fin's mouth, that he had left the very finger upon which his\nwhole strength depended, behind him. He gave one loud groan, and fell\ndown at once with terror and weakness. This was all Fin wanted, who\nnow knew that his most powerful and bitterest enemy was completely at\nhis mercy. He instantly started out of the cradle, and in a few\nminutes the great Cucullin, that was for such a length of time the\nterror of him and all his followers, lay a corpse before him. Thus did\nFin, through the wit and invention of Oonagh, his wife, succeed in\novercoming his enemy by stratagem, which he never could have done by\nforce: and thus also is it proved that the women, if they bring us\n_into_ many an unpleasant scrape, can sometimes succeed in getting us\n_out_ of others that are as bad.\n\n[Footnote 63: A common name for the cloud or rack that hangs, as a\nforerunner of wet weather, about the peak of a mountain.]\n\n[Footnote 64: There is upon the top of this hill an opening that bears\na very strong resemblance to the crater of an extinct volcano.]\n\n\n\n\nKINGS, QUEENS, PRINCESSES, EARLS, ROBBERS.\n\n\n\n\nTHE TWELVE WILD GEESE.[65]\n\nPATRICK KENNEDY.\n\n\nThere was once a King and Queen that lived very happily together, and\nthey had twelve sons and not a single daughter. We are always wishing\nfor what we haven't, and don't care for what we have, and so it was\nwith the Queen. One day in winter, when the bawn was covered with\nsnow, she was looking out of the parlour window, and saw there a calf\nthat was just killed by the butcher, and a raven standing near it.\n\"Oh,\" says she, \"if I had only a daughter with her skin as white as\nthat snow, her cheeks as red as that blood, and her hair as black as\nthat raven, I'd give away every one of my twelve sons for her.\" The\nmoment she said the word, she got a great fright, and a shiver went\nthrough her, and in an instant after, a severe-looking old woman stood\nbefore her. \"That was a wicked wish you made,\" said she, \"and to\npunish you it will be granted. You will have such a daughter as you\ndesire, but the very day of her birth you will lose your other\nchildren.\" She vanished the moment she said the words.\n\nAnd that very way it turned out. When she expected her delivery, she had\nher children all in a large room of the palace, with guards all round\nit, but the very hour her daughter came into the world, the guards\ninside and outside heard a great whirling and whistling, and the twelve\nprinces were seen flying one after another out through the open window,\nand away like so many arrows over the woods. Well, the king was in great\ngrief for the loss of his sons, and he would be very enraged with his\nwife if he only knew that she was so much to blame for it.\n\nEveryone called the little princess Snow-white-and-Rose-red on account\nof her beautiful complexion. She was the most loving and lovable child\nthat could be seen anywhere. When she was twelve years old she began\nto be very sad and lonely, and to torment her mother, asking her about\nher brothers that she thought were dead, for none up to that time ever\ntold her the exact thing that happened them. The secret was weighing\nvery heavy on the Queen's conscience, and as the little girl\npersevered in her questions, at last she told her. \"Well, mother,\"\nsaid she, \"it was on my account my poor brothers were changed into\nwild geese, and are now suffering all sorts of hardship; before the\nworld is a day older, I'll be off to seek them, and try to restore\nthem to their own shapes.\"\n\nThe King and Queen had her well watched, but all was no use. Next night\nshe was getting through the woods that surrounded the palace, and she\nwent on and on that night, and till the evening of next day. She had a\nfew cakes with her, and she got nuts, and _mugoreens_ (fruit of the\nsweet briar), and some sweet crabs, as she went along. At last she came\nto a nice wooden house just at sunset. There was a fine garden round it,\nfull of the handsomest flowers, and a gate in the hedge. She went in,\nand saw a table laid out with twelve plates, and twelve knives and\nforks, and twelve spoons, and there were cakes, and cold wild fowl, and\nfruit along with the plates, and there was a good fire, and in another\nlong room there were twelve beds. Well, while she was looking about her\nshe heard the gate opening, and footsteps along the walk, and in came\ntwelve young men, and there was great grief and surprise on all their\nfaces when they laid eyes on her. \"Oh, what misfortune sent you here?\"\nsaid the eldest. \"For the sake of a girl we were obliged to leave our\nfather's court, and be in the shape of wild geese all day. That's twelve\nyears ago, and we took a solemn oath that we would kill the first young\ngirl that came into our hands. It's a pity to put such an innocent and\nhandsome girl as you are out of the world, but we must keep our oath.\"\n\"But,\" said she, \"I'm your only sister, that never knew anything about\nthis till yesterday; and I stole away from our father's and mother's\npalace last night to find you out and relieve you if I can.\" Every one\nof them clasped his hands, and looked down on the floor, and you could\nhear a pin fall till the eldest cried out, \"A curse light on our oath!\nwhat shall we do?\" \"I'll tell you that,\" said an old woman that appeared\nat the instant among them. \"Break your wicked oath, which no one should\nkeep. If you attempted to lay an uncivil finger on her I'd change you\ninto twelve _booliaun buis_ (stalks of ragweed), but I wish well to you\nas well as to her. She is appointed to be your deliverer in this way.\nShe must spin and knit twelve shirts for you out of bog-down, to be\ngathered by her own hands on the moor just outside of the wood. It will\ntake her five years to do it, and if she once speaks, or laughs, or\ncries the whole time, you will have to remain wild geese by day till\nyou're called out of the world. So take care of your sister; it is worth\nyour while.\" The fairy then vanished, and it was only a strife with the\nbrothers to see who would be first to kiss and hug their sister.\n\nSo for three long years the poor young princess was occupied pulling\nbog-down, spinning it, and knitting it into shirts, and at the end of\nthe three years she had eight made. During all that time, she never\nspoke a word, nor laughed, nor cried: the last was the hardest to\nrefrain from. One fine day she was sitting in the garden spinning,\nwhen in sprung a fine greyhound and bounded up to her, and laid his\npaws on her shoulder, and licked her forehead and her hair. The next\nminute a beautiful young prince rode up to the little garden gate,\ntook off his hat, and asked for leave to come in. She gave him a\nlittle nod, and in he walked. He made ever so many apologies for\nintruding, and asked her ever so many questions, but not a word could\nhe get out of her. He loved her so much from the first moment, that he\ncould not leave her till he told her he was king of a country just\nbordering on the forest, and he begged her to come home with him, and\nbe his wife. She couldn't help loving him as much as he did her, and\nthough she shook her head very often, and was very sorry to leave her\nbrothers, at last she nodded her head, and put her hand in his. She\nknew well enough that the good fairy and her brothers would be able to\nfind her out. Before she went she brought out a basket holding all her\nbog-down, and another holding the eight shirts. The attendants took\ncharge of these, and the prince placed her before him on his horse.\nThe only thing that disturbed him while riding along was the\ndispleasure his stepmother would feel at what he had done. However, he\nwas full master at home, and as soon as he arrived he sent for the\nbishop, got his bride nicely dressed, and the marriage was celebrated,\nthe bride answering by signs. He knew by her manners she was of high\nbirth, and no two could be fonder of each other.\n\nThe wicked stepmother did all she could to make mischief, saying she\nwas sure she was only a woodman's daughter; but nothing could disturb\nthe young king's opinion of his wife. In good time the young queen was\ndelivered of a beautiful boy, and the king was so glad he hardly knew\nwhat to do for joy. All the grandeur of the christening and the\nhappiness of the parents tormented the bad woman more than I can tell\nyou, and she determined to put a stop to all their comfort. She got a\nsleeping posset given to the young mother, and while she was thinking\nand thinking how she could best make away with the child, she saw a\nwicked-looking wolf in the garden, looking up at her, and licking his\nchops. She lost no time, but snatched the child from the arms of the\nsleeping woman, and pitched it out The beast caught it in his mouth,\nand was over the garden fence in a minute. The wicked woman then\npricked her own fingers, and dabbled the blood round the mouth of the\nsleeping mother.\n\nWell, the young king was just then coming into the big bawn from\nhunting, and as soon as he entered the house, she beckoned to him,\nshed a few crocodile tears, began to cry and wring her hands, and\nhurried him along the passage to the bedchamber.\n\nOh, wasn't the poor king frightened when he saw the queen's mouth\nbloody, and missed his child? It would take two hours to tell you the\ndevilment of the old queen, the confusion and fright, and grief of the\nyoung king and queen, the bad opinion he began to feel of his wife,\nand the struggle she had to keep down her bitter sorrow, and not give\nway to it by speaking or lamenting. The young king would not allow any\none to be called, and ordered his stepmother to give out that the\nchild fell from the mother's arms at the window, and that a wild beast\nran off with it. The wicked woman pretended to do so, but she told\nunderhand to everybody she spoke to what the king and herself saw in\nthe bedchamber.\n\nThe young queen was the most unhappy woman in the three kingdoms for a\nlong time, between sorrow for her child, and her husband's bad\nopinion; still she neither spoke nor cried, and she gathered bog-down\nand went on with the shirts. Often the twelve wild geese would be seen\nlighting on the trees in the park or on the smooth sod, and looking in\nat her windows. So she worked on to get the shirts finished, but\nanother year was at an end, and she had the twelfth shirt finished\nexcept one arm, when she was obliged to take to her bed, and a\nbeautiful girl was born.\n\nNow the king was on his guard, and he would not let the mother and\nchild be left alone for a minute; but the wicked woman bribed some of\nthe attendants, set others asleep, gave the sleepy posset to the\nqueen, and had a person watching to snatch the child away, and kill\nit. But what should she see but the same wolf in the garden looking up\nand licking his chops again? Out went the child, and away with it flew\nthe wolf, and she smeared the sleeping mother's mouth and face with\nblood, and then roared, and bawled, and cried out to the king and to\neverybody she met, and the room was filled, and everyone was sure the\nyoung queen had just devoured her own babe.\n\nThe poor mother thought now her life would leave her. She was in such\na state she could neither think nor pray, but she sat like a stone,\nand worked away at the arm of the twelfth shirt.\n\nThe king was for taking her to the house in the wood where he found\nher, but the stepmother, and the lords of the court, and the judges\nwould not hear of it, and she was condemned to be burned in the big\nbawn at three o'clock the same day. When the hour drew near, the king\nwent to the farthest part of his palace, and there was no more unhappy\nman in his kingdom at that hour.\n\nWhen the executioners came and led her off, she took the pile of\nshirts in her arms. There was still a few stitches wanted, and while\nthey were tying her to the stakes she still worked on. At the last\nstitch she seemed overcome and dropped a tear on her work, but the\nmoment after she sprang up, and shouted out, \"I am innocent; call my\nhusband!\" The executioners stayed their hands, except one\nwicked-disposed creature, who set fire to the faggot next him, and\nwhile all were struck in amaze, there was a rushing of wings, and in a\nmoment the twelve wild geese were standing around the pile. Before you\ncould count twelve, she flung a shirt over each bird, and there in the\ntwinkling of an eye were twelve of the finest young men that could be\ncollected out of a thousand. While some were untying their sister, the\neldest, taking a strong stake in his hand, struck the busy executioner\nsuch a blow that he never needed another.\n\nWhile they were comforting the young queen, and the king was hurrying\nto the spot, a fine-looking woman appeared among them holding the babe\non one arm and the little prince by the hand. There was nothing but\ncrying for joy, and laughing for joy, and hugging and kissing, and\nwhen any one had time to thank the good fairy, who in the shape of a\nwolf, carried the child away, she was not to be found. Never was such\nhappiness enjoyed in any palace that ever was built, and if the wicked\nqueen and her helpers were not torn by wild horses, they richly\ndeserved it.\n\n[Footnote 65: _The Fireside Stories of Ireland_ (Gill & Son, Dublin).]\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAZY BEAUTY AND HER AUNTS.\n\nPATRICK KENNEDY'S \"FIRESIDE STORIES OF IRELAND.\"\n\n\nThere was once a poor widow woman, who had a daughter that was as\nhandsome as the day, and as lazy as a pig, saving your presence. The\npoor mother was the most industrious person in the townland, and was a\nparticularly good hand at the spinning-wheel. It was the wish of her\nheart that her daughter should be as handy as herself; but she'd get\nup late, eat her breakfast before she'd finish her prayers, and then\ngo about dawdling, and anything she handled seemed to be burning her\nfingers. She drawled her words as if it was a great trouble to her to\nspeak, or as if her tongue was as lazy as her body. Many a heart-scald\nher poor mother got with her, and still she was only improving like\ndead fowl in August.\n\nWell, one morning that things were as bad as they could be, and the\npoor woman was giving tongue at the rate of a mill-clapper, who should\nbe riding by but the king's son. \"Oh dear, oh dear, good woman!\" said\nhe, \"you must have a very bad child to make you scold so terribly.\nSure it can't be this handsome girl that vexed you!\" \"Oh, please your\nMajesty, not at all,\" says the old dissembler. \"I was only checking\nher for working herself too much. Would your majesty believe it? She\nspins three pounds of flax in a day, weaves it into linen the next,\nand makes it all into shirts the day after.\" \"My gracious,\" says the\nprince, \"she's the very lady that will just fill my mother's eye, and\nherself's the greatest spinner in the kingdom. Will you put on your\ndaughter's bonnet and cloak, if you please, ma'am, and set her behind\nme? Why, my mother will be so delighted with her, that perhaps she'll\nmake her her daughter-in-law in a week, that is, if the young woman\nherself is agreeable.\"\n\nWell, between the confusion, and the joy, and the fear of being found\nout, the women didn't know what to do; and before they could make up\ntheir minds, young Anty (Anastasia) was set behind the prince, and\naway he and his attendants went, and a good heavy purse was left\nbehind with the mother. She _pullillued_ a long time after all was\ngone, in dread of something bad happening to the poor girl.\n\nThe prince couldn't judge of the girl's breeding or wit from the few\nanswers he pulled out of her. The queen was struck in a heap when she\nsaw a young country girl sitting behind her son, but when she saw her\nhandsome face, and heard all she could do, she didn't think she could\nmake too much of her. The prince took an opportunity of whispering her\nthat if she didn't object to be his wife she must strive to please his\nmother. Well, the evening went by, and the prince and Anty were\ngetting fonder and fonder of one another, but the thought of the\nspinning used toe send the cold to her heart every moment. When\nbed-time came, the old queen went along with her to a beautiful\nbedroom, and when she was bidding her good-night, she pointed to a\nheap of fine flax, and said, \"You may begin as soon as you like\nto-morrow morning, and I'll expect to see these three pounds in nice\nthread the morning after.\" Little did the poor girl sleep that night.\nShe kept crying and lamenting that she didn't mind her mother's advice\nbetter. When she was left alone next morning, she began with a heavy\nheart; and though she had a nice mahogany wheel and the finest flax\nyou ever saw, the thread was breaking every moment. One while it was\nas fine as a cobweb, and the next as coarse as a little boy's\nwhipcord. At last she pushed her chair back, let her hands fall in her\nlap, and burst out a-crying.\n\nA small, old woman with surprising big feet appeared before her at the\nsame moment, and said, \"What ails you, you handsome colleen?\" \"An'\nhaven't I all that flax to spin before to-morrow morning, and I'll never\nbe able to have even five yards of fine thread of it put together.\" \"An'\nwould you think bad to ask poor _Colliagh Cushm[=o]r_ (Old woman\nBig-foot) to your wedding with the young prince? If you promise me that,\nall your three pounds will be made into the finest of thread while\nyou're taking your sleep to-night.\" \"Indeed, you must be there and\nwelcome, and I'll honour you all the days of your life.\" \"Very well;\nstay in your room till tea-time, and tell the queen she may come in for\nher thread as early as she likes to-morrow morning.\" It was all as she\nsaid; and the thread was finer and evener than the gut you see with\nfly-fishers. \"My brave girl you were!\" says the queen. \"I'll get my own\nmahogany loom brought into you, but you needn't do anything more to-day.\nWork and rest, work and rest, is my motto. To-morrow you'll weave all\nthis thread, and who knows what may happen?\"\n\nThe poor girl was more frightened this time than the last, and she was\nso afraid to lose the prince. She didn't even know how to put the warp\nin the gears, nor how to use the shuttle, and she was sitting in the\ngreatest grief, when a little woman, who was mighty well-shouldered\nabout the hips, all at once appeared to her, told her her name was\n_Colliach Cromanm[=o]r_, and made the same bargain with her as\nColliach Cushm[=o]r. Great was the queen's pleasure when she found\nearly in the morning a web as fine and white as the finest paper you\never saw. \"The darling you were!\" says she. \"Take your ease with the\nladies and gentlemen to-day, and if your have all this made into nice\nshirts to-morrow you may present one of them to my son, and be married\nto him out of hand.\"\n\nOh, wouldn't you pity poor Anty the next day, she was now so near the\nprince, and, maybe, would be soon so far from him. But she waited as\npatiently as she could with scissors, needle, and thread in hand, till\na minute after noon. Then she was rejoiced to see the third old woman\nappear. She had a big red nose, and informed Anty that people called\nher _Shron Mor Rua_ on that account. She was up to her as good as the\nothers, for a dozen fine shirts were lying on the table when the queen\npaid her an early visit.\n\nNow there was nothing talked of but the wedding, and I needn't tell\nyou it was grand. The poor mother was there along with the rest, and\nat the dinner the old queen could talk of nothing but the lovely\nshirts, and how happy herself and the bride would be after the\nhoneymoon, spinning, and weaving, and sewing shirts and shifts without\nend. The bridegroom didn't like the discourse, and the bride liked it\nless, and he was going to say something, when the footman came up to\nthe head of the table and said to the bride, \"Your ladyship's aunt,\nColliach Cushm[=o]r, bade me ask might she come in.\" The bride blushed\nand wished she was seven miles under the floor, but well became the\nprince. \"Tell Mrs. Cushm[=o]r,\" said he, \"that any relation of my\nbride's will be always heartily welcome wherever she and I are.\" In\ncame the woman with the big foot, and got a seat near the prince. The\nold queen didn't like it much, and after a few words she asked rather\nspitefully, \"Dear ma'am, what's the reason your foot is so big?\"\n\"_Musha_, faith, your majesty, I was standing almost all my life at\nthe spinning-wheel, and that's the reason.\" \"I declare to you, my\ndarling,\" said the prince, \"I'll never allow you to spend one hour at\nthe same spinning-wheel.\" The same footman said again, \"Your\nladyship's aunt, Colliach Cromanm[=o]r, wishes to come in, if the\ngenteels and yourself have no objection.\" Very _sharoose_ (displeased)\nwas Princess Anty, but the prince sent her welcome, and she took her\nseat, and drank healths apiece to the company. \"May I ask, ma'am?\"\nsays the old queen, \"why you're so wide half-way between the head and\nthe feet?\" \"That, your majesty, is owing to sitting all my life at the\nloom.\" \"By my sceptre,\" says the prince, \"my wife shall never sit\nthere an hour.\" The footman again came up. \"Your ladyship's aunt,\nColliach Shron Mor Rua, is asking leave to come into the banquet.\"\nMore blushing on the bride's face, but the bridegroom spoke out\ncordially, \"Tell Mrs. Shron Mor Rua she's doing us an honour.\" In came\nthe old woman, and great respect she got near the top of the table,\nbut the people down low put up their tumblers and glasses to their\nnoses to hide the grins. \"Ma'am,\" says the old queen, \"will you tell\nus, if you please, why your nose is so big and red?\" \"Throth, your\nmajesty, my head was bent down over the stitching all my life, and all\nthe blood in my body ran into my nose.\" \"My darling,\" said the prince\nto Anty, \"if ever I see a needle in your hand, I'll run a hundred\nmiles from you.\"\n\n\"And in troth, girls and boys, though it's a diverting story, I don't\nthink the moral is good; and if any of you _thuckeens_ go about\nimitating Anty in her laziness, you'll find it won't thrive with you as\nit did with her. She was beautiful beyond compare, which none of you\nare, and she had three powerful fairies to help her besides. There's no\nfairies now, and no prince or lord to ride by, and catch you idling or\nworking; and maybe, after all, the prince and herself were not so very\nhappy when the cares of the world or old age came on them.\"\n\nThus was the tale ended by poor old _Shebale_ (Sybilla), Father Murphy's\nhousekeeper, in Coolbawn, Barony of Bantry, about half a century since.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAUGHTY PRINCESS.[66]\n\nBY PATRICK KENNEDY.\n\n\nThere was once a very worthy king, whose daughter was the greatest\nbeauty that could be seen far or near, but she was as proud as\nLucifer, and no king or prince would she agree to marry. Her father\nwas tired out at last, and invited every king, and prince, and duke,\nand earl that he knew or didn't know to come to his court to give her\none trial more. They all came, and next day after breakfast they stood\nin a row in the lawn, and the princess walked along in the front of\nthem to make her choice. One was fat, and says she, \"I won't have you,\nBeer-barrel!\" One was tall and thin, and to him she said, \"I won't\nhave you, Ramrod!\" To a white-faced man she said, \"I won't have you,\nPale Death;\" and to a red-cheeked man she said, \"I won't have you,\nCockscomb!\" She stopped a little before the last of all, for he was a\nfine man in face and form. She wanted to find some defect in him, but\nhe had nothing remarkable but a ring of brown curling hair under his\nchin. She admired him a little, and then carried it off with, \"I won't\nhave you, Whiskers!\"\n\nSo all went away, and the king was so vexed, he said to her, \"Now to\npunish your _impudence_, I'll give you to the first beggarman or\nsinging _sthronshuch_ that calls;\" and, as sure as the hearth-money, a\nfellow all over-rags, and hair that came to his shoulders, and a bushy\nred beard all over his face, came next morning, and began to sing\nbefore the parlour window.\n\nWhen the song was over, the hall-door was opened, the singer asked in,\nthe priest brought, and the princess married to Beardy. She roared and\nshe bawled, but her father didn't mind her. \"There,\" says he to the\nbridegroom, \"is five guineas for you. Take your wife out of my sight,\nand never let me lay eyes on you or her again.\"\n\nOff he led her, and dismal enough she was. The only thing that gave\nher relief was the tones of her husband's voice and his genteel\nmanners. \"Whose wood is this?\" said she, as they were going through\none. \"It belongs to the king you called Whiskers yesterday.\" He gave\nher the same answer about meadows and corn-fields, and at last a fine\ncity. \"Ah, what a fool I was!\" said she to herself. \"He was a fine\nman, and I might have him for a husband.\" At last they were coming up\nto a poor cabin. \"Why are you bringing me here?\" says the poor lady.\n\"This was my house,\" said he, \"and now it's yours.\" She began to cry,\nbut she was tired and hungry, and she went in with him.\n\nOvoch! there was neither a table laid out, nor a fire burning, and she\nwas obliged to help her husband to light it, and boil their dinner,\nand clean up the place after; and next day he made her put on a stuff\ngown and a cotton handkerchief. When she had her house readied up, and\nno business to keep her employed, he brought home _sallies_ [willows],\npeeled them, and showed her how to make baskets. But the hard twigs\nbruised her delicate fingers, and she began to cry. Well, then he\nasked her to mend their clothes, but the needle drew blood from her\nfingers, and she cried again. He couldn't bear to see her tears, so he\nbought a creel of earthenware, and sent her to the market to sell\nthem. This was the hardest trial of all, but she looked so handsome\nand sorrowful, and had such a nice air about her, that all her pans,\nand jugs, and plates, and dishes were gone before noon, and the only\nmark of her old pride she showed was a slap she gave a buckeen across\nthe face when he _axed_ her to go in an' take share of a quart.\n\nWell, her husband was so glad, he sent her with another creel the next\nday; but faith! her luck was after deserting her. A drunken huntsman\ncame up riding, and his beast got in among her ware, and made _brishe_\nof every mother's son of 'em. She went home cryin', and her husband\nwasn't at all pleased. \"I see,\" said he, \"you're not fit for business.\nCome along, I'll get you a kitchen-maid's place in the palace. I know\nthe cook.\"\n\nSo the poor thing was obliged to stifle her pride once more. She was\nkept very busy, and the footman and the butler would be very impudent\nabout looking for a kiss, but she let a screech out of her the first\nattempt was made, and the cook gave the fellow such a lambasting with\nthe besom that he made no second offer. She went home to her husband\nevery night, and she carried broken victuals wrapped in papers in her\nside pockets.\n\nA week after she got service there was great bustle in the kitchen.\nThe king was going to be married, but no one knew who the bride was to\nbe. Well, in the evening the cook filled the princess's pockets with\ncold meat and puddings, and, says she, \"Before you go, let us have a\nlook at the great doings in the big parlour.\" So they came near the\ndoor to get a peep, and who should come out but the king himself, as\nhandsome as you please, and no other but King Whiskers himself. \"Your\nhandsome helper must pay for her peeping,\" said he to the cook, \"and\ndance a jig with me.\" Whether she would or no, he held her hand and\nbrought her into the parlour. The fiddlers struck up, and away went\n_him_ with _her_. But they hadn't danced two steps when the meat and\nthe _puddens_ flew out of her pockets. Every one roared out, and she\nflew to the door, crying piteously. But she was soon caught by the\nking, and taken into the back parlour. \"Don't you know me, my\ndarling?\" said he. \"I'm both King Whiskers, your husband the\nballad-singer, and the drunken huntsman. Your father knew me well\nenough when he gave you to me, and all was to drive your pride out of\nyou.\" Well, she didn't know how she was with fright, and shame, and\njoy. Love was uppermost anyhow, for she laid her head on her husband's\nbreast and cried like a child. The maids-of-honour soon had her away\nand dressed her as fine as hands and pins could do it; and there were\nher mother and father, too; and while the company were wondering what\nend of the handsome girl and the king, he and his queen, _who_ they\ndidn't know in her fine clothes, and the other king and queen, came\nin, and such rejoicings and fine doings as there was, none of us will\never see, any way.\n\n[Footnote 66: _Fireside Stories of Ireland._]\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENCHANTMENT OF GEAROIDH IARLA.\n\nBY PATRICK KENNEDY.[67]\n\n\nIn old times in Ireland there was a great man of the Fitzgeralds. The\nname on him was Gerald, but the Irish, that always had a great liking\nfor the family, called him _Gearoidh Iarla_ (Earl Gerald). He had a\ngreat castle or rath at _Mullymast_ (Mullaghmast); and whenever the\nEnglish Government were striving to put some wrong on the country, he\nwas always the man that stood up for it. Along with being a great\nleader in a fight, and very skilful at all weapons, he was deep in the\n_black art_, and could change himself into whatever shape he pleased.\nHis lady knew that he had this power, and often asked him to let her\ninto some of his secrets, but he never would gratify her.\n\nShe wanted particularly to see him in some strange shape, but he put\nher off and off on one pretence or other. But she wouldn't be a woman\nif she hadn't perseverance; and so at last he let her know that if she\ntook the least fright while he'd be out of his natural form, he would\nnever recover it till many generations of men would be under the\nmould. \"Oh! she wouldn't be a fit wife for Gearoidh Iarla if she could\nbe easily frightened. Let him but gratify her in this whim, and he'd\nsee what a hero she was!\" So one beautiful summer evening, as they\nwere sitting in their grand drawing-room, he turned his face away from\nher and muttered some words, and while you'd wink he was clever and\nclean out of sight, and a lovely _goldfinch_ was flying about the room.\n\nThe lady, as courageous as she thought herself, was a little startled,\nbut she held her own pretty well, especially when he came and perched\non her shoulder, and shook his wings, and put his little beak to her\nlips, and whistled the delightfulest tune you ever heard. Well, he\nflew in circles round the room, and played _hide and go seek_ with his\nlady, and flew out into the garden, and flew back again, and lay down\nin her lap as if he was asleep, and jumped up again.\n\nWell, when the thing had lasted long enough to satisfy both, he took\none flight more into the open air; but by my word he was soon on his\nreturn. He flew right into his lady's bosom, and the next moment a\nfierce hawk was after him. The wife gave one loud scream, though there\nwas no need, for the wild bird came in like an arrow, and struck\nagainst a table with such force that the life was dashed out of him.\nShe turned her eyes from his quivering body to where she saw the\ngoldfinch an instant before, but neither goldfinch nor Earl Gerald did\nshe ever lay eyes on again.\n\nOnce every seven years the Earl rides round the Curragh of Kildare on\na steed, whose silver shoes were half an inch thick the time he\ndisappeared; and when these shoes are worn as thin as a cat's ear, he\nwill be restored to the society of living men, fight a great battle\nwith the English, and reign king of Ireland for two-score years.[68]\n\nHimself and his warriors are now sleeping in a long cavern under the\nRath of Mullaghmast. There is a table running along through the middle\nof the cave. The Earl is sitting at the head, and his troopers down\nalong in complete armour both sides of the table, and their heads\nresting on it. Their horses, saddled and bridled, are standing behind\ntheir masters in their stalls at each side; and when the day comes,\nthe miller's son that's to be born with six fingers on each hand, will\nblow his trumpet, and the horses will stamp and whinny, and the\nknights awake and mount their steeds, and go forth to battle.\n\nSome night that happens once in every seven years, while the Earl is\nriding round the Curragh, the entrance may be seen by any one chancing\nto pass by. About a hundred years ago, a horse-dealer that was late\nabroad and a little drunk, saw the lighted cavern, and went in. The\nlights, and the stillness, and the sight of the men in armour, cowed him\na good deal, and he became sober. His hands began to tremble, and he\nlet a bridle fall on the pavement. The sound of the bit echoed through\nthe long cave, and one of the warriors that was next him lifted his head\na little, and said, in a deep hoarse voice, \"Is it time yet?\" He had the\nwit to say, \"Not yet, but soon will,\" and the heavy helmet sunk down on\nthe table. The horse-dealer made the best of his way out, and I never\nheard of any other one having got the same opportunity.\n\n[Footnote 67: _Legendary Fiction of the Irish Celts._--(Macmillan).]\n\n[Footnote 68: The last time _Gearoidh Iarla_ appeared the horse-shoes\nwere as thin as a sixpence.]\n\n\n\n\nMUNACHAR AND MANACHAR.\n\nTRANSLATED LITERALLY FROM THE IRISH BY DOUGLAS HYDE.\n\n\nThere once lived a Munachar and a Manachar, a long time ago, and it is\na long time since it was, and if they were alive then they would not\nbe alive now. They went out together to pick raspberries, and as many\nas Munachar used to pick Manachar used to eat. Munachar said he must\ngo look for a rod to make a gad (a withy band) to hang Manachar, who\nate his raspberries every one; and he came to the rod. \"God save you,\"\nsaid the rod. \"God and Mary save you.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going\nlooking for a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who\nate my raspberries every one.\"\n\n\"You will not get me,\" said the rod, \"until you get an axe to cut me.\"\nHe came to the axe. \"God save you,\" said the axe. \"God and Mary save\nyou.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going looking for an axe, an axe to\ncut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my\nraspberries every one.\"\n\n\"You will not get me,\" said the axe, \"until you get a flag to edge\nme.\" He came to the flag. \"God save you,\" says the flag. \"God and Mary\nsave you.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going looking for an axe, axe to\ncut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my\nraspberries every one.\"\n\n\"You will not get me,\" says the flag, \"till you get water to wet me.\"\nHe came to the water. \"God save you,\" says the water. \"God and Mary\nsave you.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going looking for water, water to\nwet flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to\nhang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.\"\n\n\"You will not get me,\" said the water, \"until you get a deer who will\nswim me.\" He came to the deer. \"God save you,\" says the deer. \"God and\nMary save you.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going looking for a deer,\ndeer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a\nrod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my\nraspberries every one.\"\n\n\"You will not get me,\" said the deer, \"until you get a hound who will\nhunt me.\" He came to the hound. \"God save you,\" says the hound. \"God\nand Mary save you.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going looking for a\nhound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag\nto edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang\nManachar, who ate my raspberries every one.\"\n\n\"You will not get me,\" said the hound, \"until you get a bit of butter\nto put in my claw.\" He came to the butter. \"God save you,\" says the\nbutter. \"God and Mary save you.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going\nlooking for butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer,\ndeer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a\nrod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my\nraspberries every one.\"\n\n\"You will not get me,\" said the butter, \"until you get a cat who shall\nscrape me.\" He came to the cat. \"God save you,\" said the cat. \"God and\nMary save you.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going looking for a cat, cat\nto scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer,\ndeer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a\nrod, a rod to make a gad, gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries\nevery one.\"\n\n\"You will not get me,\" said the cat, \"until you will get milk which\nyou will give me.\" He came to the cow. \"God save you,\" said the cow.\n\"God and Mary save you.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going looking for a\ncow, cow to give me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape\nbutter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to\nswim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a\nrod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries\nevery one.\"\n\n\"You will not get any milk from me,\" said the cow, \"until you bring me\na whisp of straw from those threshers yonder.\" He came to the\nthreshers. \"God save you,\" said the threshers. \"God and Mary save ye.\"\n\"How far are you going?\" \"Going looking for a whisp of straw from ye\nto give to the cow, the cow to give me milk, milk I will give to the\ncat, cat to scrape butter, butter to go in claw of hound, hound to\nhunt deer, deer to swim water, water to wet flag, flag to edge axe,\naxe to cut a rod, a rod to make a gad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate\nmy raspberries every one.\"\n\n\"You will not get any whisp of straw from us,\" said the threshers,\n\"until you bring us the makings of a cake from the miller over\nyonder.\" He came to the miller. \"God save you.\" \"God and Mary save\nyou.\" \"How far are you going?\" \"Going looking for the makings of a\ncake, which I will give to the threshers, the threshers to give me a\nwhisp of straw, the whisp of straw I will give to the cow, the cow to\ngive me milk, milk I will give to the cat, cat to scrape butter,\nbutter to go in claw of hound, hound to hunt deer, deer to swim water,\nwater to wet flag, flag to edge axe, axe to cut a rod, a rod to make a\ngad, a gad to hang Manachar, who ate my raspberries every one.\"\n\n\"You will not get any makings of a cake from me,\" said the miller,\n\"till you bring me the full of that sieve of water from the river over\nthere.\"\n\nHe took the sieve in his hand and went over to the river, but as often\nas ever he would stoop and fill it with water, the moment he raised it\nthe water would run out of it again, and sure, if he had been there\nfrom that day till this, he never could have filled it. A crow went\nflying by him, over his head. \"Daub! daub!\" said the crow. \"My soul to\nGod, then,\" said Munachar, \"but it's the good advice you have,\" and he\ntook the red clay and the daub that was by the brink, and he rubbed it\nto the bottom of the sieve, until all the holes were filled, and then\nthe sieve held the water, and he brought the water to the miller, and\nthe miller gave him the makings of a cake, and he gave the makings of\nthe cake to the threshers, and the threshers gave him a whisp of\nstraw, and he gave the whisp of straw to the cow, and the cow gave him\nmilk, the milk he gave to the cat, the cat scraped the butter, the\nbutter went into the claw of the hound, the hound hunted the deer, the\ndeer swam the water, the water wet the flag, the flag sharpened the\naxe, the axe cut the rod, and the rod made a gad, and when he had it\nready--I'll go bail that Manachar was far enough away from him.\n\n There is some tale like this in almost every language. It\n resembles that given in that splendid work of industry and\n patriotism, Campbell's _Tales of the West Highlands_ under the\n name of _Moonachug and Meenachug_. \"The English House that Jack\n built,\" says Campbell, \"has eleven steps, the Scotch Old Woman\n with the Silver Penny has twelve, the Novsk Cock and Hen\n A-nutting has twelve, ten of which are double. The German story\n in Grimm has five or six, all single ideas.\" This, however, is\n longer than any of them. It sometimes varies a little in the\n telling, and the actors' names are sometimes _Suracha_ and\n _Muracha_, and the crow is sometimes a gull, who, instead of\n _daub! daub!_ says _cuir cr\u00e9 rua lesh!_\n\n\n\n\nDONALD AND HIS NEIGHBOURS.\n\n_From Hibernian Tales._[69]\n\n\nHudden and Dudden and Donald O'Nery were near neighbours in the barony\nof Balinconlig, and ploughed with three bullocks; but the two former,\nenvying the present prosperity of the latter, determined to kill his\nbullock, to prevent his farm being properly cultivated and laboured,\nthat going back in the world he might be induced to sell his lands,\nwhich they meant to get possession of. Poor Donald finding his bullock\nkilled, immediately skinned it, and throwing the skin over his\nshoulder, with the fleshy side out, set off to the next town with it,\nto dispose of it to the best of his advantage. Going along the road a\nmagpie flew on the top of the hide, and began picking it, chattering\nall the time. The bird had been taught to speak, and imitate the human\nvoice, and Donald, thinking he understood some words it was saying,\nput round his hand and caught hold of it. Having got possession of it,\nhe put it under his greatcoat, and so went on to town. Having sold the\nhide, he went into an inn to take a dram, and following the landlady\ninto the cellar, he gave the bird a squeeze which made it chatter some\nbroken accents that surprised her very much. \"What is that I hear?\"\nsaid she to Donald. \"I think it is talk, and yet I do not understand.\"\n\"Indeed,\" said Donald, \"it is a bird I have that tells me everything,\nand I always carry it with me to know when there is any danger.\nFaith,\" says he, \"it says you have far better liquor than you are\ngiving me.\" \"That is strange,\" said she, going to another cask of\nbetter quality, and asking him if he would sell the bird. \"I will,\"\nsaid Donald, \"if I get enough for it.\" \"I will fill your hat with\nsilver if you leave it with me.\" Donald was glad to hear the news, and\ntaking the silver, set off, rejoicing at his good luck. He had not\nbeen long at home until he met with Hudden and Dudden. \"Mr.,\" said he,\n\"you thought you had done me a bad turn, but you could not have done\nme a better; for look here, what I have got for the hide,\" showing\nthem a hatful of silver; \"you never saw such a demand for hides in\nyour life as there is at present.\" Hudden and Dudden that very night\nkilled their bullocks, and set out the next morning to sell their\nhides. On coming to the place they went through all the merchants, but\ncould only get a trifle for them; at last they had to take what they\ncould get, and came home in a great rage, and vowing revenge on poor\nDonald. He had a pretty good guess how matters would turn out, and he\nbeing under the kitchen window, he was afraid they would rob him, or\nperhaps kill him when asleep, and on that account when he was going to\nbed he left his old mother in his place, and lay down in her bed,\nwhich was in the other side of the house, and they taking the old\nwoman for Donald, choked her in her bed, but he making some noise,\nthey had to retreat, and leave the money behind them, which grieved\nthem very much. However, by daybreak, Donald got his mother on his\nback, and carried her to town. Stopping at a well, he fixed his mother\nwith her staff, as if she was stooping for a drink, and then went into\na public-house convenient and called for a dram. \"I wish,\" said he to\na woman that stood near him, \"you would tell my mother to come in; she\nis at yon well trying to get a drink, and she is hard of hearing; if\nshe does not observe you, give her a little shake and tell her that I\nwant her.\" The woman called her several times, but she seemed to take\nno notice; at length she went to her and shook her by the arm, but\nwhen she let her go again, she tumbled on her head into the well, and,\nas the woman thought, was drowned. She, in her great surprise and fear\nat the accident, told Donald what had happened. \"O mercy,\" said he,\n\"what is this?\" He ran and pulled her out of the well, weeping and\nlamenting all the time, and acting in such a manner that you would\nimagine that he had lost his senses. The woman, on the other hand, was\nfar worse than Donald, for his grief was only feigned, but she\nimagined herself to be the cause of the old woman's death. The\ninhabitants of the town hearing what had happened, agreed to make\nDonald up a good sum of money for his loss, as the accident happened\nin their place, and Donald brought a greater sum home with him than he\ngot for the magpie. They buried Donald's mother, and as soon as he saw\nHudden he showed them the last purse of money he had got. \"You thought\nto kill me last night,\" said he, \"but it was good for me it happened\non my mother, for I got all that purse for her to make gunpowder.\"\n\nThat very night Hudden and Dudden killed their mothers, and the next\nmorning set off with them to town. On coming to the town with their\nburthen on their backs, they went up and down crying, \"Who will buy\nold wives for gunpowder,\" so that everyone laughed at them, and the\nboys at last clotted them out of the place. They then saw the cheat,\nand vowed revenge on Donald, buried the old women, and set off in\npursuit of him. Coming to his house, they found him sitting at his\nbreakfast, and seizing him, put him in a sack, and went to drown him\nin a river at some distance. As they were going along the highway they\nraised a hare, which they saw had but three feet, and throwing off the\nsack, ran after her, thinking by her appearance she would be easily\ntaken. In their absence there came a drover that way, and hearing\nDonald singing in the sack, wondered greatly what could be the matter.\n\"What is the reason,\" said he, \"that you are singing, and you\nconfined?\" \"O, I am going to heaven,\" said Donald, \"and in a short\ntime I expect to be free from trouble.\" \"O dear,\" said the drover,\n\"what will I give you if you let me to your place?\" \"Indeed, I do not\nknow,\" said he, \"it would take a good sum.\" \"I have not much money,\"\nsaid the drover, \"but I have twenty head of fine cattle, which I will\ngive you to exchange places with me.\" \"Well,\" says Donald, \"I do not\ncare if I should loose the sack, and I will come out.\" In a moment the\ndrover liberated him, and went into the sack himself, and Donald drove\nhome the fine heifers, and left them in his pasture.\n\nHudden and Dudden having caught the hare, returned, and getting the sack\non one of their backs, carried Donald, as they thought, to the river and\nthrew him in, where he immediately sank. They then marched home,\nintending to take immediate possession of Donald's property, but how\ngreat was their surprise when they found him safe at home before them,\nwith such a fine herd of cattle, whereas they knew he had none before.\n\"Donald,\" said they, \"what is all this? We thought you were drowned,\nand yet you are here before us.\" \"Ah!\" said he, \"if I had but help along\nwith me when you threw me in, it would have been the best job ever I met\nwith, for of all the sight of cattle and gold that ever was seen is\nthere, and no one to own them, but I was not able to manage more than\nwhat you see, and I could show you the spot where you might get\nhundreds.\" They both swore they would be his friend, and Donald\naccordingly led them to a very deep part of the river, and lifted up a\nstone. \"Now,\" said he, \"watch this,\" throwing it into the stream; \"there\nis the very place, and go in, one of you first, and if you want help,\nyou have nothing to do but call.\" Hudden jumping in, and sinking to the\nbottom, rose up again, and making a bubbling noise, as those do that are\ndrowning, attempted to speak, but could not. \"What is that he is saying\nnow?\" says Dudden. \"Faith,\" says Donald, \"he is calling for help; don't\nyou hear him? Stand about,\" said he, running back, \"till I leap in. I\nknow how to do it better than any of you.\" Dudden, to have the advantage\nof him, jumped in off the bank, and was drowned along with Hudden, and\nthis was the end of Hudden and Dudden.\n\n[Footnote 69: A chap-book mentioned by Thackeray in his _Irish Sketch\nBook_.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE JACKDAW.\n\n\nTom Moor was a linen draper in Sackville Street. His father, when he\ndied, left him an affluent fortune, and a shop of excellent trade.\n\nAs he was standing at his door one day a countryman came up to him\nwith a nest of jackdaws, and accosting him, says, \"Master, will you\nbuy a nest of daws?\" \"No, I don't want any.\" \"Master,\" replied the\nman, \"I will sell them all cheap; you shall have the whole nest for\nnine-pence.\" \"I don't want them,\" answered Tom Moor, \"so go about your\nbusiness.\"\n\nAs the man was walking away one of the daws popped out his head, and\ncried \"Mawk, mawk.\" \"Damn it,\" says Tom Moor, \"that bird knows my\nname; halloo, countryman, what will you take for the bird?\" \"Why, you\nshall have him for threepence.\" Tom Moor bought him, had a cage made,\nand hung him up in the shop.\n\nThe journeymen took much notice of the bird, and would frequently tap\nat the bottom of the cage, and say, \"Who are you? Who are you? Tom\nMoor of Sackville Street.\"\n\nIn a short time the jackdaw learned these words, and if he wanted\nvictuals or water, would strike his bill against the cage, turn up the\nwhite of his eyes, cock his head, and cry, \"Who are you? who are you?\nTom Moor of Sackville Street.\"\n\nTom Moor was fond of gaming, and often lost large sums of money;\nfinding his business neglected in his absence, he had a small hazard\ntable set up in one corner of his dining-room, and invited a party of\nhis friends to play at it.\n\nThe jackdaw had by this time become familiar; his cage was left open,\nand he hopped into every part of the house; sometimes he got into the\ndining-room, where the gentlemen were at play, and one of them being a\nconstant winner, the others would say, \"Damn it, how he nicks them.\"\nThe bird learned these words also, and adding them to the former,\nwould call, \"Who are you? who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street.\nDamn it, how he nicks them.\"\n\nTom Moor, from repeated losses and neglect of business, failed in\ntrade, and became a prisoner in the Fleet; he took his bird with him,\nand lived on the master's side, supported by friends, in a decent\nmanner. They would sometimes ask what brought you here? when he used\nto lift up his hands and answer, \"Bad company, by G--.\" The bird\nlearned this likewise, and at the end of the former words, would say,\n\"What brought you here? Bad company, by G--.\"\n\nSome of Tom Moor's friends died, others went abroad, and by degrees he\nwas totally deserted, and removed to the common side of the prison,\nwhere the jail distemper soon attacked him; and in the last stage of\nlife, lying on a straw bed; the poor bird had been for two days\nwithout food or water, came to his feet, and striking his bill on the\nfloor, calls out, \"Who are you? Tom Moor of Sackville Street; damn it,\nhow he nicks them, damn it, how he nicks them. What brought you here?\nbad company, by G--, bad company, by G--.\"\n\nTom Moor, who had attended to the bird, was struck with his words, and\nreflecting on himself, cried out, \"Good God, to what a situation am I\nreduced! my father, when he died, left me a good fortune and an\nestablished trade. I have spent my fortune, ruined my business, and am\nnow dying in a loathsome jail; and to complete all, keeping that poor\nthing confined without support. I will endeavour to do one piece of\njustice before I die, by setting him at liberty.\"\n\nHe made a struggle to crawl from his straw bed, opened the casement,\nand out flew the bird. A flight of jackdaws from the Temple were going\nover the jail, and Tom Moor's bird mixed among them. The gardener was\nthen laying the plats of the Temple gardens, and as often as he placed\nthem in the day the jackdaws pulled them up by night. They got a gun\nand attempted to shoot some of them; but, being cunning birds, they\nalways placed one as a watch in the stump of a hollow tree; who, as\nsoon as the gun was levelled cried \"Mawk,\" and away they flew.\n\nThe gardeners were advised to get a net, and the first night it was\nspread they caught fifteen; Tom Moor's bird was amongst them. One of\nthe men took the net into a garret of an uninhabited house, fastens\nthe doors and windows, and turns the birds loose. \"Now,\" said he, \"you\nblack rascals, I will be revenged of you.\" Taking hold of the first at\nhand, he twists her neck, and throwing him down, cries, \"There goes\none.\" Tom Moor's bird, who had hopped up to a beam at one corner of\nthe room unobserved, as the man lays hold of the second, calls out,\n\"Damn it, how he nicks them.\" The man alarmed, cries, \"Sure I heard a\nvoice, but the house is uninhabited, and the door is fast; it could\nonly be imagination.\" On laying hold of the third, and twisting his\nneck, Tom's bird again says, \"Damn it, how he nicks them.\" The man\ndropped the bird in his hand, and turning to where the voice came\nfrom, seeing the other with his mouth open, cries out, \"Who are you?\"\nto which the bird answered, \"Tom Moor of Sackville Street, Tom Moor of\nSackville Street.\" \"The devil you are; and what brought you here.\" Tom\nMoor's bird, lifting up his pinions, answered, \"Bad company, by G--,\nbad company, by G--.\" The fellow, frightened almost out of his wits,\nopened the door, ran down stairs, and out of the house, followed by\nall the birds, who by this means regained their liberty.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF CONN-EDA; OR, THE GOLDEN APPLES OF LOUGH ERNE.[70]\n\n_Translated from the original Irish of the Story-teller_, ABRAHAM\nMCCOY, _by_ NICHOLAS O'KEARNEY.\n\n\nIt was long before the time the western districts of _Innis\nFodhla_[71] had any settled name, but were indiscriminately called\nafter the person who took possession of them, and whose name they\nretained only as long as his sway lasted, that a powerful king reigned\nover this part of the sacred island. He was a puissant warrior, and no\nindividual was found able to compete with him either on land or sea,\nor question his right to his conquest. The great king of the west held\nuncontrolled sway from the island of Rathlin to the mouth of the\nShannon by sea, and far as the glittering length by land. The ancient\nking of the west, whose name was Conn, was good as well as great, and\npassionately loved by his people. His queen was a _Breaton_ (British)\nprincess, and was equally beloved and esteemed, because she was the\ngreat counterpart of the king in every respect; for whatever good\nqualification was wanting in the one, the other was certain to\nindemnify the omission. It was plainly manifest that heaven approved\nof the career in life of the virtuous couple; for during their reign\nthe earth produced exuberant crops, the trees fruit ninefold\ncommensurate with their usual bearing, the rivers, lakes, and\nsurrounding sea teemed with abundance of choice fish, while herds and\nflocks were unusually prolific, and kine and sheep yielded such\nabundance of rich milk that they shed it in torrents upon the\npastures; and furrows and cavities were always filled with the pure\nlacteal produce of the dairy. All these were blessings heaped by\nheaven upon the western districts of _Innis Fodhla_, over which the\nbenignant and just Conn swayed his sceptre, in approbation of the\ncourse of government he had marked out for his own guidance. It is\nneedless to state that the people who owned the authority of this\ngreat and good sovereign were the happiest on the face of the wide\nexpanse of earth. It was during his reign, and that of his son and\nsuccessor, that Ireland acquired the title of the \"happy isle of the\nwest\" among foreign nations. Con M\u00f3r and his good Queen Eda reigned in\ngreat glory during many years; they were blessed with an only son,\nwhom they named Conn-eda, after both his parents, because the Druids\nforetold at his birth that he would inherit the good qualities of\nboth. According as the young prince grew in years, his amiable and\nbenignant qualities of mind, as well as his great strength of body and\nmanly bearing, became more manifest. He was the idol of his parents,\nand the boast of his people; he was beloved and respected to that\ndegree that neither prince, lord, nor plebeian swore an oath by the\nsun, moon, stars, or elements, except by the head of Conn-eda. This\ncareer of glory, however, was doomed to meet a powerful but temporary\nimpediment, for the good Queen Eda took a sudden and severe illness,\nof which she died in a few days, thus plunging her spouse, her son,\nand all her people into a depth of grief and sorrow from which it was\nfound difficult to relieve them.\n\nThe good king and his subjects mourned the loss of Queen Eda for a year\nand a day, and at the expiration of that time Conn M\u00f3r reluctantly\nyielded to the advice of his Druids and counsellors, and took to wife\nthe daughter of his Arch-Druid. The new queen appeared to walk in the\nfootsteps of the good Eda for several years, and gave great satisfaction\nto her subjects. But, in course of time, having had several children,\nand perceiving that Conn-eda was the favourite son of the king and the\ndarling of the people, she clearly foresaw that he would become\nsuccessor to the throne after the demise of his father, and that her son\nwould certainly be excluded. This excited the hatred and inflamed the\njealousy of the Druid's daughter against her step-son to such an extent,\nthat she resolved in her own mind to leave nothing in her power undone\nto secure his death, or even exile from the kingdom. She began by\ncirculating evil reports of the prince; but, as he was above suspicion,\nthe king only laughed at the weakness of the queen; and the great\nprinces and chieftains, supported by the people in general, gave an\nunqualified contradiction; while the prince himself bore all his trials\nwith the utmost patience, and always repaid her bad and malicious acts\ntowards him with good and benevolent ones. The enmity of the queen\ntowards Conn-eda knew no bounds when she saw that the false reports she\ncirculated could not injure him. As a last resource, to carry out her\nwicked projects, she determined to consult her _Cailleach-chearc_\n(hen-wife), who was a reputed enchantress.\n\nPursuant to her resolution, by the early dawn of morning she hied to\nthe cabin of the _Cailleach-chearc_, and divulged to her the cause of\nher trouble. \"I cannot render you any help,\" said the _Cailleach_,\n\"until you name the _duais_\" (reward). \"What _duais_ do you require?\"\nasked the queen, impatiently. \"My _duais_,\" replied the enchantress,\n\"is to fill the cavity of my arm with wool, and the hole I shall bore\nwith my distaff with red wheat.\" \"Your _duais_ is granted, and shall\nbe immediately given you,\" said the queen. The enchantress thereupon\nstood in the door of her hut, and bending her arm into a circle with\nher side, directed the royal attendants to thrust the wool into her\nhouse through her arm, and she never permitted them to cease until all\nthe available space within was filled with wool. She then got on the\nroof of her brother's house, and, having made a hole through it with\nher distaff, caused red wheat to be spilled through it, until that was\nfilled up to the roof with red wheat, so that there was no room for\nanother grain within. \"Now,\" said the queen, \"since you have received\nyour _duais_, tell me how I can accomplish my purpose.\" \"Take this\nchess-board and chess, and invite the prince to play with you; you\nshall win the first game. The condition you shall make is, that\nwhoever wins a game shall be at liberty to impose whatever _geasa_\n(conditions) the winner pleases on the loser. When you win, you must\nbid the prince, under the penalty either to go into _ionarbadh_\n(exile), or procure for you, within the space of a year and a day, the\nthree golden apples that grew in the garden, the _each dubh_ (black\nsteed), and _coileen con na mbuadh_ (hound of supernatural powers),\ncalled Samer, which are in the possession of the king of the Firbolg\nrace, who resides in Lough Erne.[72] Those two things are so precious,\nand so well guarded, that he can never attain them by his own power;\nand, if he would rashly attempt to seek them, he should lose his life.\"\n\nThe queen was greatly pleased at the advice, and lost no time in\ninviting Conn-eda to play a game at chess, under the conditions she\nhad been instructed to arrange by the enchantress. The queen won the\ngame, as the enchantress foretold, but so great was her anxiety to\nhave the prince completely in her power, that she was tempted to\nchallenge him to play a second game, which Conn-eda, to her\nastonishment, and no less mortification, easily won. \"Now,\" said the\nprince, \"since you won the first game, it is your duty to impose your\n_geis_ first.\" \"My _geis_\" said the queen, \"which I impose upon you,\nis to procure me the three golden apples that grow in the garden, the\n_each dubh_ (black steed), and _cuileen con na mbuadh_ (hound of\nsupernatural powers), which are in the keeping of the king of the\nFirbolgs, in Lough Erne, within the space of a year and a day; or, in\ncase you fail, to go into _ionarbadh_ (exile), and never return,\nexcept you surrender yourself to lose your head and _comhead beatha_\n(preservation of life).\" \"Well, then,\" said the prince, \"the _geis_\nwhich I bind you by, is to sit upon the pinnacle of yonder tower until\nmy return, and to take neither food nor nourishment of any\ndescription, except what red-wheat you can pick up with the point of\nyour bodkin; but if I do not return, you are at perfect liberty to\ncome down at the expiration of the year and a day.\"\n\nIn consequence of the severe _geis_ imposed upon him, Conn-eda was\nvery much troubled in mind; and, well knowing he had a long journey to\nmake before he would reach his destination, immediately prepared to\nset out on his way, not, however, before he had the satisfaction of\nwitnessing the ascent of the queen to the place where she was obliged\nto remain exposed to the scorching sun of the summer and the blasting\nstorms of winter, for the space of one year and a day, at least.\nConn-eda being ignorant of what steps he should take to procure the\n_each dubh_ and _cuileen con na mbuadh_, though he was well aware that\nhuman energy would prove unavailing, thought proper to consult the\ngreat Druid, Fionn Dadhna, of Sleabh Badhna, who was a friend of his\nbefore he ventured to proceed to Lough Erne. When he arrived at the\nbruighean of the Druid, he was received with cordial friendship, and\nthe _failte_ (welcome), as usual, was poured out before him, and when\nhe was seated, warm water was fetched, and his feet bathed, so that\nthe fatigue he felt after his journey was greatly relieved. The Druid,\nafter he had partaken of refreshments, consisting of the newest of\nfood and oldest of liquors, asked him the reason for paying the visit,\nand more particularly the cause of his sorrow; for the prince appeared\nexceedingly depressed in spirit. Conn-eda told his friend the whole\nhistory of the transaction with his stepmother from the beginning to\nend. \"Can you not assist me?\" asked the Prince, with downcast\ncountenance. \"I cannot, indeed, assist you at present,\" replied the\nDruid; \"but I will retire to my _grianan_ (green place) at sun-rising\non the morrow, and learn by virtue of my Druidism what can be done to\nassist you.\" The Druid, accordingly, as the sun rose on the following\nmorning, retired to his _grianan_, and consulted the god he adored,\nthrough the power of his _draoidheacht_.[73] When he returned, he\ncalled Conn-eda aside on the plain, and addressed him thus: \"My dear\nson, I find you have been under a severe--an almost impossible--_geis_\nintended for your destruction; no person on earth could have advised\nthe queen to impose it except the Cailleach of Lough Corrib, who is\nthe greatest Druidess now in Ireland, and sister to the Firbolg, King\nof Lough Erne. It is not in my power, nor in that of the Deity I\nadore, to interfere in your behalf; but go directly to Sliabh Mis, and\nconsult _E\u00e1nchinn-duine_ (the bird of the human head), and if there be\nany possibility of relieving you, that bird can do it, for there is\nnot a bird in the western world so celebrated as that bird, because it\nknows all things that are past, all things that are present and exist,\nand all things that shall hereafter exist. It is difficult to find\naccess to his place of concealment, and more difficult still to obtain\nan answer from him; but I will endeavour to regulate that matter for\nyou; and that is all I can do for you at present.\"\n\nThe Arch-Druid then instructed him thus:--\"Take,\" said he, \"yonder\nlittle shaggy steed, and mount him immediately, for in three days the\nbird will make himself visible, and the little shaggy steed will conduct\nyou to his place of abode. But lest the bird should refuse to reply to\nyour queries, take this precious stone (_leag lorgmhar_), and present it\nto him, and then little danger and doubt exist but that he will give you\na ready answer.\" The prince returned heartfelt thanks to the Druid, and,\nhaving saddled and mounted the little shaggy horse without much delay,\nreceived the precious stone from the Druid, and, after having taken his\nleave of him, set out on his journey. He suffered the reins to fall\nloose upon the neck of the horse according as he had been instructed, so\nthat the animal took whatever road he chose.\n\nIt would be tedious to relate the numerous adventures he had with the\nlittle shaggy horse, which had the extraordinary gift of speech, and\nwas a _draoidheacht_ horse during his journey.\n\nThe Prince having reached the hiding-place of the strange bird at the\nappointed time, and having presented him with the _leag lorgmhar_,\naccording to Fionn Badhna's instructions, and proposed his questions\nrelative to the manner he could best arrange for the fulfilment of his\n_geis_, the bird took up in his mouth the jewel from the stone on\nwhich it was placed, and flew to an inaccessible rock at some\ndistance, and, when there perched, he thus addressed the prince,\n\"Conn-eda, son of the King of Cruachan,\" said he, in a loud, croaking\nhuman voice, \"remove the stone just under your right foot, and take\nthe ball of iron and _corna_ (cup) you shall find under it; then mount\nyour horse, cast the ball before you, and having so done, your horse\nwill tell you all the other things necessary to be done.\" The bird,\nhaving said this, immediately flew out of sight.\n\nConn-eda took great care to do everything according to the\ninstructions of the bird. He found the iron ball and _corna_ in the\nplace which had been pointed out. He took them up, mounted his horse,\nand cast the ball before him. The ball rolled on at a regular gait,\nwhile the little shaggy horse followed on the way it led until they\nreached the margin of Lough Erne. Here the ball rolled in the water\nand became invisible. \"Alight now,\" said the _draoidheacht_ pony, \"and\nput your hand into mine ear; take from thence the small bottle of\n_\u00edce_ (all-heal) and the little wicker basket which you will find\nthere, and remount with speed, for just now your great dangers and\ndifficulties commence.\" Conn-eda, ever faithful to the kind advice of\nhis _draoidheacht_ pony, did what he had been advised. Having taken\nthe basket and bottle of _\u00edce_ from the animal's ear, he remounted and\nproceeded on his journey, while the water of the lake appeared only\nlike an atmosphere above his head. When he entered the lake the ball\nagain appeared, and rolled along until it came to the margin, across\nwhich was a causeway, guarded by three frightful serpents; the\nhissings of the monsters was heard at a great distance, while, on a\nnearer approach, their yawning mouths and formidable fangs were quite\nsufficient to terrify the stoutest heart. \"Now,\" said the horse, \"open\nthe basket and cast a piece of the meat you find in it into the mouth\nof each serpent; when you have done this, secure yourself in your seat\nin the best manner you can, so that we may make all due arrangements\nto pass those _draoidheacht peists_. If you cast the pieces of meat\ninto the mouth of each _peist_ unerringly, we shall pass them safely,\notherwise we are lost.\" Conn-eda flung the pieces of meat into the\njaws of the serpents with unerring aim. \"Bare a benison and victory,\"\nsaid the _draoidheacht_ steed, \"for you are a youth that will win and\nprosper.\" And, on saying these words, he sprang aloft, and cleared in\nhis leap the river and ford, guarded by the serpents, seven measures\nbeyond the margin. \"Are you still mounted, prince Conn-eda?\" said the\nsteed. \"It has taken only half my exertion to remain so,\" replied\nConn-eda. \"I find,\" said the pony, \"that you are a young prince that\ndeserves to succeed; one danger is now over, but two others remain.\"\nThey proceeded onwards after the ball until they came in view of a\ngreat mountain flaming with fire. \"Hold yourself in readiness for\nanother dangerous leap,\" said the horse. The trembling prince had no\nanswer to make, but seated himself as securely as the magnitude of the\ndanger before him would permit. The horse in the next instant sprang\nfrom the earth, and flew like an arrow over the burning mountain. \"Are\nyou still alive, Conn-eda, son of Conn-m\u00f3r?\" inquired the faithful\nhorse. \"I'm just alive, and no more, for I'm greatly scorched,\"\nanswered the prince. \"Since you are yet alive, I feel assured that you\nare a young man destined to meet supernatural success and benisons,\"\nsaid the Druidic steed. \"Our greatest dangers are over,\" added he,\n\"and there is hope that we shall overcome the next and last danger.\"\nAfter they had proceeded a short distance, his faithful steed,\naddressing Conn-eda, said, \"Alight, now, and apply a portion of the\nlittle bottle of _\u00edce_ to your wounds.\" The prince immediately\nfollowed the advice of his monitor, and, as soon as he rubbed the\n_\u00edce_ (all-heal) to his wounds, he became as whole and fresh as ever\nhe had been before. After having done this, Conn-eda remounted, and\nfollowing the track of the ball, soon came in sight of a great city\nsurrounded by high walls. The only gate that was visible was not\ndefended by armed men, but by two great towers that emitted flames\nthat could be seen at a great distance. \"Alight on this plain,\" said\nthe steed, \"and take a small knife from my other ear; and with this\nknife you shall kill and flay me. When you have done this, envelop\nyourself in my hide, and you can pass the gate unscathed and\nunmolested. When you get inside you can come out at pleasure; because\nwhen once you enter there is no danger, and you can pass and repass\nwhenever you wish; and let me tell you that all I have to ask of you\nin return is that you, when once inside the gates, will immediately\nreturn and drive away the birds of prey that may be fluttering round\nto feed on my carcass; and more, that you will pour any drop of that\npowerful _\u00edce_, if such still remain in the bottle, upon my flesh, to\npreserve it from corruption. When you do this in memory of me, if it\nbe not too troublesome, dig a pit, and cast my remains into it.\"\n\n\"Well,\" said Conn-eda, \"my noblest steed, because you have been so\nfaithful to me hitherto, and because you still would have rendered me\nfurther service, I consider such a proposal insulting to my feelings\nas a man, and totally in variance with the spirit which can feel the\nvalue of gratitude, not to speak of my feelings as a prince. But as a\nprince I am able to say, Come what may--come death itself in its most\nhideous forms and terrors--I never will sacrifice private friendship\nto personal interest. Hence, I am, I swear by my arms of valour,\nprepared to meet the worst--even death itself--sooner than violate the\nprinciples of humanity, honour, and friendship! What a sacrifice do\nyou propose!\" \"Pshaw, man! heed not that; do what I advise you, and\nprosper.\" \"Never! never!\" exclaimed the prince. \"Well, then, son of\nthe great western monarch,\" said the horse, with a tone of sorrow, \"if\nyou do not follow my advice on this occasion, I tell you that both you\nand I shall perish, and shall never meet again; but, if you act as I\nhave instructed you, matters shall assume a happier and more pleasing\naspect than you may imagine. I have not misled you heretofore, and, if\nI have not, what need have you to doubt the most important portion of\nmy counsel? Do exactly as I have directed you, else you will cause a\nworse fate than death to befall me. And, moreover, I can tell you\nthat, if you persist in your resolution, I have done with you for ever.\"\n\nWhen the prince found that his noble steed could not be persuaded from\nhis purpose, he took the knife out of his ear with reluctance, and\nwith a faltering and trembling hand essayed experimentally to point\nthe weapon at his throat. Conn-eda's eyes were bathed in tears; but no\nsooner had he pointed the Druidic _scian_ to the throat of his good\nsteed, than the dagger, as if impelled by some Druidic power, stuck in\nhis neck, and in an instant the work of death was done, and the noble\nanimal fell dead at his feet. When the prince saw his noble steed fall\ndead by his hand, he cast himself on the ground, and cried aloud until\nhis consciousness was gone. When he recovered, he perceived that the\nsteed was quite dead; and, as he thought there was no hope of\nresuscitating him, he considered it the most prudent course he could\nadopt to act according to the advice he had given him. After many\nmisgivings of mind and abundant showers of tears, he essayed the task\nof flaying him, which was only that of a few minutes. When he found he\nhad the hide separated from the body, he, in the derangement of the\nmoment, enveloped himself in it, and proceeding towards the\nmagnificent city in rather a demented state of mind, entered it\nwithout any molestation or opposition. It was a surprisingly populous\ncity, and an extremely wealthy place; but its beauty, magnificence,\nand wealth had no charms for Conn-eda, because the thoughts of the\nloss he sustained in his dear steed were paramount to those of all\nother earthly considerations.\n\nHe had scarcely proceeded more than fifty paces from the gate, when\nthe last request of his beloved _draoidheacht_ steed forced itself\nupon his mind, and compelled him to return to perform the last solemn\ninjunctions upon him. When he came to the spot upon which the remains\nof his beloved _draoidheacht_ steed lay, an appalling sight presented\nitself; ravens and other carnivorous birds of prey were tearing and\ndevouring the flesh of his dear steed. It was but short work to put\nthem to flight; and having uncorked his little jar of _\u00edce_, he deemed\nit a labour of love to embalm the now mangled remains with the\nprecious ointment. The potent _\u00edce_ had scarcely touched the inanimate\nflesh, when, to the surprise of Conn-eda, it commenced to undergo some\nstrange change, and in a few minutes, to his unspeakable astonishment\nand joy, it assumed the form of one of the handsomest and noblest\nyoung men imaginable, and in the twinkling of an eye the prince was\nlocked in his embrace, smothering him with kisses, and drowning him\nwith tears of joy. When one recovered from his ecstasy of joy, the\nother from his surprise, the strange youth thus addressed the prince:\n\"Most noble and puissant prince, you are the best sight I ever saw\nwith my eyes, and I am the most fortunate being in existence for\nhaving met you! Behold in my person, changed to the natural shape,\nyour little shaggy _draoidheacht_ steed! I am brother of the king of\nthe city; and it was the wicked Druid, Fionn Badhna, who kept me so\nlong in bondage; but he was forced to give me up when you came to\n_consult_ him, for my _geis_ was then broken; yet I could not recover\nmy pristine shape and appearance unless you had acted as you have\nkindly done. It was my own sister that urged the queen, your\nstepmother, to send you in quest of the steed and powerful puppy\nhound, which my brother has now in keeping. My sister, rest assured,\nhad no thought of doing you the least injury, but much good, as you\nwill find hereafter; because, if she were maliciously inclined towards\nyou, she could have accomplished her end without any trouble. In\nshort, she only wanted to free you from all future danger and\ndisaster, and recover me from my relentless enemies through your\ninstrumentality. Come with me, my friend and deliverer, and the steed\nand the puppy-hound of extraordinary powers, and the golden apples,\nshall be yours, and a cordial welcome shall greet you in my brother's\nabode; for you will deserve all this and much more.\"\n\nThe exciting joy felt on the occasion was mutual, and they lost no\ntime in idle congratulations, but proceeded on to the royal residence\nof the King of Lough Erne. Here they were both received with\ndemonstrations of joy by the king and his chieftains; and, when the\npurpose of Conn-eda's visit became known to the king, he gave a free\nconsent to bestow on Conn-eda the black steed, the _coileen\ncon-na-mbuadh_, called Samer, and the three apples of health that were\ngrowing in his garden, under the special condition, however, that he\nwould consent to remain as his guest until he could set out on his\njourney in proper time, to fulfil his _geis_. Conn-eda, at the earnest\nsolicitation of his friends, consented, and remained in the royal\nresidence of the Firbolg, King of Lough Erne, in the enjoyment of the\nmost delicious and fascinating pleasures during that period.\n\nWhen the time of his departure came, the three golden apples were\nplucked from the crystal tree in the midst of the pleasure-garden, and\ndeposited in his bosom; the puppy-hound, Samer, was leashed, and the\nleash put into his hand; and the black steed, richly harnessed, was\ngot in readiness for him to mount. The king himself helped him on\nhorseback, and both he and his brother assured him that he might not\nfear burning mountains or hissing serpents, because none would impede\nhim, as his steed was always a passport to and from his subaqueous\nkingdom. And both he and his brother extorted a promise from Conn-eda,\nthat he would visit them once every year at least.\n\nConn-eda took leave of his dear friend, and the king his brother. The\nparting was a tender one, soured by regret on both sides. He proceeded\non his way without meeting anything to obstruct him, and in due time\ncame in sight of the _d\u00fan_ of his father, where the queen had been\nplaced on the pinnacle of the tower, in full hope that, as it was the\nlast day of her imprisonment there, the prince would not make his\nappearance, and thereby forfeit all pretensions and right to the crown\nof his father for ever. But her hopes were doomed to meet a\ndisappointment, for when it had been announced to her by her couriers,\nwho had been posted to watch the arrival of the prince, that he\napproached, she was incredulous; but when she saw him mounted on a\nfoaming black steed, richly harnessed, and leading a strange kind of\nanimal by a silver chain, she at once knew he was returning in\ntriumph, and that her schemes laid for his destruction were\nfrustrated. In the excess of grief at her disappointment, she cast\nherself from the top of the tower, and was instantly dashed to pieces.\nConn-eda met a welcome reception from his father, who mourned him as\nlost to him for ever, during his absence; and, when the base conduct\nof the queen became known, the king and his chieftains ordered her\nremains to be consumed to ashes for her perfidy and wickedness.\n\nConn-eda planted the three golden apples in his garden, and instantly\na great tree, bearing similar fruit, sprang up. This tree caused all\nthe district to produce an exuberance of crops and fruits, so that it\nbecame as fertile and plentiful as the dominions of the Firbolgs, in\nconsequence of the extraordinary powers possessed by the golden fruit.\nThe hound Samer and the steed were of the utmost utility to him; and\nhis reign was long and prosperous, and celebrated among the old people\nfor the great abundance of corn, fruit, milk, fowl, and fish that\nprevailed during this happy reign. It was after the name Conn-eda the\nprovince of Connaucht, or _Conneda_, or _Connacht_, was so called.\n\n[Footnote 70: Printed first in the _Cambrian Journal_, 1855; reprinted\nand re-edited in the _Folk-Lore Record_, vol. ii.]\n\n[Footnote 71: _Innis Fodhla_--Island of Destiny, an old name for\nIreland.]\n\n[Footnote 72: The Firbolgs believed their elysium to be under water.\nThe peasantry still believe many lakes to be peopled.--See section on\n_T'yeer na n-Oge_.]\n\n[Footnote 73: _Draoidheacht_, _i.e._, the Druidic worship; magic,\nsorcery, divination.]\n\n\n\n\nNOTES.\n\n\nGODS OF THE EARTH.--Par. 2, Page 2.\n\nOccultists, from Paracelsus to Elephas Levi, divide the nature spirits\ninto gnomes, sylphs, salamanders, undines; or earth, air, fire, and\nwater spirits. Their emperors, according to Elephas, are named Cob,\nParalda, Djin, Hicks respectively. The gnomes are covetous, and of the\nmelancholic temperament. Their usual height is but two spans, though\nthey can elongate themselves into giants. The sylphs are capricious,\nand of the bilious temperament. They are in size and strength much\ngreater than men, as becomes the people of the winds. The salamanders\nare wrathful, and in temperament sanguine. In appearance they are\nlong, lean, and dry. The undines are soft, cold, fickle, and\nphlegmatic. In appearance they are like man. The salamanders and\nsylphs have no fixed dwellings.\n\nIt has been held by many that somewhere out of the void there is a\nperpetual dribble of souls; that these souls pass through many shapes\nbefore they incarnate as men--hence the nature spirits. They are\ninvisible--except at rare moments and times; they inhabit the interior\nelements, while we live upon the outer and the gross. Some float\nperpetually through space, and the motion of the planets drives them\nhither and thither in currents. Hence some Rosicrucians have thought\nastrology may foretell many things; for a tide of them flowing around\nthe earth arouses there, emotions and changes, according to its nature.\n\nBesides those of human appearance are many animal and bird-like\nshapes. It has been noticed that from these latter entirely come the\nfamiliars seen by Indian braves when they go fasting in the forest,\nseeking the instruction of the spirits. Though all at times are\nfriendly to men--to some men--\"They have,\" says Paracelsus, \"an\naversion to self-conceited and opinionated persons, such as\ndogmatists, scientists, drunkards, and gluttons, and against vulgar\nand quarrelsome people of all kinds; but they love natural men, who\nare simple-minded and childlike, innocent and sincere, and the less\nthere is of vanity and hypocrisy in a man, the easier will it be to\napproach them; but otherwise they are as shy as wild animals.\"\n\n\nSIR SAMUEL FERGUSON.--Pages 13 and 38.\n\nMany in Ireland consider Sir Samuel Ferguson their greatest poet. The\nEnglish reader will most likely never have heard his name, for\nAnglo-Irish critics, who have found English audience, being more Anglo\nthan Irish, have been content to follow English opinion instead of\nleading it, in all matters concerning Ireland.\n\n\nCUSHEEN LOO.--Page 33.\n\nForts, otherwise raths or royalties, are circular ditches enclosing a\nlittle field, where, in most cases, if you dig down you come to stone\nchambers, their bee-hive roofs and walls made of unmortared stone. In\nthese little fields the ancient Celts fortified themselves and their\ncattle, in winter retreating into the stone chambers, where also they\nwere buried. The people call them Dane's forts, from a misunderstanding\nof the word Dan[=a]n (Tuath-de-Dan[=a]n). The fairies have taken up\ntheir abode therein, guarding them from all disturbance. Whoever roots\nthem up soon finds his cattle falling sick, or his family or himself.\nNear the raths are sometimes found flint arrow-heads; these are called\n\"fairy darts,\" and are supposed to have been flung by the fairies, when\nangry, at men or cattle.\n\n\nLEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON.--Page 40.\n\nMoat does not mean a place with water, but a tumulus or barrow. The\nwords _Da Luan Da Mort agus Da Dardeen_ are Gaelic for \"Monday,\nTuesday, and Wednesday too.\" Da Hena is Thursday. Story-tellers, in\ntelling this tale, says Croker, sing these words to the following\nmusic--according to Croker, music of very ancient kind:--\n\n[Music:\n\n Da Lu-an, da Mort, da Lu-an, da Mort, da\n Lu-an, da Mort, au-gus da Dar-dine. Da Lu-an, da Mort, da\n Lu-an, da Mort, da Lu-an, da Mort, au-gus da Dar-dine.\n\n]\n\nMr. Douglas Hyde has heard the story in Connaught, with the song of\nthe fairy given as \"Peean Peean daw feean, Peean go leh agus leffin\"\n[_pighin, pighin, d\u00e0 phighin, pighin go ieith agus leith phighin_],\nwhich in English means, \"a penny, a penny, twopence, a penny and a\nhalf, and a halfpenny.\"\n\n\nSTOLEN CHILD.--Page 59.\n\nThe places mentioned are round about Sligo. Further Rosses is a very\nnoted fairy locality. There is here a little point of rocks where, if\nanyone falls asleep, there is danger of their waking silly, the\nfairies having carried off their souls.\n\n\nSOLITARY FAIRIES.--Page 80.\n\nThe trooping fairies wear green jackets, the solitary ones red. On the\nred jacket of the Lepracaun, according to McAnally, are seven rows of\nbuttons--seven buttons in each row. On the western coast, he says, the\nred jacket is covered by a frieze one, and in Ulster the creature\nwears a cocked hat, and when he is up to anything unusually\nmischievous, leaps on to a wall and spins, balancing himself on the\npoint of the hat with his heels in the air. McAnally tells how once a\npeasant saw a battle between the green jacket fairies and the red.\nWhen the green jackets began to win, so delighted was he to see the\ngreen above the red, he gave a great shout. In a moment all vanished\nand he was flung into the ditch.\n\n\nBANSHEE'S CRY.--Page 108.\n\nMr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall give the following notation of the cry:--\n\n[Music]\n\n\nOMENS.--Page 108.\n\nWe have other omens beside the Banshee and the Dullahan and the\nCoach-a-Bower. I know one family where death is announced by the\ncracking of a whip. Some families are attended by phantoms of ravens\nor other birds. When McManus, of '48 celebrity, was sitting by his\ndying brother, a bird of vulture-like appearance came through the\nwindow and lighted on the breast of the dying man. The two watched in\nterror, not daring to drive it off. It crouched there, bright-eyed,\ntill the soul left the body. It was considered a most evil omen.\nLefanu worked this into a tale. I have good authority for tracing its\norigin to McManus and his brother.\n\n\nA WITCH TRIAL.--Page 146.\n\nThe last trial for witchcraft in Ireland--there were never very\nmany--is thus given in MacSkimin's _History of Carrickfergus_:--\"1711,\nMarch 31st, Janet Mean, of Braid-island; Janet Latimer, Irish-quarter,\nCarrickfergus; Janet Millar, Scotch-quarter, Carrickfergus; Margaret\nMitchel, Kilroot; Catharine M'Calmond, Janet Liston, alias Seller,\nElizabeth Seller, and Janet Carson, the four last from Island Magee,\nwere tried here, in the County of Antrim Court, for witchcraft.\"\n\nTheir alleged crime was tormenting a young woman, called Mary Dunbar,\nabout eighteen years of age, at the house of James Hattridge, Island\nMagee, and at other places to which she was removed. The circumstances\nsworn on the trial were as follows:--\n\n\"The afflicted person being, in the month of February, 1711, in the\nhouse of James Hattridge, Island Magee (which had been for some time\nbelieved to be haunted by evil spirits), found an apron on the parlour\nfloor, that had been missing some time, tied with _five strange\nknots_, which she loosened.\n\n\"On the following day she was suddenly seized with a violent pain in\nher thigh, and afterwards fell into fits and ravings; and, on\nrecovering, said she was tormented by several women, whose dress and\npersonal appearance she minutely described. Shortly after, she was\nagain seized with the like fits, and on recovering she accused five\nother women of tormenting her, describing them also. The accused\npersons being brought from different parts of the country, she\nappeared to suffer extreme fear and additional torture as they\napproached the house.\n\n\"It was also deposed that strange noises, as of whistling, scratching,\netc., were heard in the house, and that a sulphureous smell was\nobserved in the rooms; that stones, turf, and the like were thrown\nabout the house, and the coverlets, etc., frequently taken off the\nbeds and made up in the shape of a corpse; and that a bolster once\nwalked out of a room into the kitchen with a night-gown about it! It\nlikewise appeared in evidence that in some of her fits three strong\nmen were scarcely able to hold her in the bed; that at times she\nvomited feathers, cotton yarn, pins, and buttons; and that on one\noccasion she slid off the bed and was laid on the floor, as if\nsupported and drawn by an invincible power. The afflicted person was\nunable to give any evidence on the trial, being during that time dumb,\nbut had no violent fit during its continuance.\"\n\nIn defence of the accused, it appeared that they were mostly sober,\nindustrious people, who attended public worship, could repeat the\nLord's Prayer, and had been known to pray both in public and private;\nand that some of them had lately received communion.\n\nJudge Upton charged the jury, and observed on the regular attendance\nof accused at public worship; remarking that he thought it improbable\nthat real witches could so far retain the form of religion as to\nfrequent the religious worship of God, both publicly and privately,\nwhich had been proved in favour of the accused. He concluded by giving\nhis opinion \"that the jury could not bring them in guilty upon the\nsole testimony of the afflicted person's visionary images.\" He was\nfollowed by Judge Macarthy, who differed from him in opinion, \"and\nthought the jury might, from the evidence, bring them in guilty,\"\nwhich they accordingly did.\n\nThis trial lasted from six o'clock in the morning till two in the\nafternoon; and the prisoners were sentenced to be imprisoned twelve\nmonths, and to stand four times in the pillory of Carrickfergus.\n\nTradition says that the people were much exasperated against these\nunfortunate persons, who were severely pelted in the pillory with\nboiled cabbage stalks and the like, by which one of them had an eye\nbeaten out.\n\n\nT'YEER-NA-N-OGE.--Page 200.\n\n\"_Tir-na-n-\u00f3g_,\" Mr. Douglas Hyde writes, \"'The Country of the Young,'\nis the place where the Irish peasant will tell you _geabhaedh tu an\nsonas aer pighin_, 'you will get happiness for a penny,' so cheap and\ncommon it will be. It is sometimes, but not often, called\n_Tir-na-h\u00f3ige_; the 'Land of Youth.' Crofton Croker writes it,\n_Thierna-na-noge_, which is an unfortunate mistake of his, _Thierna_\nmeaning a lord, not a country. This unlucky blunder is, like many\nothers of the same sort where Irish words are concerned, in danger of\nbecoming stereotyped, as the name of Iona has been, from mere clerical\ncarelessness.\"\n\n\nTHE GONCONER OR GANCANAGH [GEAN-CANACH].--Page 207.\n\nO'Kearney, a Louthman, deeply versed in Irish lore, writes of the\n_gean-c[=a]nach_ (love-talker) that he is \"another diminutive being of\nthe same tribe as the Lepracaun, but, unlike him, he personated love\nand idleness, and always appeared with a dudeen in his jaw in lonesome\nvalleys, and it was his custom to make love to shepherdesses and\nmilk-maids. It was considered very unlucky to meet him, and whoever\nwas known to have ruined his fortune by devotion to the fair sex was\nsaid to have met a _gean-c[=a]nach_. The dudeen, or ancient Irish\ntobacco pipe, found in our raths, etc., is still popularly called a\n_gean-canach's_ pipe.\"\n\nThe word is not to be found in dictionaries, nor does this spirit\nappear to be well known, if known at all, in Connacht. The word is\npronounced _g\u00e1ncon\u00e2gh_.\n\nIn the MS. marked R.I.A. 23/E. 13 in the Roy' Ir. Ac., there is a long\npoem describing such a fairy hurling-match as the one in the story,\nonly the fairies described as the _shiagh_, or host, wore plaids and\nbonnets, like Highlanders. After the hurling the fairies have a hunt,\nin which the poet takes part, and they swept with great rapidity\nthrough half Ireland. The poem ends with the line--\n\n \"_'S gur shiubhail me na c\u00fbig c\u00faig c\u00fbige's gan f\u00fam acht buachall\u00e2n\n buidhe_;\"\n\n\"and I had travelled the five provinces with nothing under me but a\nyellow bohalawn (rag-weed).\"--[_Note by Mr. Douglas Hyde._]\n\n\nFATHER JOHN O'HART.--Page 220.\n\nFather O'Rorke is the priest of the parishes of Ballysadare and\nKilvarnet, and it is from his learnedly and faithfully and\nsympathetically written history of these parishes that I have taken\nthe story of Father John, who had been priest of these parishes, dying\nin the year 1739. Coloony is a village in Kilvarnet.\n\nSome sayings of Father John's have come down. Once when he was\nsorrowing greatly for the death of his brother, the people said to\nhim, \"Why do you sorrow so for your brother when you forbid us to\nkeen?\" \"Nature,\" he answered, \"forces me, but ye force nature.\" His\nmemory and influence survives, in the fact that to the present day\nthere has been no keening in Coloony.\n\nHe was a friend of the celebrated poet and musician, Carolan.\n\n\nSHONEEN AND SLEIVEEN.--Page 220.\n\n_Shoneen_ is the diminutive of _shone_ [Ir. _Se\u00f3n_]. There are two\nIrish names for John--one is _Shone_, the other is _Shawn_ [Ir.\n_Se\u00e1ghan_]. Shone is the \"grandest\" of the two, and is applied to the\ngentry. Hence _Shoneen_ means \"a little gentry John,\" and is applied\nto upstarts and \"big\" farmers, who ape the rank of gentleman.\n\n_Sleiveen_, not to be found in the dictionaries, is a comical Irish\nword (at least in Connaught) for a rogue. It probably comes from\n_sliabh_, a mountain, meaning primarily a mountaineer, and in a\nsecondary sense, on the principle that mountaineers are worse than\nanybody else, a rogue. I am indebted to Mr. Douglas Hyde for these\ndetails, as for many others.\n\n\nDEMON CAT.--Page 229.\n\nIn Ireland one hears much of Demon Cats. The father of one of the\npresent editors of the _Fortnightly_ had such a cat, say county Dublin\npeasantry. One day the priest dined with him, and objecting to see a\ncat fed before Christians, said something over it that made it go up\nthe chimney in a flame of fire. \"I will have the law on you for doing\nsuch a thing to my cat,\" said the father of the editor. \"Would you\nlike to see your cat?\" said the priest. \"I would,\" said he, and the\npriest brought it up, covered with chains, through the hearth-rug,\nstraight out of hell. The Irish devil does not object to these\nundignified shapes. The Irish devil is not a dignified person. He has\nno whiff of sulphureous majesty about him. A centaur of the\nragamuffin, jeering and shaking his tatters, at once the butt and\nterror of the saints!\n\n\nA LEGEND OF KNOCKMANY.--Page 266.\n\nCarleton says--\"Of the grey stone mentioned in this legend, there is a\nvery striking and melancholy anecdote to be told. Some twelve or\nthirteen years ago, a gentleman in the vicinity of the site of it was\nbuilding a house, and, in defiance of the legend and curse connected\nwith it, he resolved to break it up and use it. It was with some\ndifficulty, however, that he could succeed in getting his labourers to\nhave anything to do with its mutilation. Two men, however, undertook\nto blast it, but, somehow, the process of ignition being mismanaged,\nit exploded prematurely, and one of them was killed. This coincidence\nwas held as a fulfilment of the curse mentioned in the legend. I have\nheard that it remains in that mutilated state to the present day, no\nother person being found who had the hardihood to touch it. This\nstone, before it was disfigured, exactly resembled that which the\ncountry people term a miscaun of butter, which is precisely the shape\nof a complete prism, a circumstance, no doubt, which, in the fertile\nimagination of the old Senachies, gave rise to the superstition\nannexed to it.\"\n\n\nSOME AUTHORITIES ON IRISH FOLK-LORE.\n\nCroker's _Legends of the South of Ireland_. Lady Wilde's _Ancient\nLegends of Ireland_. Sir William Wilde's _Irish Popular\nSuperstitions_. McAnally's _Irish Wonders_. _Irish Folk-Lore_, by\nLageniensis. Lover's _Legends and Stories of the Irish Peasantry_.\nPatrick Kennedy's _Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts_, _Banks of\nthe Boro_, _Legends of Mount Leinster_, and _Banks of the Duffrey_;\nCarlton's _Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry_; and the\nchap-books, _Royal Fairy Tales_, _Hibernian Tales_, and _Tales of the\nFairies_. Besides these there are many books on general subjects,\ncontaining stray folk-lore, such as Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall's\n_Ireland_; Lady Chatterton's _Rambles in the South of Ireland_; Gerald\nGriffin's _Tales of a Jury-room_; and the _Leadbeater Papers_. For\nbanshee stories see Barrington's _Recollections_ and Miss Lefanu's\n_Memoirs of my Grandmother_. In O'Donovan's introduction to the _Four\nMasters_ are several tales. The principal magazine articles are in the\n_Dublin and London Magazine_ for 1825-1828 (Sir William Wilde calls\nthis the best collection of Irish folk-lore in existence); and in the\n_Dublin University Magazine_ for 1839 and 1878, those in '78 being by\nMiss Maclintock. The _Folk-Lore Journal_ and the _Folk-Lore Record_\ncontain much Irish folk-lore, as also do the _Ossianic Society's_\npublications and the proceedings of the _Kilkenny Arch\u00e6ological\nSociety_. Old Irish magazines, such as the _Penny Journal_, _Newry\nMagazine_, and _Duffy's Sixpenny Magazine_ and _Hibernian Magazine_,\nhave much scattered through them. Among the peasantry are immense\nquantities of ungathered legends and beliefs.\n\n\n\n\n THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD., FELLING-ON-TYNE\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note\n\n\n * Obvious punctuation and spelling errors repaired.\n\n * Footnotes have been moved to the end of the respective story.\n\n * Due to large amount, footnotes listed numerically.\n\n * Conn-eda and Conneda; horse-shoe, horse-shoes, and horseshoe;\n and Lu-an and Luan retained as printed.\n\n\n\n\n\n
","title":"Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":116711}