{"collection":"myth-cosmogony","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_39752/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_39752","id":"gutenberg_39752","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/39752","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Mythology, Legends & Folklore","Fairy tales -- Ireland","Legends -- Ireland"],"text":"FAIRY LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND.\n\n\n    BY\n\n    T. CROFTON CROCKER.\n\n\n    A New Edition.\n\n    WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS,\n    AFTER DESIGNS OF THE AUTHOR AND OTHERS.\n\n\n    \u201cCome l\u2019araba Fenice\n    Che ci sia, ognun lo dice;\n    Dove sia, nessun lo sa.\u201d\u2014METASTASIO.\n\n\n    Philadelphia:\n    LEA AND BLANCHARD.\n    1844.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe erudite Lessing styles a preface \u201cthe history of a book.\u201d Now,\nthough there can be no necessity for a preface in that sense of the\nword to the reprint of a work of mere whim, which has been nearly ten\nyears before the public, yet a few words are requisite to prevent the\npresent condensed and revised edition from being considered an\nabridgment.\n\nHowever compact may be the mode of printing adopted, the act of\ncompressing into one volume the three in which the \u201cFairy Legends\u201d\noriginally appeared, involved to a certain extent the necessity of\nselection, perhaps the most difficult of all tasks judiciously to\nperform; but the following statement will show the system proceeded\non.\n\nForty tales descriptive of Irish superstitions now appear instead of\nfifty. All superfluous annotations have been struck out, and a brief\nsummary at the end of each section substituted, explanatory of the\nclassification adopted, and in which a few additional notes have been\nintroduced, as well as upon the text. It is therefore hoped that this\ncurtailment will be regarded as an essential improvement; some useless\nrepetition in the tales being thereby avoided, and much irrelevant\nmatter in the notes dispensed with, although nothing which illustrates\nin the slightest degree the popular Fairy Creed of Ireland has been\nsacrificed. At the same time, the omission of a portion of the ten\nimmaterial tales will sufficiently answer doubts idly raised as to the\nquestion of authorship.\n\n\n\n\n            CONTENTS.\n\n\n            THE SHEFRO.\n\n          I. The Legend of Knocksheogowna,\n         II. The Legend of Knockfierna,\n        III. The Legend of Knockgrafton,\n         IV. The Priest\u2019s Supper,\n          V. The Brewery of Egg-shells,\n         VI. Legend of Bottle Hill,\n        VII. The Confessions of Tom Bourke,\n       VIII. Fairies or no Fairies,\n            _Note on the Section._\n\n            THE CLURICAUNE.\n\n         IX. The Haunted Cellar,\n          X. Master and Man,\n         XI. The Little Shoe,\n            _Note on the Section._\n\n            THE BANSHEE.\n\n        XII. The Bunworth Banshee,\n       XIII. The M\u1d9cCarthy Banshee,\n            _Note on the Section._\n\n            THE PHOOKA.\n\n        XIV. The Spirit Horse,\n         XV. Daniel O\u2019Rourke,\n        XVI. The Crookened Back,\n            _Note on the Section._\n\n            THIERNA NA OGE.\n\n       XVII. Fior Usga,\n      XVIII. Cormac and Mary (_Ballad_,)\n        XIX. The Legend of Lough Gur,\n         XX. The Enchanted Lake,\n        XXI. The Legend of O\u2019Donoghue,\n            _Note on the Section._\n\n            THE MERROW.\n\n       XXII. The Lady of Gollerus,\n      XXIII. Flory Cantillon\u2019s Funeral,\n       XXIV. The Lord of Dunkerron (_Ballad_,)\n        XXV. The Wonderful Tune,\n            _Note on the Section._\n\n            THE DULLAHAN.\n\n       XXVI. The Good Woman,\n      XXVII. Hanlon\u2019s Mill,\n     XXVIII. The Death Coach (_Ballad_,)\n       XXIX. The Headless Horseman,\n            _Note on the Section._\n\n            THE FIR DARRIG.\n\n        XXX. Diarmid Bawn, the Piper,\n       XXXI. Teigue of the Lee,\n      XXXII. Ned Sheehy\u2019s Excuse,\n     XXXIII. The Lucky Guest,\n            _Note on the Section._\n\n            TREASURE LEGENDS.\n\n      XXXIV. Dreaming Tim Jarvis,\n       XXXV. Rent-Day,\n      XXXVI. Linn-na-Payshtha,\n            _Note on the Section._\n\n            ROCKS AND STONES.\n\n     XXXVII. The Legend of Cairn Thierna,\n    XXXVIII. The Rock of the Candle,\n      XXXIX. Clough na Cuddy,\n         XL. The Giant\u2019s Stairs.\n\n            APPENDIX\u2014Letter from Sir Walter Scott.\n\n\n\n\nTO THE DOWAGER LADY CHATTERTON.\n\nCASTLE MAHON.\n\n\n    THEE, Lady, would I lead through Fairy-land\n      (Whence cold and doubting reasoners are exiled,)\n      A land of dreams, with air-built castles piled;\n    The moonlight SHEFROS there, in merry band\n    With artful CLURICAUNE, should ready stand\n      To welcome thee\u2014Imagination\u2019s child!\n      Till on thy ear would burst so sadly wild\n    The BANSHEE\u2019S shriek, who points with wither\u2019d hand.\n    In the dim twilight should the PHOOKA come,\n      Whose dusky form fades in the sunny light,\n      That opens clear calm LAKES upon thy sight,\n    Where blessed spirits dwell in endless bloom.\n    I know thee, Lady\u2014thou wilt not deride\n    Such Fairy Scenes.\u2014Then onward with thy Guide.\n\n                                  T. Crofton Croker. [signature]\n\n[Illustration: The Wood Engravings after Designs by\n               Mr. BROOKE, R. H. A.,\n               Mr. M\u1d9cCLISE,\n               and the AUTHOR.]\n\n\n\n\nIrish FAIRY LEGENDS.\n\n\n[Illustration: \u201cLook there! look there, mammy!\u201d]\n\n\n\n\nFAIRY LEGENDS.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SHEFRO.\n\n    \u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u201cFairy Elves\n    Whose midnight revels, by a forest side\n    Or fountain some belated peasant sees,\n    Or dreams he sees, while over-head the Moon\n    Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth\n    Wheels her pale course.\u201d\u2014\n                                       MILTON.\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE SHEFRO.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF KNOCKSHEOGOWNA.\n\nI.\n\n\nIn Tipperary is one of the most singularly shaped hills in the world.\nIt has got a peak at the top like a conical nightcap thrown carelessly\nover your head as you awake in the morning. On the very point is built\na sort of lodge, where in the summer the lady who built it and her\nfriends used to go on parties of pleasure; but that was long after the\ndays of the fairies, and it is, I believe, now deserted.\n\nBut before lodge was built, or acre sown, there was close to the head\nof this hill a large pasturage, where a herdsman spent his days and\nnights among the herd. The spot had been an old fairy ground, and the\ngood people were angry that the scene of their light and airy gambols\nshould be trampled by the rude hoofs of bulls and cows. The lowing of\nthe cattle sounded sad in their ears, and the chief of the fairies of\nthe hill determined in person to drive away the new comers; and the\nway she thought of was this. When the harvest nights came on, and the\nmoon shone bright and brilliant over the hill, and the cattle were\nlying down hushed and quiet, and the herdsman, wrapt in his mantle,\nwas musing with his heart gladdened by the glorious company of the\nstars twinkling above him, she would come and dance before him,\u2014now\nin one shape\u2014now in another,\u2014but all ugly and frightful to behold.\nOne time she would be a great horse, with the wings of an eagle, and a\ntail like a dragon, hissing loud and spitting fire. Then in a moment\nshe would change into a little man lame of a leg, with a bull\u2019s head,\nand a lambent flame playing round it. Then into a great ape, with\nduck\u2019s feet, and a turkey cock\u2019s tail. But I should be all day about\nit were I to tell you all the shapes she took. And then she would\nroar, or neigh, or hiss, or bellow, or howl, or hoot, as never yet was\nroaring, neighing, hissing, bellowing, howling, or hooting, heard in\nthis world before or since. The poor herdsman would cover his face,\nand call on all the saints for help, but it was no use. With one puff\nof her breath she would blow away the fold of his great coat, let him\nhold it never so tightly over his eyes, and not a saint in heaven paid\nhim the slightest attention. And to make matters worse, he never could\nstir; no, nor even shut his eyes, but there was obliged to stay, held\nby what power he knew not, gazing at these terrible sights until the\nhair of his head would lift his hat half a foot over his crown, and\nhis teeth would be ready to fall out from chattering. But the cattle\nwould scamper about mad, as if they were bitten by the fly; and this\nwould last until the sun rose over the hill.\n\nThe poor cattle from want of rest were pining away, and food did them\nno good; besides, they met with accidents without end. Never a night\npassed that some of them did not fall into a pit, and get maimed, or,\nmay be, killed. Some would tumble into a river and be drowned; in a\nword, there seemed never to be an end of the accidents. But what made\nthe matter worse, there could not be a herdsman got to tend the cattle\nby night. One visit from the fairy drove the stoutest hearted almost\nmad. The owner of the ground did not know what to do. He offered\ndouble, treble, quadruple wages, but not a man could be found for the\nsake of money to go through the horror of facing the fairy. She\nrejoiced at the successful issue of her project, and continued her\npranks. The herd gradually thinning, and no man daring to remain on\nthe ground, the fairies came back in numbers, and gambolled as merrily\nas before, quaffing dew-drops from acorns, and spreading their feast\non the heads of capacious mushrooms.\n\nWhat was to be done? the puzzled farmer thought in vain. He found that\nhis substance was daily diminishing, his people terrified, and his\nrent-day coming round. It is no wonder that he looked gloomy, and\nwalked mournfully down the road. Now in that part of the world dwelt\na man of the name of Larry Hoolahan, who played on the pipes better\nthan any other player within fifteen parishes. A roving, dashing blade\nwas Larry, and feared nothing. Give him plenty of liquor, and he would\ndefy the devil. He would face a mad bull, or fight single-handed\nagainst a fair. In one of his gloomy walks the farmer met him, and on\nLarry\u2019s asking the cause of his down looks, he told him all his\nmisfortunes. \u201cIf that is all ails you,\u201d said Larry, \u201cmake your mind\neasy. Were there as many fairies on Knocksheogowna as there are potato\nblossoms in Eliogurty, I would face them. It would be a queer thing,\nindeed, if I, who never was afraid of a proper man, should turn my\nback upon a brat of a fairy not the bigness of one\u2019s thumb.\u201d \u201cLarry,\u201d\nsaid the farmer, \u201cdo not talk so bold, for you know not who is hearing\nyou; but if you make your words good, and watch my herds for a week on\nthe top of the mountain, your hand shall be free of my dish till the\nsun has burnt itself down to the bigness of a farthing rushlight.\u201d\n\nThe bargain was struck, and Larry went to the hill-top, when the moon\nbegan to peep over the brow. He had been regaled at the farmer\u2019s\nhouse, and was bold with the extract of barley-corn. So he took his\nseat on a big stone under a hollow of the hill, with his back to the\nwind, and pulled out his pipes. He had not played long when the voice\nof the fairies was heard upon the blast, like a slow stream of music.\nPresently they burst out into a loud laugh, and Larry could plainly\nhear one say, \u201cWhat! another man upon the fairies\u2019 ring? Go to him,\nqueen, and make him repent his rashness;\u201d and they flew away. Larry\nfelt them pass by his face as they flew, like a swarm of midges; and,\nlooking up hastily, he saw between the moon and him a great black cat,\nstanding on the very tip of its claws, with its back up, and mewing\nwith the voice of a water-mill. Presently it swelled up towards the\nsky, and turning round on its left hind-leg, whirled till it fell to\nthe ground, from which it started up in the shape of a salmon, with a\ncravat round its neck, and a pair of new topboots. \u201cGo on, jewel,\u201d\nsaid Larry; \u201cif you dance, I\u2019ll pipe;\u201d and he struck up. So she turned\ninto this, and that, and the other, but still Larry played on, as he\nwell knew how. At last she lost patience, as ladies will do when you\ndo not mind their scolding, and changed herself into a calf,\nmilk-white as the cream of Cork, and with eyes as mild as those of the\ngirl I love. She came up gentle and fawning, in hopes to throw him off\nhis guard by quietness, and then to work him some wrong. But Larry was\nnot so deceived; for when she came up, he, dropping his pipes, leaped\nupon her back.\n\nNow from the top of Knocksheogowna, as you look westward to the broad\nAtlantic, you will see the Shannon, queen of rivers; \u201cspreading like a\nsea,\u201d and running on in gentle course to mingle with the ocean through\nthe fair city of Limerick. It on this night shone under the moon, and\nlooked beautiful from the distant hill. Fifty boats were gliding up\nand down on the sweet current, and the song of the fishermen rose\ngaily from the shore. Larry, as I said before, leaped upon the back of\nthe fairy, and she, rejoiced at the opportunity, sprung from the\nhill-top, and bounded clear, at one jump, over the Shannon, flowing as\nit was just ten miles from the mountain\u2019s base. It was done in a\nsecond, and when she alighted on the distant bank, kicking up her\nheels, she flung Larry on the soft turf. No sooner was he thus\nplanted, than he looked her straight in the face, and scratching his\nhead, cried out, \u201cBy my word, well done! that was not a bad leap _for\na calf_!\u201d\n\nShe looked at him for a moment, and then assumed her own shape.\n\u201cLaurence,\u201d said she, \u201cyou are a bold fellow; will you come back the\nway you went?\u201d \u201cAnd that\u2019s what I will,\u201d said he, \u201cif you let me.\u201d So\nchanging to a calf again, again Larry got on her back, and at another\nbound they were again upon the top of Knocksheogowna. The fairy, once\nmore resuming her figure, addressed him: \u201cYou have shown so much\ncourage, Laurence,\u201d said she, \u201cthat while you keep herds on this hill\nyou never shall be molested by me or mine. The day dawns, go down to\nthe farmer, and tell him this; and if any thing I can do may be of\nservice to you, ask, and you shall have it.\u201d She vanished accordingly;\nand kept her word in never visiting the hill during Larry\u2019s life: but\nhe never troubled her with requests. He piped and drank at the\nfarmer\u2019s expense, and roosted in his chimney corner, occasionally\ncasting an eye to the flock. He died at last, and is buried in a green\nvalley of pleasant Tipperary: but whether the fairies returned to the\nhill of Knocksheogowna[1] after his death, is more than I can say.\n\n    [1] Knocksheogowna signifies \u201c_The Hill of the Fairy Calf._\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF KNOCKFIERNA.[2]\n\nII.\n\n\n    [2] \u201cCalled by the people of the country \u2018_Knock Dhoinn\n    Firinne_,\u2019 the mountain of Donn of Truth. This mountain is very\n    high, and may be seen for several miles round; and when people\n    are desirous to know whether or not any day will rain, they look\n    at the top of Knock Firinne, and if they see a vapour or mist\n    there, they immediately conclude that rain will soon follow,\n    believing that Donn (the lord or chief) of that mountain and his\n    a\u00ebrial assistants are collecting the clouds, and that he holds\n    them there for some short time, to warn the people of the\n    approaching rain. As the appearance of mist on that mountain in\n    the morning is considered an infallible sign that that day will\n    be rainy, Donn is called \u2018_Donn Firinne_,\u2019 Donn of Truth.\u201d\u2014MR.\n    EDWARD O\u2019REILLY.\n\nIt is a very good thing not to be any way in dread of the fairies, for\nwithout doubt they have then less power over a person; but to make too\nfree with them, or to disbelieve in them altogether, is as foolish a\nthing as man, woman, or child can do.\n\nIt has been truly said, that \u201cgood manners are no burden,\u201d and that\n\u201ccivility costs nothing;\u201d but there are some people fool-hardy enough\nto disregard doing a civil thing, which, whatever they may think, can\nnever harm themselves or any one else, and who at the same time will\ngo out of their way for a bit of mischief, which never can serve them;\nbut sooner or later they will come to know better, as you shall hear\nof Carroll O\u2019Daly, a strapping young fellow up out of Connaught, whom\nthey used to call, in his own country, \u201cDevil Daly.\u201d\n\nCarroll O\u2019Daly used to go roving about from one place to another, and\nthe fear of nothing stopped him; he would as soon pass an old\nchurchyard or a regular fairy ground, at any hour of the night as go\nfrom one room into another, without ever making the sign of the cross,\nor saying, \u201cGood luck attend you, gentlemen.\u201d\n\nIt so happened that he was once journeying, in the county of Limerick,\ntowards \u201cthe Balbec of Ireland,\u201d the venerable town of Kilmallock; and\njust at the foot of Knockfierna he overtook a respectable-looking man\njogging along upon a white pony. The night was coming on, and they\nrode side by side for some time, without much conversation passing\nbetween them, further than saluting each other very kindly; at last,\nCarroll O\u2019Daly asked his companion how far he was going?\n\n\u201cNot far your way,\u201d said the farmer, for such his appearance bespoke\nhim; \u201cI\u2019m only going to the top of this hill here.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what might take you there,\u201d said O\u2019Daly, \u201cat this time of the\nnight?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy then,\u201d replied the farmer, \u201cif you want to know; \u2019tis the _good\npeople_.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe fairies you mean,\u201d said O\u2019Daly.\n\n\u201cWhist! whist!\u201d said his fellow-traveller, \u201cor you may be sorry for\nit;\u201d and he turned his pony off the road they were going, towards a\nlittle path which led up the side of the mountain, wishing Carroll\nO\u2019Daly good night and a safe journey.\n\n\u201cThat fellow,\u201d thought Carroll, \u201cis about no good this blessed night,\nand I would have no fear of swearing wrong if I took my Bible oath\nthat it is something else beside the fairies, or the good people, as\nhe calls them, that is taking him up the mountain at this hour. The\nfairies!\u201d he repeated, \u201cis it for a well-shaped man like him to be\ngoing after little chaps like the fairies! To be sure some say there\nare such things, and more say not; but I know this, that never afraid\nwould I be of a dozen of them, ay, of two dozen, for that matter, if\nthey are no bigger than what I hear tell of.\u201d\n\nCarroll O\u2019Daly, whilst these thoughts were passing in his mind, had\nfixed his eyes steadfastly on the mountain, behind which the full moon\nwas rising majestically. Upon an elevated point that appeared darkly\nagainst the moon\u2019s disk, he beheld the figure of a man leading a pony,\nand he had no doubt it was that of the farmer with whom he had just\nparted company.\n\nA sudden resolve to follow flashed across the mind of O\u2019Daly with the\nspeed of lightning: both his courage and curiosity had been worked up\nby his cogitations to a pitch of chivalry; and, muttering, \u201cHere\u2019s\nafter you, old boy!\u201d he dismounted from his horse, bound him to an old\nthorntree, and then commenced vigorously ascending the mountain.\n\nFollowing as well as he could the direction taken by the figures of\nthe man and pony, he pursued his way, occasionally guided by their\npartial appearance: and after toiling nearly three hours over a rugged\nand sometimes swampy path, came to a green spot on the top of the\nmountain, where he saw the white pony at full liberty grazing as\nquietly as may be. O\u2019Daly looked around for the rider, but he was\nnowhere to be seen; he, however, soon discovered, close to where the\npony stood, an opening in the mountain like the mouth of a pit, and he\nremembered having heard, when a child, many a tale about the\n\u201cPoul-duve,\u201d or Black Hole of Knockfierna; how it was the entrance to\nthe fairy castle which was within the mountain; and how a man whose\nname was Ahern, a land surveyor in that part of the country, had once\nattempted to fathom it with a line, and had been drawn down into it,\nand was never again heard of; with many other tales of the like\nnature.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d thought O\u2019Daly, \u201cthese are old woman\u2019s stories: and since I\u2019ve\ncome up so far, I\u2019ll just knock at the castle door and see if the\nfairies are at home.\u201d\n\nNo sooner said than done; for, seizing a large stone, as big, ay,\nbigger than his two hands, he flung it with all his strength down\ninto the Poul-duve of Knockfierna. He heard it bounding and tumbling\nabout from one rock to another with a terrible noise, and he leaned\nhis head over to try and hear when it would reach the bottom,\u2014and\nwhat should the very stone he had thrown in do but come up again with\nas much force as it had gone down, and gave him such a blow full in\nthe face, that it sent him rolling down the side of Knockfierna, head\nover heels, tumbling from one crag to another, much faster than he\ncame up. And in the morning Carroll O\u2019Daly was found lying beside his\nhorse; the bridge of his nose broken, which disfigured him for life;\nhis head all cut and bruised, and both his eyes closed up, and as\nblack as if Sir Daniel Donnelly had painted them for him.\n\nCarroll O\u2019Daly was never bold again in riding along near the haunts of\nthe fairies after dusk; but small blame to him for that; and if ever\nhe happened to be benighted in a lonesome place, he would make the\nbest of his way to his journey\u2019s end, without asking questions, or\nturning to the right or to the left, to seek after the good people, or\nany who kept company with them.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON.\n\nIII.\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 new-born infant, yet his deformity was so great, that\nhe scarcely appeared to be a human being. And some ill-minded persons\nhad set strange stories about him afloat. He was said to have a great\nknowledge of herbs and charms; but certain it was that he had a mighty\nskilful hand in platting straw and rushes into hats and baskets, which\nwas 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,[3] in his little\nstraw hat, would ever get a higher penny for his plaited work than any\none else, and perhaps that was the reason why some one, out of envy,\nhad circulated the strange stories about him. Be that as it may, it\nhappened that he was returning one evening from the pretty town of\nCahir towards Cappagh, and as little Lusmore walked very slowly, on\naccount of the great hump upon his back, it was quite dark when he\ncame to the old moat of Knockgrafton, which stood on the right hand\nside of his road. Tired and weary was he, and noways comfortable in\nhis own mind at thinking how much farther he had to travel, and that\nhe should be walking all the night; so he sat down under the moat to\nrest himself, and began looking mournfully enough upon the moon,\nwhich,\n\n    \u201cRising in clouded majesty, at length,\n    Apparent Queen, unveil\u2019d her peerless light,\n    And o\u2019er the dark her silver mantle threw.\u201d\n\n    [3] Literally, the great herb\u2014_Digitalis purpurea_.\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:\u2014\n\n_Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, when\nthere would be a moment\u2019s pause, and then the round of melody went on\nagain.\n\nLusmore listened attentively, scarcely drawing his breath, lest he\nmight lose the slightest note. He now plainly perceived that the\nsinging was within the moat, and, though at first it had charmed him\nso much, he began to get tired of hearing the same round sung over and\nover so often without any change; so, availing himself of the pause\nwhen the _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, had been sung three times, he took up\nthe tune and raised it with the words _augus Da Cadine_, and then went\non singing with the voices inside of the moat, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_,\nfinishing the melody when the pause again came, with _augus Da\nCadine_.[4]\n\n    [4] Correctly written, _Dia Luain_, _Dia Mairt_, _agus Dia\n    Ceadaoine_, i. e. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.\n\nThe fairies within Knockgrafton, for the song was a fairy melody, when\nthey heard this addition to their tune, were so much delighted, that\nwith instant resolve it was determined to bring the mortal among them,\nwhose musical skill so far exceeded theirs, and little Lusmore was\nconveyed 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 up above all the\nmusicians, and he had servants tending upon him, and every thing to\nhis heart\u2019s content, and a hearty welcome to all; and, in short, he\nwas made 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,\u2014\n\n    \u201cLusmore! Lusmore!\n    Doubt not, nor deplore,\n    For the hump which you bore\n    On your back is no more!\u2014\n    Look down on the floor,\n    And view it, Lusmore!\u201d\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 every thing, 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\nit was broad daylight, the sun shining brightly, the birds singing\nsweet; 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, he\nfound himself in a full suit of new clothes, which he concluded the\nfairies had 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 great\nwork to persuade every one that he was the same man\u2014in truth he was\nnot, so far as outward appearance went.\n\nOf course it was not long before the story of Lusmore\u2019s 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-door,\nup came an old woman to him, and asked if he could direct her to\nCappagh.\n\n\u201cI need give you no directions, my good woman,\u201d said Lusmore, \u201cfor\nthis is Cappagh; and who do you want here?\u201d\n\n\u201cI have come,\u201d said the woman, \u201cout of Decie\u2019s 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 has got a hump on him that will be his death; and may be, if he\ncould 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: \u2019tis to find\nout about this charm, if I can.\u201d\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\u2019s house, in the\ncounty Waterford, she told her every thing that Lusmore had said, and\nthey 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\u2019s name, had not been sitting\nthere long when he heard the tune going on within the moat much\nsweeter than before; for the fairies were singing it the way Lusmore\nhad settled their music for them, and the song was going on: _Da\nLuan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _augus\nDa Cadine_, without ever stopping. Jack Madden, who was in a great\nhurry to get quit of his hump, never thought of waiting until the\nfairies had done, or watching for a fit opportunity to raise the tune\nhigher again than Lusmore had: so having heard them sing it over seven\ntimes without stopping, out he bawls, never minding the time, or the\nhumour of the tune, or how he could bring his words in properly,\n_augus da Cadine augus Da Hena_,[5] thinking that if one day was good,\ntwo were better; and that, if Lusmore had one new suit of clothes\ngiven to him, he should have two.\n\n    [5] And Wednesday and Thursday.\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, \u201cWho spoiled our tune? who spoiled our tune?\u201d and one\nstepped up to him above all the rest and said\u2014\n\n    \u201cJack Madden! Jack Madden!\n    Your words came so bad in\n    The tune we feel glad in;\u2014\n    This castle you\u2019re had in,\n    That your life we may sadden;\u2014\n    Here\u2019s two humps for Jack Madden!\u201d\n\nAnd twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore\u2019s hump, and put it\ndown upon poor Jack\u2019s back, over his own, where it became fixed as\nfirmly, as if it was nailed on with twelvepenny nails, by the best\ncarpenter that ever drove one. Out of their castle they then kicked\nhim; and in the morning, when Jack Madden\u2019s mother and her gossip came\nto look after their little man, they found him half dead, lying at the\nfoot of the moat, with the other hump upon his back. Well, to be sure\nhow they did look at each other! but they were afraid to say any\nthing, lest a hump might be put upon their own shoulders: home they\nbrought the unlucky Jack Madden with them, as downcast in their hearts\nand their looks as ever two gossips were; and what through the weight\nof his other hump and the long journey, he died soon after, leaving,\nthey say, his heavy curse to any one who would go to listen to fairy\ntunes again.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PRIEST\u2019S SUPPER.\n\nIV.\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 further 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\u2014a 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 every thing 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\u2019s 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 lobes 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\u2014\n\n    \u201cCease, cease with your drumming,\n    Here\u2019s an end to our mumming;\n        By my smell\n        I can tell\n    A priest this way is coming!\u201d\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 in the hollow of\nstones; or at the shady side of brambles, and others under the bank of\nthe river, and in holes 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 \u201cMy blessing on all here.\u201d\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 \u201cthe old\nwoman,\u201d for so Dermod called his wife, though she was not much past\ntwenty, had down boiling in the pot over the fire: he thought of the\nnet which he had set in the river, but as it had been there only a\nshort time, the chances were against his finding a fish in it. \u201cNo\nmatter,\u201d thought Dermod, \u201cthere can be no harm in stepping down to\ntry, and may be as I want the fish for the priest\u2019s supper, that one\nwill be there before me.\u201d\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 \u201cthe spreading Lee;\u201d 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, \u201cMay 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\u2019s any shame in you to give\nme the slip after this fashion! And I\u2019m clear in my own mind you\u2019ll\ncome to no good, for some kind of evil thing or other helped you\u2014did\nI not feel it pull the net against me as strong as the devil himself?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s not true for you,\u201d said one of the little fairies, who had\nscampered off at the approach of the priest, coming up to Dermod\nLeary, with a whole throng of companions at his heels; \u201cthere was only\na dozen and a half of us pulling against you.\u201d\n\nDermod gazed on the tiny speaker with wonder, who continued: \u201cMake\nyourself noways uneasy about the priest\u2019s 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\ntime.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll have nothing at all to do with you,\u201d replied Dermod, in a tone\nof determination; and after a pause he added, \u201cI\u2019m 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 any thing you could put before him\u2014so there\u2019s\nan end of the matter.\u201d\n\nThe little speaker, with a pertinacity not to be repulsed by Dermod\u2019s\nmanner, continued, \u201cWill you ask the priest one civil question for\nus?\u201d\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\u201cI see no objection to do that same, gentlemen,\u201d said Dermod; \u201cBut I\nwill have nothing in life to do with your supper,\u2014mind that.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d said the little speaking fairy, whilst the rest came crowding\nafter him from all parts, \u201cgo 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.\u201d\n\nAway went Dermod to his cabin, where he found the potatoes thrown out\non the table, and his good wife 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\u201cPlease your reverence,\u201d said Dermod, after some hesitation, \u201cmay I\nmake bold to ask your honour one question?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat may that be?\u201d said Father Horrigan.\n\n\u201cWhy, then, begging your reverence\u2019s pardon for my freedom, it is, if\nthe souls of the good people are to be saved at the last day?\u201d\n\n\u201cWho bid you ask me that question, Leary?\u201d said the priest, fixing his\neyes upon him very sternly, which Dermod could not stand before at\nall.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell no lies about the matter, and nothing in life but the\ntruth,\u201d said Dermod. \u201cIt 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cGo back by all means,\u201d said the priest, \u201cand tell them, if they want\nto know, to come here to me themselves, and I\u2019ll answer that or any\nother question they are pleased to ask, with the greatest pleasure in\nlife.\u201d\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\na mighty 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 BREWERY OF EGG-SHELLS.\n\nV.\n\n\nIt may be considered impertinent, were I to explain what is meant by a\nchangeling; both Shakspeare and Spenser have already done so, and who\nis there unacquainted with the Midsummer Night\u2019s Dream[6] and the\nFairy Queen?[7]\n\n    [6] Act ii. sc. 1.\n\n    [7] Book i. canto 10.\n\nNow Mrs. Sullivan fancied that her youngest child had been changed by\n\u201cfairies\u2019 theft,\u201d to use Spenser\u2019s words, and certainly appearances\nwarranted such a conclusion; for in one night her healthy, blue-eyed\nboy had become shrivelled up into almost nothing, and never ceased\nsqualling and crying. This naturally made poor Mrs. Sullivan very\nunhappy; and all the neighbours, by way of comforting her, said, that\nher own child was, beyond any kind of doubt, with the good people,\nand that one of themselves had been put in his place.\n\nMrs. Sullivan, of course, could not disbelieve what every one told\nher, but she did not wish to hurt the thing; for although its face was\nso withered, and its body wasted away to a mere skeleton, it had still\na strong 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 Gray 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\u201cYou\u2019re in grief this morning, Mrs. Sullivan,\u201d were the first words of\nEllen Leah to her.\n\n\u201cYou may say that, Ellen,\u201d said Mrs. Sullivan, \u201cand good cause I have\nto be in grief, for there was my own fine child whipped off from me\nout of 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cSmall blame to you, Mrs. Sullivan,\u201d said Ellen Leah; \u201cbut are you\nsure \u2019tis a fairy?\u201d\n\n\u201cSure!\u201d echoed Mrs. Sullivan, \u201csure enough am I to my sorrow, and can\nI doubt my own two eyes? Every mother\u2019s soul must feel for me!\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you take an old woman\u2019s advice?\u201d said Ellen Leah, fixing her\nwild and mysterious gaze upon the unhappy mother; and, after a pause,\nshe added, \u201cbut may be you\u2019ll call it foolish?\u201d\n\n\u201cCan you get me back my child,\u2014my own child, Ellen?\u201d said Mrs.\nSullivan with great energy.\n\n\u201cIf you do as I bid you,\u201d returned Ellen Leah, \u201cyou\u2019ll know.\u201d Mrs.\nSullivan was silent in expectation, and Ellen continued. \u201cPut 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.\u201d\n\nHome went Mrs. Sullivan, and did as Ellen Leah desired. She put the\npot in the fire, and plenty of turf under it, and set the water\nboiling at such a rate that if ever water was red hot\u2014it 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, \u201cWhat are you doing, mammy?\u201d\n\nMrs. Sullivan\u2019s 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, \u201cI\u2019m brewing, _a vick_\u201d (my son).\n\n\u201cAnd what are you brewing, mammy?\u201d said the little imp, whose\nsupernatural gift of speech now proved beyond question that he was a\nfairy substitute.\n\n\u201cI wish the poker was red,\u201d 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\u201cIs it what I\u2019m brewing, _a vick_,\u201d said she, \u201cyou want to know?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, mammy: what are you brewing?\u201d returned the fairy.\n\n\u201cEgg-shells, _a vick_,\u201d said Mrs. Sullivan.\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d shrieked the imp, starting up in the cradle, and clapping his\nhands together, \u201cI\u2019m fifteen hundred years in the world, and I never\nsaw a brewery of egg-shells before!\u201d 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\u2014his 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\nWho can tell the feelings of a mother when she looks upon her sleeping\nchild? Why should I, therefore, endeavour to describe those of Mrs.\nSullivan at again beholding her long-lost boy? The fountain of her\nheart overflowed with the excess of joy\u2014and she wept!\u2014tears trickled\nsilently down her cheeks, nor did she strive to check them\u2014they were\ntears not of sorrow, but of happiness.\n\n\n\n\nLEGEND OF BOTTLE HILL.\n\nVI.\n\n\n    \u201cCome listen to a tale of times of old,\n    Come listen to me\u2014\u201d\n\nIt was in the good days, when the little people, most impudently\ncalled fairies, were more frequently seen than they are in these\nunbelieving times, that a farmer, named Mick Purcell, rented a few\nacres of barren ground in the neighbourhood of the once celebrated\npreceptory of Mourne, situated about three miles from Mallow, and\nthirteen from \u201cthe beautiful city called Cork.\u201d Mick had a wife and\nfamily: they all did what they could, and that was but little, for the\npoor man had no child grown up big enough to help him in his work: and\nall the poor woman could do was to mind the children, and to milk the\none cow, and to boil the potatoes, and to carry the eggs to market to\nMallow; but with all they could do, \u2019twas hard enough on them to pay\nthe rent. Well, they did manage it for a good while; but at last came\na bad year, and the little grain of oats was all spoiled, and the\nchickens died of the pip, and the pig got the measles,\u2014_she_ was sold\nin Mallow, and brought almost nothing; and poor Mick found that he\nhadn\u2019t enough to half pay his rent, and two gales were due.\n\n\u201cWhy then, Molly,\u201d says he, \u201cwhat\u2019ll we do?\u201d\n\n\u201cWisha, then, mavourneen, what would you do but take the cow to the\nfair of Cork and sell her?\u201d says she; \u201cand Monday is fair day, and so\nyou must go to-morrow, that the poor beast may be rested _again_ the\nfair.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what\u2019ll we do when she\u2019s gone?\u201d says Mick, sorrowfully.\n\n\u201cNever a know I know, Mick; but sure God won\u2019t leave us without Him,\nMick; and you know how good He was to us when poor little Billy was\nsick, and we had nothing at all for him to take, that good doctor\ngentleman at Ballydahin come riding and asking for a drink of milk;\nand how he gave us two shillings; and how he sent the things and\nbottles for the child, and gave me my breakfast when I went over to\nask a question, so he did: and how he came to see Billy, and never\nleft off his goodness till he was quite well?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! you are always that way, Molly, and I believe you are right after\nall, so I won\u2019t be sorry for selling the cow; but I\u2019ll go to-morrow,\nand you must put a needle and thread through my coat, for you know\n\u2019tis ripped under the arm.\u201d\n\nMolly told him he should have every thing right; and about twelve\no\u2019clock next day he left her, getting a charge not to sell his cow\nexcept for the highest penny. Mick promised to mind it, and went his\nway along the road. He drove his cow slowly through the little stream\nwhich crosses it and runs by the old walls of Mourne. As he passed he\nglanced his eye upon the towers and one of the old elder trees which\nwere only then little bits of switches.\n\n\u201cOh, then, if I only had half the money that\u2019s buried in you, \u2019tisn\u2019t\ndriving this poor cow I\u2019d be now! Why, then, isn\u2019t it too bad that it\nshould be there covered over with earth, and many a one besides me\nwanting? Well, if it is God\u2019s will, I\u2019ll have some money myself coming\nback.\u201d\n\nSo saying, he moved on after his beast; \u2019twas a fine day, and the sun\nshone brightly on the walls of the old abbey as he passed under them;\nhe then crossed an extensive mountain tract, and after six long miles\nhe came to the top of that hill\u2014Bottle Hill \u2019tis called now, but that\nwas not the name of it then, and just there a man overtook him.\n\n\u201cGood morrow,\u201d says he. \u201cGood morrow,\u201d kindly, says Mick, looking at\nthe stranger, who was a little man, you\u2019d almost call him a dwarf,\nonly he wasn\u2019t quite so little neither: he had a bit of an old,\nwrinkled, yellow face, for all the world like a dried cauliflower,\nonly he had a sharp little nose, and red eyes, and white hair, and his\nlips were not red, but all his face was one colour, and his eyes never\nwere quiet, but looking at every thing, and although they were red,\nthey made Mick feel quite cold when he looked at them. In truth he did\nnot much like the little man\u2019s company; and he couldn\u2019t see one bit of\nhis legs, nor his body; for, though the day was warm, he was all\nwrapped up in a big great coat. Mick drove his cow something faster,\nbut the little man kept up with him. Mick didn\u2019t know how he walked,\nfor he was almost afraid to look at him, and to cross himself, for\nfear the old man would be angry. Yet he thought his fellow-traveller\ndid not seem to walk like other men, nor to put one foot before the\nother, but to glide over the rough road, and rough enough it was, like\na shadow, without noise and without effort. Mick\u2019s heart trembled\nwithin him, and he said a prayer to himself, wishing he hadn\u2019t come\nout that day, or that he was on fair hill, or that he hadn\u2019t the cow\nto mind, that he might run away from the bad thing\u2014when, in the midst\nof his fears, he was again addressed by his companion.\n\n\u201cWhere are you going with the cow, honest man?\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the fair of Cork then,\u201d says Mick, trembling at the shrill and\npiercing tones of the voice.\n\n\u201cAre you going to sell her?\u201d said the stranger.\n\n\u201cWhy, then, what else am I going for but to sell her?\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you sell her to me?\u201d\n\nMick started\u2014he was afraid to have any thing to do with the little\nman, and he was more afraid to say no.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019ll you give for her?\u201d at last says he.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you what, I\u2019ll give you this bottle,\u201d said the little one,\npulling a bottle from under his coat.\n\nMick looked at him and the bottle, and, in spite of his terror, he\ncould not help bursting into a loud fit of laughter.\n\n\u201cLaugh if you will,\u201d said the little man, \u201cbut I tell you this bottle\nis better for you than all the money you will get for the cow in\nCork\u2014ay, than ten thousand times as much.\u201d\n\nMick laughed again. \u201cWhy then,\u201d says he, \u201cdo you think I am such a\nfool as to give my good cow for a bottle\u2014and an empty one, too?\nindeed, then, I won\u2019t.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou had better give me the cow, and take the bottle\u2014you\u2019ll not be\nsorry for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, then, and what would Molly say? I\u2019d never hear the end of it;\nand how would I pay the rent? and what would we all do without a penny\nof money?\n\n\u201cI tell you this bottle is better to you than money; take it, and give\nme the cow. I ask you for the last time, Mick Purcell.\u201d\n\nMick started.\n\n\u201cHow does he know my name?\u201d thought he.\n\nThe stranger proceeded: \u201cMick Purcell, I know you, and I have regard\nfor you; therefore do as I warn you, or you may be sorry for it. How\ndo you know but your cow will die before you get to Cork?\u201d\n\nMick was going to say \u201cGod forbid!\u201d but the little man went on (and he\nwas too attentive to say any thing to stop him; for Mick was a very\ncivil man, and he knew better than to interrupt a gentleman, and\nthat\u2019s what many people, that hold their heads higher, don\u2019t mind\nnow).\n\n\u201cAnd how do you know but there will be much cattle at the fair, and\nyou will get a bad price, or may be you might be robbed when you are\ncoming home? but what need I talk more to you when you are determined\nto throw away your luck, Mick Purcell?\n\n\u201cOh! no, I would not throw away my luck, sir,\u201d said Mick; \u201cand if I\nwas sure the bottle was as good as you say, though I never liked an\nempty bottle, although I had drank what was in it, I\u2019d give you the\ncow in the name\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind names,\u201d said the stranger, \u201cbut give me the cow; I would\nnot tell you a lie. Here, take the bottle, and when you go home do\nwhat I direct exactly.\u201d\n\nMick hesitated.\n\n\u201cWell then, good by, I can stay no longer: once more, take it, and be\nrich; refuse it, and beg for your life, and see your children in\npoverty, and your wife dying for want: that will happen to you, Mick\nPurcell!\u201d said the little man with a malicious grin, which made him\nlook ten times more ugly than ever.\n\n\u201cMay be \u2019tis true,\u201d said Mick, still hesitating: he did not know what\nto do\u2014he could hardly help believing the old man, and at length in a\nfit of desperation he seized the bottle\u2014\u201cTake the cow,\u201d said he, \u201cand\nif you are telling a lie, the curse of the poor will be on you.\u201d\n\n\u201cI care neither for your curses nor your blessings, but I have spoken\ntruth, Mick Purcell, and that you will find to-night, if you do what I\ntell you.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what\u2019s that?\u201d says Mick.\n\n\u201cWhen you go home, never mind if your wife is angry, but be quiet\nyourself, and make her sweep the room clean, set the table out right,\nand spread a clean cloth over it; then put the bottle on the ground,\nsaying these words: \u2018Bottle, do your duty,\u2019 and you will see the end\nof it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd is this all?\u201d says Mick.\n\n\u201cNo more,\u201d said the stranger. \u201cGood by, Mick Purcell\u2014you are a rich\nman.\u201d\n\n\u201cGod grant it!\u201d said Mick, as the old man moved after the cow, and\nMick retraced the road towards his cabin; but he could not help\nturning back his head, to look after the purchaser of his cow, who was\nnowhere to be seen.\n\n\u201cLord between us and harm!\u201d said Mick: \u201c_He_ can\u2019t belong to this\nearth; but where is the cow?\u201d She too was gone, and Mick went homeward\nmuttering prayers, and holding fast the bottle.\n\n\u201cAnd what would I do if it broke?\u201d thought he. \u201cOh! but I\u2019ll take care\nof that;\u201d so he put it into his bosom, and went on anxious to prove\nhis bottle, and doubting of the reception he should meet from his\nwife; balancing his anxieties with his expectations, his fears with\nhis hopes, he reached home in the evening, and surprised his wife,\nsitting over the turf fire in the big chimney.\n\n\u201cOh! Mick, are you come back! Sure you wer\u2019n\u2019t at Cork all the way!\nWhat has happened to you? Where is the cow? Did you sell her? How much\nmoney did you get for her? What news have you? Tell us every thing\nabout it.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy then, Molly, if you\u2019ll give me time, I\u2019ll tell you all about it.\nIf you want to know where the cow is, \u2019tisn\u2019t Mick can tell you, for\nthe never a know does he know where she is now.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! then, you sold her; and where\u2019s the money?\u201d\n\n\u201cArrah! stop awhile, Molly, and I\u2019ll tell you all about it.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what is that bottle under your waistcoat?\u201d said Molly, spying its\nneck sticking out.\n\n\u201cWhy, then, be easy now, can\u2019t you,\u201d says Mick, \u201ctill I tell it to\nyou?\u201d and putting the bottle on the table, \u201cThat\u2019s all I got for the\ncow.\u201d\n\nHis poor wife was thunderstruck. \u201cAll you got! and what good is that,\nMick? Oh! I never thought you were such a fool; and what\u2019ll we do for\nthe rent, and what\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cNow, Molly,\u201d says Mick, \u201ccan\u2019t you hearken to reason? Didn\u2019t I tell\nyou how the old man, or whatsomever he was, met me,\u2014no, he did not\nmeet me neither, but he was there with me\u2014on the big hill, and how he\nmade me sell him the cow, and told me the bottle was the only thing\nfor me?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, indeed, the only thing for you, you fool!\u201d said Molly, seizing\nthe bottle to hurl it at her poor husband\u2019s head; but Mick caught it,\nand quietly (for he minded the old man\u2019s advice) loosened his wife\u2019s\ngrasp, and placed the bottle again in his bosom. Poor Molly sat down\ncrying, while Mick told his story, with many a crossing and blessing\nbetween him and harm. His wife could not help believing him,\nparticularly as she had as much faith in fairies as she had in the\npriest, who indeed never discouraged her belief in the fairies; may\nbe, he didn\u2019t know she believed in them, and may be, he believed in\nthem himself. She got up, however, without saying one word, and began\nto sweep the earthen floor with a bunch of heath; then she tidied up\nevery thing, and put out the long table, and spread the clean cloth,\nfor she had only one, upon it, and Mick, placing the bottle on the\nground, looked at it and said, \u201cBottle, do your duty.\u201d\n\n\u201cLook there! look there, mammy!\u201d said his chubby eldest son, a boy\nabout five years old\u2014\u201clook there! look there!\u201d and he sprang to his\nmother\u2019s side, as two tiny little fellows rose like light from the\nbottle, and in an instant covered the table with dishes and plates of\ngold and silver, full of the finest victuals that ever were seen, and\nwhen all was done went into the bottle again. Mick and his wife looked\nat every thing with astonishment; they had never seen such plates and\ndishes before, and didn\u2019t think they could ever admire them enough;\nthe very sight almost took away their appetites; but at length Molly\nsaid, \u201cCome and sit down, Mick, and try and eat a bit: sure you ought\nto be hungry after such a good day\u2019s work.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, then, the man told no lie about the bottle.\u201d\n\nMick sat down, after putting the children to the table; and they made\na hearty meal, though they couldn\u2019t taste half the dishes.\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d says Molly, \u201cI wonder will those two good little gentlemen\ncarry away these fine things again?\u201d They waited, but no one came; so\nMolly put up the dishes and plates very carefully, saying, \u201cWhy, then,\nMick, that was no lie sure enough; but you\u2019ll be a rich man yet, Mick\nPurcell.\u201d\n\nMick and his wife and children went to their bed, not to sleep, but to\nsettle about selling the fine things they did not want, and to take\nmore land. Mick went to Cork and sold his plate, and bought a horse\nand cart, and began to show that he was making money; and they did all\nthey could to keep the bottle a secret; but for all that, their\nlandlord found it out, for he came to Mick one day and asked him where\nhe got all his money\u2014sure it was not by the farm; and he bothered him\nso much, that at last Mick told him of the bottle. His landlord\noffered him a deal of money for it; but Mick would not give it, till\nat last he offered to give him all his farm for ever: so Mick, who was\nvery rich, thought he\u2019d never want any more money, and gave him the\nbottle: but Mick was mistaken\u2014he and his family spent money as if\nthere was no end of it; and, to make the story short, they became\npoorer and poorer, till at last they had nothing left but one cow; and\nMick once more drove his cow before him to sell her at Cork fair,\nhoping to meet the old man and get another bottle. It was hardly\nday-break when he left home, and he walked on at a good pace till he\nreached the big hill: the mists were sleeping in the valleys and\ncurling like smoke-wreaths upon the brown heath around him. The sun\nrose on his left, and just at his feet a lark sprang from its grassy\ncouch and poured forth its joyous matin song, ascending into the clear\nblue sky,\n\n    \u201cTill its form like a speck in the airiness blending\n    And thrilling with music, was melting in light.\u201d\n\nMick crossed himself, listening as he advanced to the sweet song of\nthe lark, but thinking, notwithstanding, all the time of the little\nold man; when, just as he reached the summit of the hill, and cast his\neyes over the extensive prospect before and around him, he was\nstartled and rejoiced by the same well-known voice:\u2014\u201cWell, Mick\nPurcell, I told you, you would be a rich man.\u201d\n\n\u201cIndeed, then, sure enough I was, that\u2019s no lie for you, sir. Good\nmorning to you, but it is not rich I am now\u2014but have you another\nbottle, for I want it now as much as I did long ago; so if you have\nit, sir, here is the cow for it.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd here is the bottle,\u201d said the old man, smiling; \u201cyou know what to\ndo with it.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! then, sure I do, as good right I have.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, farewell for ever, Mick Purcell: I told you, you would be a\nrich man.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd good-bye to you, sir,\u201d said Mick, as he turned back; \u201cand good\nluck to you, and good luck to the big hill\u2014it wants a name\u2014Bottle\nHill.\u2014Good-bye, sir, good-bye;\u201d so Mick walked back as fast as he\ncould, never looking after the white-faced little gentleman and the\ncow, so anxious was he to bring home the bottle. Well, he arrived with\nit safely enough, and called out, as soon as he saw Molly,\u2014\u201cOh! sure,\nI\u2019ve another bottle!\u201d\n\n\u201cArrah! then have you? why, then, you\u2019re a lucky man, Mick Purcell,\nthat\u2019s what you are.\u201d\n\nIn an instant she put every thing right; and Mick, looking at his\nbottle, exultingly cried out, \u201cBottle, do your duty.\u201d In a twinkling,\ntwo great stout men with big cudgels issued from the bottle (I do not\nknow how they got room in it), and belaboured poor Mick and his wife\nand all his family, till they lay on the floor, when in they went\nagain. Mick, as soon as he recovered, got up and looked about him; he\nthought and thought, and at last he took up his wife and his children;\nand, leaving them to recover as well as they could, he took the bottle\nunder his coat, and went to his landlord, who had a great company: he\ngot a servant to tell him he wanted to speak to him, and at last he\ncame out to Mick.\n\n\u201cWell, what do you want now?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing, sir, only I have another bottle.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! ho! is it as good as the first?\u201d\n\n\u201cYes, sir, and better; if you like, I will show it to you before all\nthe ladies and gentlemen.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome along, then.\u201d So saying, Mick was brought into the great hall,\nwhere he saw his old bottle standing high up on a shelf: \u201cAh! ha!\u201d\nsays he to himself, \u201cmay be I won\u2019t have you by and by.\u201d\n\n\u201cNow,\u201d says his landlord, \u201cshow us your bottle.\u201d Mick set it on the\nfloor, and uttered the words; in a moment the landlord was tumbled on\nthe floor; ladies and gentlemen, servants and all, were running and\nroaring, and sprawling, and kicking and shrieking. Wine cups and\nsalvers were knocked about in every direction, until the landlord\ncalled out, \u201cStop those two devils, Mick Purcell, or I\u2019ll have you\nhanged!\u201d\n\n\u201cThey never shall stop,\u201d said Mick, \u201ctill I get my own bottle that I\nsee up there at top of that shelf.\u201d\n\n\u201cGive it down to him, give it down to him, before we are all killed!\u201d\nsays the landlord.\n\nMick put the bottle in his bosom; in jumped the two men into the new\nbottle, and he carried the bottles home. I need not lengthen my story\nby telling how he got richer than ever, how his son married his\nlandlord\u2019s only daughter, how he and his wife died when they were very\nold, and how some of the servants, fighting at their wake, broke the\nbottles; but still the hill has the name upon it; ay, and so \u2019twill be\nalways Bottle Hill to the end of the world, and so it ought, for it is\na strange story.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE.\n\nVII.\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\u2019s 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 the\ncivility, a long lease, about half-a-dozen times more valuable than\nthe loan which procured it. The old man died worth several hundred\npounds, the greater part of which, with his farm, he bequeathed to his\nson Tom. 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\ninvested with the privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of\ncommunicating with those mysterious beings called \u201cthe good people.\u201d\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\u2014they are small, gray,\nand lively. The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather\nwithin, which they twinkle, give them an expression of shrewdness and\nintelligence, if not of cunning. And this is very much the character\nof the man. If you want to make a bargain with Tom Bourke, you must\nact as if you were a general besieging a town, and make your advances\na long time before you can hope to obtain possession; if you march up\nboldly, and tell him at once your object, you are for the most part\nsure to have the gates closed in your teeth. Tom does not wish to part\nwith what you wish to obtain, or another person has been speaking to\nhim for the whole of the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems\nto meet the most favourable reception. \u201cVery well, sir;\u201d \u201cThat\u2019s true,\nsir;\u201d \u201cI\u2019m very thankful to your honour,\u201d and other expressions of\nkindness and confidence, greet you in reply to every sentence; and you\npart from him wondering how he can have obtained the character which\nhe universally bears, of being a man whom no one can make any thing of\nin a bargain. But when you next meet him, the flattering illusion is\ndissolved: you find you are a great deal farther from your object than\nyou were when you thought you had almost succeeded: his eye and his\ntongue express a total forgetfulness of what the mind within never\nlost sight of for an instant; and you have to begin operations afresh,\nwith the disadvantage of having put your adversary completely upon his\nguard.\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\u2019s 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\none to 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\non 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\nin his attendance at the funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of\nhis friends. 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\u2014a hope of future\nbenefit and a fear of future evil. For the good people, who are a race\nas powerful as they are capricious, have their favourites among those\nwho inhabit the 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\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_[8] 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\nunhappy patient, such a proposition being a direct insult to his\nsupernatural superiors. It is true, that as the labourer is worthy of\nhis hire, most persons, gifted as he is, do not scruple to receive a\ntoken of gratitude from the patients or their friends, _after_ their\nrecovery.\n\n    [8] The term \u201cfairy struck\u201d is applied to paralytic affections,\n    which are supposed to proceed from a blow given by the invisible\n    hand of an offended fairy; this belief, of course, creates fairy\n    doctors, who by means of charms and mysterious journeys profess\n    to cure the afflicted. It is only fair to add, that the term has\n    also a convivial acceptation, the fairies being not unfrequently\n    made to bear the blame of the effects arising from too copious a\n    sacrifice to Bacchus.\n\n    The importance attached to the manner and place of burial by the\n    peasantry is almost incredible; it is always a matter of\n    consideration and often of dispute whether the deceased shall be\n    buried with his or her \u201cown people.\u201d\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 one of the _good people_\nbelonging to his own family, and though he would do her a kindness, he\ncould take none from her.\n\nAbout the time this last remarkable affair took place, my friend Mr.\nMartin, who is a neighbour of Tom\u2019s, had some business to transact\nwith him, which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a conclusion.\nAt last Mr. Martin, having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a\nlegal process, which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was\narranged to their mutual satisfaction, and with perfect good-humour\nbetween the parties. The accommodation took place after dinner at Mr.\nMartin\u2019s house, and he invited Tom to walk into the parlour and take a\nglass of punch, made of some excellent _potteen_, which was on the\ntable: he had long wished to draw out his highly endowed neighbour on\nthe subject of his supernatural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who was in\nthe room, was rather a favourite of Tom\u2019s, this seemed a good\nopportunity.\n\n\u201cWell, Tom,\u201d said Mr. Martin, \u201cthat was a curious business of Molly\nDwyer\u2019s, who recovered her speech so suddenly the other day.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may say that, sir,\u201d replied Tom Bourke; \u201cbut I had to travel far\nfor it: no matter for that, now. Your health, ma\u2019am,\u201d said he, turning\nto Mrs. Martin.\n\n\u201cThank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once in that way\nin your own family,\u201d said Mrs. Martin.\n\n\u201cSo I had, ma\u2019am; trouble enough; but you were only a child at that\ntime.\u201d\n\n\u201cCome, Tom,\u201d said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupting him, \u201ctake\nanother tumbler;\u201d and he then added, \u201cI 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 over.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis true for you, sir,\u201d returned Tom; \u201cyour father, the doctor (God\nbe good to him, I won\u2019t belie him in his grave) told me, when my\nfourth little boy was a week sick, that himself and Doctor Barry did\nall that man could do for him; but they could not keep him from going\nafter the rest. No more they could, if the people that took away the\nrest wished to take him too. But they left him; and sorry to the heart\nI am I did not know before why they were taking my boys from me; if I\ndid, I would not be left trusting to two of \u2019em now.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how did you find it out, Tom?\u201d inquired Mr. Martin.\n\n\u201cWhy, then, I\u2019ll tell you, sir,\u201d said Bourke: \u201cWhen your father said\nwhat I told you, I did not know very well what to do. I walked down\nthe little _bohereen_, you know, sir, that goes to the river-side near\nDick Heafy\u2019s ground; for \u2019twas a lonesome place, and I wanted to think\nof 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 know well how to\nface his mother with the news, for she doted down upon him. Beside,\nshe never got the better of all she cried at her brother\u2019s berrin\n(burying) the week before. As I was going down the bohereen, I met an\nold bocough,[9] that used to come about the place once or twice a\nyear, and used always to sleep in our barn while he staid in the\nneighbourhood. So he asked me how I was. \u2018Bad enough, Shamous\n(James),\u2019 says I. \u2018I\u2019m sorry for your trouble,\u2019 says he; \u2018but you\u2019re a\nfoolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be well enough if you would\nonly do what you ought with him.\u2019 \u2018What more can I do with him,\nShamous?\u2019 says I: \u2018the doctors give him over.\u2019 \u2018The doctors know no\nmore what ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her\nmilk,\u2019 says Shamous: \u2018but go to such a one,\u2019 says he, telling me his\nname, \u2018and try what he\u2019ll say to you.\u2019\u201d\n\n    [9] A peculiar class of beggars resembling the Gaberlunzie man\n    of Scotland.\n\n\u201cAnd who was that, Tom?\u201d asked Mr. Martin.\n\n\u201cI could not tell you that, sir,\u201d said Bourke, with a mysterious look:\n\u201chowsoever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this. But\nI had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first, may be I\u2019d\nhave now some of them that\u2019s gone, and so Shamous often told me. Well,\nsir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By course,\nI did every thing as he bid me. According to his order, I took the\nlittle boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and\nmade a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay down\nby his side, in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell asleep.\nHe got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was drawn\nthrough the river, and breathed hard, with a great _impression_\n(oppression) on his chest, and was very bad\u2014very bad entirely through\nthe night. I thought about twelve o\u2019clock he was going at last, and I\nwas just getting 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, and that\nwas stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough\nof light where we were laying 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. Just as I was thinking of\ngetting up, as I told you\u2014I wont belie my father, sir\u2014he was a good\nfather to me\u2014I saw him standing at the bed-side, holding out his\nright hand to me, and leaning his other hand on the stick he used to\ncarry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all\nas if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would not lose the\nchild. \u2018Is that you, father?\u2019 says I. He said nothing. \u2018If that\u2019s\nyou,\u2019 says I again, \u2018for the love of them that\u2019s gone, let me catch\nyour hand.\u2019 And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a child\u2019s.\nHe stayed about as long as you\u2019d be going from this to the gate below\nat the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the\nchild was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn\u2019t\nto-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the\ntown of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut I think, Tom,\u201d said Mr. Martin, \u201cit 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\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cI beg your pardon, sir,\u201d said Bourke, interrupting him; \u201cbut don\u2019t\ncall them my enemies. \u2019Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to\nsit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir.\u2014Here\u2019s\nwishing you a good health and long life.\u201d\n\n\u201cI assure you,\u201d returned Mr. Martin, \u201cI meant no offence, Tom; but was\nit not as I say?\u201d\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t tell you that, sir,\u201d said Bourke; \u201cI\u2019m bound down, sir.\nHowsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of, and my father, and\nthose they know, settled it between them.\u201d\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\u2019s illness\u2014circumstances often\nmysteriously hinted at by Tom.\n\n\u201cSee that now,\u201d said he, returning to Mr. Martin, \u201chow well she\nremembers it! True for you, ma\u2019am. The goat I gave the mistress your\nmother, when the doctors ordered her goats\u2019 whey.\u201d\n\nMrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued\u2014\u201cWhy, then, I\u2019ll\ntell you how that was. The goat was as well as e\u2019er a goat ever was,\nfor a month after she was sent to Killaan to your father\u2019s. The\nmorning after the night I just told you of, before the child woke, his\nmother was standing at the gap leading out of the barn-yard into the\nroad, and she saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth, off\nthe church, down towards her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till\nthey came to the house on the hill at the other side of the river,\nfacing our farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and\nafter looking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight\nacross the river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where the\nchild and I were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing,\nsir?\u201d\n\n\u201cCertainly not, Tom,\u201d returned Mr. Martin.\n\n\u201cWell, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to\ncry.\u2014\u2018Whisht, you fool!\u2019 says I: \u2018\u2019tis all for the better.\u2019 \u2019Twas\ntrue for me. What do you think, ma\u2019am; the goat that I gave your\nmother, that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin,\nas merry as a bee, dropped down dead, without any body knowing why,\nbefore Jack\u2019s face; and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly\nfrom the top of the house out of the town, towards the Lismore road.\n\u2019Twas at the same time my woman saw them, as I just told you.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas very strange, indeed, Tom,\u201d said Mr. Martin; \u201cI wish you could\ngive us some explanation of it.\u201d\n\n\u201cI wish I could, sir,\u201d was Tom Bourke\u2019s answer; \u201cbut I\u2019m bound down. I\ncan\u2019t tell but what I\u2019m allowed to tell, any more than a sentry is let\nwalk more than his rounds.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the\nman that assisted in the cure of your son,\u201d said Mr. Martin.\n\n\u201cSo I had, sir,\u201d returned Bourke. \u201cI had a trial of that man. But\nthat\u2019s neither here nor there. I can\u2019t tell you any thing about that,\nsir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! very much indeed,\u201d said Mr. Martin.\n\n\u201cBut you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him the\nbetter through the story,\u201d added Mrs. Martin. Tom Bourke paused for a\nminute to consider this proposition.\n\n\u201cWell, I believe I may tell you that, any how; his name is Patrick. He\nwas always a smart, active, \u2019cute boy, and would be a great clerk if\nhe stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother\u2019s\nwake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to bury her.\nHer people and my father\u2019s people\u2014I mean their friends, sir, among\nthe _good people_, had the greatest battle that was known for many a\nyear, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she\u2019d be taken.\nThey fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to\nsettle it. The neighbours wondered how long I was before I buried my\nmother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that\ntime. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth\nmorning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried\nher in Kilcrumper churchyard with my father\u2019s people.\u201d\n\n\u201cHe was a valuable friend, Tom,\u201d said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty\nsuppressing a smile. \u201cBut you were about to tell how he became so\nskilful.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo I will, and welcome,\u201d replied Bourke. \u201cYour health, ma\u2019am. I am\ndrinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never\ntasted the like of it: it goes down one\u2019s throat like sweet oil. But\nwhat was I going to say?\u2014Yes\u2014well\u2014Patrick, many a long year ago,\nwas coming home from a _berrin_ late in the evening, and walking by\nthe side of the river opposite the big inch,[10] near Ballyhefaan\nford.[11] He had taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a little\nmerry, as you may say, and knew very well what he was doing. The moon\nwas shining, for it was in the month of August, and the river was as\nsmooth and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long\ntime but the fall of the water at the mill wier about a mile down the\nriver, and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of\nthe river. All at once, there was a noise of a great number of people,\nlaughing as if they\u2019d break their hearts, and of a piper playing among\nthem. It came from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw,\nthrough the mist that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people\ndancing on the inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance as he was of a\nglass, and that\u2019s saying enough for him; so he whipped[12] off his\nshoes and stockings, and away with him across the ford. After putting\non his shoes and stockings at the other side of the river, he walked\nover to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being\nminded. He thought, sir, that he\u2019d show them better dancing than any\nof themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and good right he\nhad, for there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or\ntreble with him. But pwah!\u2014his dancing was no more to theirs than\nmine would be to the mistress there. They did not seem as if they had\na bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire\nthem. Patrick was \u2019shamed 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 for some time bitterly as if\nhe did not like what was going on, came up to him. \u2018Patrick,\u2019 says he.\nPatrick started, for he did not think any body there knew him.\n\u2018Patrick,\u2019 says he, \u2018you\u2019re discouraged, and no wonder for you. But\nyou have a friend near you. I\u2019m your friend, and your father\u2019s friend,\nand I think worse (more) of your little finger than I do of all that\nare here, though they think no one is as good as themselves. Go into\nthe ring and call for a lilt. Don\u2019t be afeard. I tell you the best of\nthem did not do as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.\u2019\nPatrick felt something within him as if he ought not to gainsay the\nold man. He went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the\nbest double he had. And, sure enough, all that the others were able\nfor was nothing to him! He bounded like an eel, now here and now\nthere, as light as a feather, although the people could hear the music\nanswered by his steps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the\nleft foot of the piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then\nthey got a table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts\nfrom the whole company. At last he called for a trencher; and when\nthey saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not\nknow what to make of him. Some praised him for the best dancer that\never entered 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 never went the long journey.\u201d\n\n    [10] Inch\u2014low meadow ground near a river.\n\n    [11] A ford of the river Funcheon (the Fanchin of Spenser,) on\n    the road leading from Fermoy to Araglin.\n\n    [12] _i. e._ \u201cIn the time of a crack of a whip,\u201d he took off his\n    shoes and stockings.\n\n\u201cAnd what was the cause of his great success?\u201d inquired Mr. Martin.\n\n\u201cHe could not help it, sir,\u201d replied Tom Bourke. \u201cThey 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cDid he ever discover why he was gifted with these extraordinary\npowers in the dance, Tom?\u201d said Mr. Martin.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll tell you that too, sir,\u201d answered Bourke, \u201cwhen 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 got the fever, or something like\nit, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn\u2019t make out\nwhat it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors gave\nhim over. But it\u2019s little they know what ailed him. When he was, as\nyou may say, about ten days sick, and every body thought he was going,\none of the neighbours came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from\nBallinlacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I can\u2019t tell\nyou his name either, only it was Darby. The minute Darby saw Patrick,\nhe took a little bottle, with the juice of herbs in it, out of his\npocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same every day for\nthree weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as\nhearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time before he\ncame to himself; and he used to walk the whole day sometimes by the\nditch side, talking to himself, like as if there was some one along\nwith him. And so there was surely, or he wouldn\u2019t be the man he is\nto-day.\n\n\u201cI suppose it was from some such companion he learned his skill,\u201d said\nMr. Martin.\n\n\u201cYou have it all now, sir,\u201d replied Bourke. \u201cDarby told him his\nfriends were satisfied with what he did the night of the dance; and\nthough they couldn\u2019t hinder the fever, they\u2019d bring him over it, and\nteach him more than many knew beside him. And so they did. For you see\nall 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\u2019s family, and it went again\u2019 his heart, you see, that the\nothers were so light, and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear\n\u2019em boasting how they\u2019d 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 that time when he was wandering in his\nmind after the fever.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have heard many strange stories about that inch near Ballyhefaan\nford,\u201d said Mr. Martin. \u201c\u2019Tis a great place for the good people, isn\u2019t\nit, Tom?\u201d\n\n\u201cYou may say that, sir,\u201d returned Bourke. \u201cI could tell you a great\ndeal about it. Many a time I sat for as good as two hours by\nmoonlight, at th\u2019 other side of the river, looking at \u2019em playing goal\nas if they\u2019d 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\u2019 other, just as you\u2019d see on a Sunday in Mr. Simming\u2019s\nbig field. I saw \u2019em one night play till the moon set, without one\nparty being able to take the ball from th\u2019 other. I\u2019m sure they were\ngoing to fight, only, \u2019twas near morning. I\u2019m told your grandfather,\nma\u2019am, used to see \u2019em, there, too,\u201d said Bourke, turning to Mrs.\nMartin.\n\n\u201cSo I have been told, Tom,\u201d replied Mrs. Martin. \u201cBut don\u2019t they say\nthat the churchyard of Kilcrumper[13] is just as favourite a place\nwith the good people as Ballyhefaan inch.\u201d\n\n    [13] About two hundred yards off the Dublin mail-coach road,\n    nearly mid-way between Kilworth and Fermoy.\n\n\u201cWhy, then, may be, you never heard, ma\u2019am, what happened to Davy\nRoche in that same churchyard,\u201d said Bourke; and turning to Mr.\nMartin, added, \u201c\u2019twas a long time before he went into your service,\nsir. He was walking home of an evening, from the fair of Kilcummer, a\nlittle merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin.\nSo he walked along with it, and thought it very queer, that he did not\nknow a mother\u2019s soul in the crowd, but one man, and he was sure that\nman was dead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin,\ntill they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and then he went in and staid\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 along\nwith \u2019em, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy longed to\nbe among \u2019em (for he hadn\u2019t a bad foot of his own, that time, whatever\nhe may now;) but he was loath to begin, because they all seemed\nstrange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was dead.\nWell, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him.\n\u2018Davy,\u2019 says he, \u2018take out a partner, and show what you can do, but\ntake care and don\u2019t offer to kiss her.\u2019 \u2018That I won\u2019t,\u2019 says Davy,\n\u2018although her lips were made of honey.\u2019 And with that he made his bow\nto the _purtiest_ girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance.\n\u2019Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th\u2019 admiration, do you\nsee, of all that were there. \u2019Twas 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 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; \u2019twas near morning\nwhen he came home; but they couldn\u2019t get a word out of him till the\nnext day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o\u2019clock.\u201d\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.\u2014He muttered for a few minutes broken\nsentences concerning churchyards, river-sides, leprechauns, and _dina\nmagh_, which were quite unintelligible, perhaps to himself, certainly\nto Mr. Martin and his lady. At length he made a slight motion of the\nhead upwards, as if he would say, \u201cI can talk no more;\u201d stretched his\narm 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\nbid them 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\u2019s 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\nthat he returned without meeting any material injury, as I know that\nwithin the last month, he was, to use his own words, \u201cAs stout and\nhearty a man as any of his age in the county Cork.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nFAIRIES OR NO FAIRIES.\n\nVIII.\n\n\nJohn Mulligan was as fine an old fellow as ever threw a Carlow spur\ninto the sides of a horse. He was, besides, as jolly a boon companion\nover a jug of punch as you would meet from Carnsore Point to Bloody\nFarland. And a good horse he used to ride; and a stiffer jug of punch\nthan his was not in nineteen baronies. May be he stuck more to it than\nhe ought to have done\u2014but that is nothing whatever to the story I am\ngoing to tell.\n\nJohn believed devoutly in fairies; and an angry man was he if you\ndoubted them. He had more fairy stories than would make, if properly\nprinted in a rivulet of print running down a meadow of margin, two\nthick quartos for Mr. Murray, of Albemarle street; all of which he\nused to tell on all occasions that he could find listeners. Many\nbelieved his stories\u2014many more did not believe them\u2014but nobody, in\nprocess of time, used to contradict the old gentleman, for it was a\npity to vex him. But he had a couple of young neighbours who were just\ncome down from their first vacation in Trinity College to spend the\nsummer months with an uncle of theirs, Mr. Whaley, an old Cromwellian,\nwho lived at Ballybegmullinahone, and they were too full of logic to\nlet the old man have his own way undisputed.\n\nEvery story he told they laughed at, and said that it was\nimpossible\u2014that it was merely old woman\u2019s gabble, and other such\nthings. When he would insist that all his stories were derived from\nthe most credible sources\u2014nay, that some of them had been told him by\nhis own grandmother, a very respectable old lady, but slightly\naffected in her faculties, as things that came under her own\nknowledge\u2014they cut the matter short by declaring that she was in her\ndotage, and at the best of times had a strong propensity to pulling a\nlong bow.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d said they, \u201cJack Mulligan did you ever see a fairy yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cNever,\u201d was the reply.\u2014\u201cNever, as I am a man of honour and credit.\u201d\n\n\u201cWell, then,\u201d they answered, \u201cuntil you do, do not be bothering us\nwith any more tales of my grandmother.\u201d\n\nJack was particularly nettled at this, and took up the cudgels for his\ngrandmother; but the younkers were too sharp for him, and finally he\ngot into a passion, as people generally do who have the worst of an\nargument. This evening it was at their uncle\u2019s, an old crony of his,\nwith whom he had dined\u2014he had taken a large portion of his usual\nbeverage, and was quite riotous. He at last got up in a passion,\nordered his horse, and, in spite of his host\u2019s entreaties, galloped\noff, although he had intended to have slept there; declaring that he\nwould not have any thing more to do with a pair of jackanapes puppies,\nwho, because they had learned how to read good-for-nothing books in\ncramp writing, and were taught by a parcel of wiggy, red-snouted,\nprating prigs, (\u201cnot,\u201d added he, \u201chowever, that I say a man may not be\na good man and have a red nose,\u201d) they imagined they knew more than a\nman who had held buckle and tongue together facing the wind of the\nworld for five dozen years.\n\nHe rode off in a fret, and galloped as hard as his horse Shaunbuie\ncould powder away over the limestone. \u201cYes, indeed!\u201d muttered he, \u201cthe\nbrats had me in one thing\u2014I never did see a fairy; and I would give\nup five as good acres as ever grew apple-potatoes to get a glimpse of\none\u2014and by the powers! what is that?\u201d\n\nHe looked, and saw a gallant spectacle. His road lay by a noble\ndemesne, gracefully sprinkled with trees, not thickly planted as in a\ndark forest, but disposed, now in clumps of five or six, now standing\nsingly, towering over the plain of verdure around them as a beautiful\npromontory arising out of the sea. He had come right opposite the\nglory of the wood. It was an oak, which in the oldest title-deeds of\nthe county, and they were at least five hundred years old, was called\nthe old oak of Ballinghassig. Age had hollowed its centre, but its\nmassy boughs still waved with their dark serrated foliage. The moon\nwas shining on it bright. If I were a poet, like Mr. Wordsworth, I\nshould tell you how the beautiful light was broken into a thousand\ndifferent fragments\u2014and how it filled the entire tree with a glorious\nflood, bathing every particular leaf, and showing forth every\nparticular bough; but, as I am not a poet, I shall go on with my\nstory. By this light Jack saw a brilliant company of lovely little\nforms dancing under the oak with an unsteady and rolling motion. The\ncompany was large. Some spread out far beyond the farthest boundary of\nthe shadow of the oak\u2019s branches\u2014some were seen glancing through the\nflashes of light shining through its leaves\u2014some were barely visible,\nnestling under the trunk\u2014some, no doubt, were entirely concealed from\nhis eyes. Never did man see any thing more beautiful. They were not\nthree inches in height, but they were white as the driven snow, and\nbeyond number numberless. Jack threw the bridle over his horse\u2019s neck,\nand drew up to the low wall which bounded the demesne, and leaning\nover it, surveyed with infinite delight, their diversified gambols. By\nlooking long at them, he soon saw objects which had not struck him at\nfirst; in particular that in the middle was a chief of superior\nstature, round whom the group appeared to move. He gazed so long that\nhe was quite overcome with joy, and could not help shouting out:\n\u201cBravo! little fellow,\u201d said he, \u201cwell kicked and strong.\u201d But the\ninstant he uttered the words the night was darkened, and the fairies\nvanished with the speed of lightning.\n\n\u201cI wish,\u201d said Jack, \u201cI had held my tongue; but no matter now. I shall\njust turn bridle about and go back to Ballybegmullinahone Castle, and\nbeat the young Master Whaleys, fine reasoners as they think\nthemselves, out of the field clean.\u201d\n\nNo sooner said than done: and Jack was back again as if upon the wings\nof the wind. He rapped fiercely at the door, and called aloud for the\ntwo collegians.\n\n\u201cHalloo!\u201d said he, \u201cyoung Flatcaps, come down, if you dare. Come down,\nif you dare, and I shall give you _oc-oc-_ocular demonstration of the\ntruth of what I was saying.\u201d\n\nOld Whaley put his head out of the window, and said, \u201cJack Mulligan,\nwhat brings you back so soon?\u201d\n\n\u201cThe fairies,\u201d shouted Jack; \u201cthe fairies!\u201d\n\n\u201cI am afraid,\u201d muttered the Lord of Ballybegmullinahone, \u201cthe last\nglass you took was too little watered; but, no matter\u2014come in and\ncool yourself over a tumbler of punch.\u201d\n\nHe came in and sat down again at table. In great spirits he told his\nstory;\u2014how he had seen thousands and tens of thousands of fairies\ndancing about the old oak of Ballinghassig; he described their\nbeautiful dresses of shining silver; their flat-crowned hats,\nglittering in the moonbeams; and the princely stature and demeanour of\nthe central figure. He added, that he heard them singing and playing\nthe most enchanting music; but this was merely imagination. The young\nmen laughed, but Jack held his ground. \u201cSuppose,\u201d said one of the\nlads, \u201cwe join company with you on the road, and ride along to the\nplace, where you saw that fine company of fairies?\u201d\n\n\u201cDone!\u201d cried Jack; \u201cbut I will not promise that you will find them\nthere, for I saw them scudding up in the sky like a flight of bees,\nand heard their wings whizzing through the air.\u201d This, you know, was a\nbounce, for Jack had heard no such thing.\n\nOff rode the three, and came to the demesne of Oakwood. They arrived\nat the wall flanking the field where stood the great oak; and the\nmoon, by this time, having again emerged from the clouds, shone bright\nas when Jack had passed. \u201cLook there,\u201d he cried, exultingly: for the\nsame spectacle again caught his eyes, and he pointed to it with his\nhorsewhip; \u201clook, and deny if you can.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy,\u201d said one of the lads, pausing, \u201ctrue it is that we do see a\ncompany of white creatures; but were they fairies ten times over, I\nshall go among them;\u201d and he dismounted to climb over the wall.\n\n\u201cAh, Tom! Tom,\u201d cried Jack, \u201cstop, man, stop! what are you doing? The\nfairies\u2014the good people, I mean\u2014hate to be meddled with. You will be\npinched or blinded; or your horse will cast its shoe; or\u2014look! a\nwilful man will have his way. Oh! oh! he is almost at the oak\u2014God\nhelp him! for he is past the help of man.\u201d\n\nBy this time Tom was under the tree, and burst out laughing. \u201cJack,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201ckeep your prayers to yourself. Your fairies are not bad at\nall. I believe they will make tolerably good catsup.\u201d\n\n\u201cCatsup,\u201d said Jack, who, when he found that the two lads (for the\nsecond had followed his brother) were both laughing in the middle of\nthe fairies, had dismounted and advanced slowly\u2014\u201cWhat do you mean by\ncatsup?\u201d\n\n\u201cNothing,\u201d replied Tom, \u201cbut that they are mushrooms (as indeed they\nwere:) and your Oberon is merely this overgrown puff-ball.\u201d\n\nPoor Mulligan gave a long whistle of amazement, staggered back to his\nhorse without saying a word, and rode home in a hard gallop, never\nlooking behind him. Many a long day was it before he ventured to face\nthe laughers at Ballybegmullinahone; and to the day of his death the\npeople of the parish, ay, and five parishes round called him nothing\nbut musharoon Jack, such being their pronunciation of mushroom.\n\nI should be sorry if all my fairy stories ended with so little\ndignity: but\u2014\n\n              \u201cThese our actors,\n    As I foretold you, were all spirits, and\n    Are melted into air\u2014into thin air.\u201d\n\n     The name SHEFRO, by which the foregoing section is\n     distinguished, literally signifies a fairy house or mansion,\n     and is adopted as a general name for the Elves who are supposed\n     to live in troops or communities, and were popularly supposed\n     to have castles or mansions of their own.\u2014See _Stewart\u2019s\n     Popular Superstitions of the Highlands_, 1823, pp. 90, 91, &c.\n\n     _Sia_, _sigh_, _sighe_, _sigheann_, _siabhra_, _siachaire_,\n     _siogidh_, are Irish words, evidently springing from a common\n     Celtic root, used to express a fairy or goblin, and even a hag\n     or witch. Thus we have the compounds _Leannan-sighe_, a\n     familiar, from _Leannan_, a pet, and _Sioghdhraoidheachd_,\n     enchantment with or by spirits.\n\n     _Sigh g\u00e0oithe_ or _siaheann-g\u00e0oithe_, a whirlwind, is so termed\n     because it is said to be raised by the fairies. The close of\n     day called _Sia_, because twilight,\n\n        \u201cThat sweet hour, when day is almost closing,\u201d\n\n     is the time when the fairies are most frequently seen. Again,\n     _Sigh_ is a hill or hillock, because the fairies are believed\n     to dwell within. _Sidhe_, _sidheadh_, and _sigh_, are names for\n     a blast or blight, because it is supposed to proceed from the\n     fairies.\n\n     The term _Shoges_, i.e. _Sigh oges_ (young or little spirits,)\n     Fairies, is used in a curious poem printed under the name of\n     \u201cThe Irish Hudibras,\u201d 1689, pp. 23, and 81; a copy of which,\n     entitled \u201cThe Fingallian Travesty,\u201d is among the Sloane MSS.\n     No. 900. In the Third Part of O\u2019Flaherty\u2019s Ogygia, it is\n     related that St. Patrick and some of his followers, who were\n     chanting matins beside a fountain, were taken for \u201c_Sidhe_, or\n     fairies,\u201d by some pagan ladies.\n\n     \u201cThe Irish,\u201d according to the Rev. James Hely\u2019s translation of\n     O\u2019Flaherty, \u201ccall these _Sidhe_, a\u00ebrial spirits or phantoms,\n     because they are seen to come out of pleasant hills, where the\n     common people imagine they reside, which fictitious habitations\n     are called by us _Sidhe_ or _Siodha_.\u201d\n\n     For a similar extended use of the German word _Alp_, _Elf_, &c.\n     see Introductory Essay to the Grimms\u2019 _Irische Elfenm\u00e4rchen_,\n     pp. 55\u201362.\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE CLURICAUNE.\n\n    \u201c\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014 That sottish elf\n    Who quaffs with swollen lips the ruby wine,\n    Draining the cellar with as free a hand\n    As if it were his purse which ne\u2019er lacked coin;\u2014\n    And then, with feign\u2019d contrition ruminates\n    Upon his wasteful pranks, and revelry,\n    In some secluded dell or lonely grove\n    Tinsel\u2019d by Twilight.\u201d\u2014\n                                               \u0394.\n\n\n\n\nTHE HAUNTED CELLAR.\n\nIX.\n\n\nThere are few people who have not heard of the Mac Carthies\u2014one of\nthe real old Irish families, with the true Milesian blood running in\ntheir veins, as thick as buttermilk. Many were the clans of this\nfamily in the south; as the Mac Carthy-more\u2014and the Mac\nCarthy-reagh\u2014and the Mac Carthy of Muskerry; and all of them were\nnoted for their hospitality to strangers, gentle and simple.\n\nBut not one of that name, or of any other, exceeded Justin Mac Carthy,\nof Ballinacarthy, at putting plenty to eat and drink upon his table;\nand there was a right hearty welcome for every one who would share it\nwith him. Many a wine-cellar would be ashamed of the name if that at\nBallinacarthy was the proper pattern for one; large as that cellar\nwas, it was crowded with bins of wine, and long rows of pipes, and\nhogsheads, and casks, that it would take more time to count than any\nsober man could spare in such a place, with plenty to drink about him,\nand a hearty welcome to do so.\n\nThere are many, no doubt, who will think that the butler would have\nlittle to complain of in such a house; and the whole country round\nwould have agreed with them, if a man could be found to remain as Mr.\nMac Carthy\u2019s butler for any length of time worth speaking of; yet not\none who had been in his service gave him a bad word.\n\n\u201cWe have no fault,\u201d they would say, \u201cto find with the master; and if\nhe could but get any one to fetch his wine from the cellar, we might\nevery one of us have grown gray in the house, and have lived quiet and\ncontented enough in his service until the end of our days.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis a queer thing that, surely,\u201d thought young Jack Leary, a lad who\nhad been brought up from a mere child in the stables of Ballinacarthy\nto assist in taking care of the horses, and had occasionally lent a\nhand in the butler\u2019s pantry:\u2014\u201c\u2019tis a mighty queer thing, surely, that\none man after another cannot content himself with the best place in\nthe house of a good master, but that every one of them must quit, all\nthrough the means, as they say, of the wine-cellar. If the master,\nlong life to him! would but make me his butler, I warrant never the\nword more would be heard of grumbling at his bidding to go to the\nwine-cellar.\u201d\n\nYoung Leary accordingly watched for what he conceived to be a\nfavourable opportunity of presenting himself to the notice of his\nmaster.\n\nA few mornings after, Mr. Mac Carthy went into his stable-yard rather\nearlier than usual, and called loudly for the groom to saddle his\nhorse, as he intended going out with the hounds. But there was no\ngroom to answer, and young Jack Leary led Rainbow out of the stable.\n\n\u201cWhere is William?\u201d inquired Mr. Mac Carthy.\n\n\u201cSir?\u201d said Jack; and Mr. Mac Carthy repeated the question.\n\n\u201cIs it William, please your honour?\u201d returned Jack; \u201cwhy, then, to\ntell the truth, he had just _one_ drop too much last night.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhere did he get it?\u201d said Mr. Mac Carthy; \u201cfor since Thomas went\naway, the key of the wine-cellar has been in my pocket, and I have\nbeen obliged to fetch what was drank myself.\u201d\n\n\u201cSorrow a know I know,\u201d said Leary, \u201cunless the cook might have given\nhim the _least taste_ in life of whiskey. But,\u201d continued he,\nperforming a low bow by seizing with his right hand a lock of hair,\nand pulling down his head by it, whilst his left leg which had been\nput forward, was scraped back against the ground, \u201cmay I make so bold\nas just to ask your honour one question?\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak out, Jack,\u201d said Mr. Mac Carthy.\n\n\u201cWhy, then, does your honour want a butler?\u201d\n\n\u201cCan you recommend me one,\u201d returned his master, with a smile of good\nhumour upon his countenance, \u201cand one who will not be afraid of going\nto my wine-cellar?\u201d\n\n\u201cIs the wine-cellar all the matter?\u201d said young Leary: \u201cnot a doubt\nhave I of myself then for that.\u201d\n\n\u201cSo you mean to offer me your services in the capacity of butler?\u201d\nsaid Mr. Mac Carthy, with some surprise.\n\n\u201cExactly so,\u201d answered Leary, now for the first time looking up from\nthe ground.\n\n\u201cWell, I believe you to be a good lad, and have no objection to give\nyou a trial.\u201d\n\n\u201cLong may your honour reign over us, and the Lord spare you to us!\u201d\nejaculated Leary, with another national bow, as his master rode off;\nand he continued for some time to gaze after him with a vacant stare,\nwhich slowly and gradually assumed a look of importance.\n\n\u201cJack Leary,\u201d said he at length, \u201cJack\u2014is it Jack?\u201d in a tone of\nwonder; \u201cfaith, \u2019tis not Jack now, but Mr. John, the butler;\u201d and with\nan air of becoming consequence he strided out of the stable-yard\ntowards the kitchen.\n\nIt is of little purport to my story, although it may afford an\ninstructive lesson to the reader, to depict the sudden transition of\nnobody into somebody. Jack\u2019s former stable companion, a poor\nsuperannuated hound named Bran, who had been accustomed to receive\nmany an affectionate tap on the head, was spurned from him with a kick\nand an \u201cOut of the way, sirrah.\u201d Indeed, poor Jack\u2019s memory seemed\nsadly affected by this sudden change of situation. What established\nthe point beyond all doubt was his almost forgetting the pretty face\nof Peggy, the kitchen wench, whose heart he had assailed but the\npreceding week by the offer of purchasing a gold ring for the fourth\nfinger of her right hand, and a lusty imprint of good-will upon her\nlips.\n\nWhen Mr. Mac Carthy returned from hunting, he sent for Jack Leary\u2014so\nhe still continued to call his new butler. \u201cJack,\u201d said he, \u201cI believe\nyou are a trustworthy lad, and here are the keys of my cellar. I have\nasked the gentlemen with whom I hunted to-day to dine with me, and I\nhope they may be satisfied at the way in which you will wait on them\nat table; but, above all, let there be no want of wine after dinner.\u201d\n\nMr. John having a tolerably quick eye for such things, and being\nnaturally a handy lad, spread his cloth accordingly, laid his plates\nand knives and forks in the same manner he had seen his predecessors\nin office perform these mysteries, and really, for the first time, got\nthrough attendance on dinner very well.\n\nIt must not be forgotten, however, that it was at the house of an\nIrish country squire, who was entertaining a company of booted and\nspurred fox-hunters, not very particular about what are considered\nmatters of infinite importance under other circumstances and in other\nsocieties.\n\nFor instance, few of Mr. Mac Carthy\u2019s guests, (though all excellent\nand worthy men in their way,) cared much whether the punch produced\nafter soup was made of Jamaica or Antigua rum; some even would not\nhave been inclined to question the correctness of good old Irish\nwhiskey; and, with the exception of their liberal host himself, every\none in company preferred the port which Mr. Mac Carthy put on his\ntable to the less ardent flavour of claret,\u2014a choice rather at\nvariance with modern sentiment.\n\nIt was waxing near midnight, when Mr. Mac Carthy rang the bell three\ntimes. This was a signal for more wine; and Jack proceeded to the\ncellar to procure a fresh supply, but it must be confessed not without\nsome little hesitation.\n\nThe luxury of ice was then unknown in the south of Ireland; but the\nsuperiority of cool wine had been acknowledged by all men of sound\njudgment and true taste.\n\nThe grandfather of Mr. Mac Carthy, who had built the mansion of\nBallinacarthy upon the site of an old castle which had belonged to his\nancestors, was fully aware of this important fact; and in the\nconstruction of his magnificent wine-cellar had availed himself of a\ndeep vault, excavated out of the solid rock in former times as a place\nof retreat and security. The descent to this vault was by a flight of\nsteep stone stairs, and here and there in the wall were narrow\npassages\u2014I ought rather to call them crevices; and also certain\nprojections which cast deep shadows, and looked very frightful when\nany one went down the cellar stairs with a single light: indeed, two\nlights did not much improve the matter, for though the breadth of the\nshadows became less, the narrow crevices remained as dark and darker\nthan ever.\n\nSummoning up all his resolution, down went the new butler, bearing in\nhis right hand a lantern and the key of the cellar, and in his left a\nbasket, which he considered sufficiently capacious to contain an\nadequate stock for the remainder of the evening; he arrived at the\ndoor without any interruption whatever; but when he put the key, which\nwas of an ancient and clumsy kind\u2014for it was before the days of\nBramah\u2019s patent,\u2014and turned it in the lock, he thought he heard a\nstrange kind of laughing within the cellar, to which some empty\nbottles that stood upon the floor outside vibrated so violently, that\nthey struck against each other: in this he could not be mistaken,\nalthough he may have been deceived in the laugh; for the bottles were\njust at his feet, and he saw them in motion.\n\nLeary paused for a moment, and looked about him with becoming caution.\nHe then boldly seized the handle of the key, and turned it with all\nhis strength in the lock, as if he doubted his own power of doing so;\nand the door flew open with a most tremendous crash, that, if the\nhouse had not been built upon the solid rock, would have shook it from\nthe foundation.\n\nTo recount what the poor fellow saw would be impossible, for he seems\nnot to know very clearly himself: but what he told the cook the next\nmorning was, that he heard a roaring and bellowing like a mad bull,\nand that all the pipes and hogsheads and casks in the cellar went\nrocking backwards and forwards with so much force, that he thought\nevery one would have been staved in, and that he should have been\ndrowned or smothered in wine.\n\nWhen Leary recovered, he made his way back as well as he could to the\ndining-room, where he found his master and the company very impatient\nfor his return.\n\n\u201cWhat kept-you?\u201d said Mr. Mac Carthy in an angry voice; \u201cand where is\nthe wine? I rung for it half an hour since.\u201d\n\n\u201cThe wine is in the cellar, I hope, sir,\u201d said Jack, trembling\nviolently; \u201cI hope \u2019tis not all lost.\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat do you mean, fool?\u201d exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy in a still more\nangry tone: \u201cwhy did you not fetch some with you?\u201d\n\nJack looked wildly about him, and only uttered a deep groan.\n\n\u201cGentlemen,\u201d said Mr. Mac Carthy to his guests, \u201cthis is too much.\nWhen I next see you to dinner, I hope it will be in another house, for\nit is impossible I can remain longer in this, where a man has no\ncommand over his own wine-cellar, and cannot get a butler to do his\nduty. I have long thought of moving from Ballinacarthy; and I am now\ndetermined, with the blessing of God, to leave it to-morrow. But wine\nshall you have, were I to go myself to the cellar for it.\u201d So saying,\nhe rose from the table, took the key and lantern from his half\nstupified servant, who regarded him with a look of vacancy, and\ndescended the narrow stairs, already described, which led to his\ncellar.\n\nWhen he arrived at the door, which he found open, he thought he heard\na noise, as if of rats or mice scrambling over the casks, and on\nadvancing perceived a little figure, about six inches in height,\nseated astride upon the pipe of the oldest port in the place, and\nbearing the spigot upon his shoulder. Raising the lantern, Mr. Mac\nCarthy contemplated the little fellow with wonder: he wore a red\nnightcap on his head; before him was a short leather apron, which now,\nfrom his attitude, fell rather on one side; and he had stockings of a\nlight blue colour, so long as nearly to cover the entire of his legs;\nwith shoes, having huge silver buckles in them, and with high heels\n(perhaps out of vanity to make him appear taller). His face was like a\nwithered winter apple; and his nose, which was of a bright crimson\ncolour, about the tip wore a delicate purple bloom, like that of a\nplum: yet his eyes twinkled\n\n                \u201clike those mites\n    Of candied dew in moony nights\u2014\n\nand his mouth twitched up at one side with an arch grin.\n\n\u201cHa, scoundrel!\u201d exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy, \u201chave I found you at last?\ndisturber of my cellar\u2014what are you doing there?\u201d\n\n\u201cSure, and master,\u201d returned the little fellow, looking up at him with\none eye, and with the other throwing a sly glance towards the spigot\non his shoulder, \u201ca\u2019n\u2019t we going to move to-morrow? and sure you would\nnot leave your own little Cluricaune Naggeneen behind you?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh!\u201d thought Mr. Mac Carthy, \u201cif you are to follow me, Master\nNaggeneen, I don\u2019t see much use in quitting Ballinacarthy.\u201d So filling\nwith wine the basket which young Leary in his fright had left behind\nhim, and locking the cellar door, he rejoined his guests.\n\nFor some years after, Mr. Mac Carthy had always to fetch the wine for\nhis table himself, as the little Cluricaune Naggeneen seemed to feel a\npersonal respect towards him. Notwithstanding the labour of these\njourneys, the worthy lord of Ballinacarthy lived in his paternal\nmansion to a good round age, and was famous to the last for the\nexcellence of his wine, and the conviviality of his company; but at\nthe time of his death, that same conviviality had nearly emptied his\nwine-cellar; and as it was never so well filled again, nor so often\nvisited, the revels of Master Naggeneen became less celebrated, and\nare now only spoken of amongst the legendary lore of the country. It\nis even said that the poor little fellow took the declension of the\ncellar so to heart, that he became negligent and careless of himself,\nand that he has been sometimes seen going about with hardly a skreed\nto cover him.\n\nSome, however, believe that he turned brogue-maker, and assert that\nthey have seen him at his work, and heard him whistling as merry as a\nblackbird on a May morning, under the shadow of a brown jug of foaming\nale, bigger\u2014ay bigger than himself; decently dressed enough, they\nsay;\u2014only looking mighty old. But still \u2019tis clear he has his wits\nabout him, since no one ever had the luck to catch him, or to get hold\nof the purse he has with him, which they call _spr\u00e9-na-skillinagh_,\nand \u2019tis said is never without a shilling in it.\n\n\n\n\nMASTER AND MAN.\n\nX.\n\n\nBilly Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his\nbrogue at a patron, emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh: fearing\nfor nothing but the want of drink; caring for nothing but who should\npay for it; and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it: drunk\nor sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy Mac Daniel;\nand a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or ending a\ndispute. More is the pity, that through the means of his drinking, and\nfearing and caring for nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into\nbad company; for surely the good people are the worst of all company\nany 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 the\ncold. \u201cBy my word,\u201d chattered Billy, \u201ca drop of good liquor would be\nno bad thing to keep a man\u2019s soul from freezing in him; and I wish I\nhad a full measure of the best.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever wish it twice, Billy,\u201d 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\u201cSuccess, my little fellow,\u201d said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted,\nthough well he knew the little man to belong to the _good people_;\n\u201chere\u2019s your health, any way, and thank you kindly; no matter who pays\nfor the drink;\u201d and he took the glass and drained it to the very\nbottom, without ever taking a second breath to it.\n\n\u201cSuccess,\u201d said the little man; \u201cand you\u2019re heartily welcome, Billy;\nbut don\u2019t think to cheat me as you have done others,\u2014out with your\npurse and pay me like a gentleman.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it I pay you?\u201d said Billy: \u201ccould I not just take you up and put\nyou in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?\u201d\n\n\u201cBilly Mac Daniel,\u201d said the little man, getting very angry, \u201cyou\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.\u201d\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, \u201cYou may now go home, Billy, but on your peril don\u2019t 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.\u201d\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;\nbut he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening,\nand away he went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the\nlittle man came towards him and said, \u201cBilly, 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.\u201d\n\nBilly thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him\naccordingly: \u201cBut,\u201d said he, \u201cif 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cAsk no questions, Billy,\u201d said the little man, \u201cbut go over to that\nbit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.\u201d\n\nBilly did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at; and\nhe picked out 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. \u201cGet up, Billy,\u201d said the little man, taking one\nof the rushes from him and striding across it.\n\n\u201cWhere will I get up, please your honour?\u201d said Billy.\n\n\u201cWhy, upon horseback, like me, to be sure,\u201d said the little man.\n\n\u201cIs it after making a fool of me you\u2019d be,\u201d said Billy, \u201cbidding me\nget a horseback upon that bit of a rush? May be you want to persuade\nme that the rush I pulled but awhile ago out of the bog over there is\na horse?\u201d\n\n\u201cUp! up! and no words,\u201d said the little man, looking very vexed; \u201cthe\nbest horse you ever rode was but a fool to it.\u201d So Billy, thinking all\nthis was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, straddled across the\nrush: \u201cBorram! Borram! Borram!\u201d 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\u2019s 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\u2019s end, and stopped at the gate of a\nfine house: \u201cNow, Billy,\u201d said the little man, \u201cdo as you see me do,\nand follow me close; but as you did not know your horse\u2019s head from\nhis tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until you can\u2019t\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\ndumb.\u201d\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. \u201cThe best of masters are you\nsurely,\u201d said Billy to him; \u201cno matter who is the next; and well\npleased will I be with your service if you continue to give me plenty\nto drink.\u201d\n\n\u201cI have made no bargain with you,\u201d said the little man, \u201cand will make\nnone; but up and follow me.\u201d Away they went, through key-hole after\nkey-hole; and each mounting upon the rush which he had left at the\nhall door, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like\nsnowballs, as soon as the words, \u201cBorram, Borram, Borram,\u201d had passed\ntheir 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\u2014sometimes north, and sometimes east, and\nsometimes south, until there was not a gentleman\u2019s wine-cellar in all\nIreland they had not visited, and could tell the flavour of every wine\nin it as well\u2014ay, 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, \u201cBilly, I shall want another horse\nto-night, for may be we may bring back more company with us than we\ntake.\u201d So Billy, who now knew better than to question any order given\nto him by his master, brought a third rush, much wondering who it\nmight be that should travel back in their company, and whether he was\nabout to have a fellow-servant. \u201cIf I have,\u201d thought Billy, \u201che shall\ngo and fetch the horses from the bog every night; for I don\u2019t see why\nI am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my master.\u201d\n\nWell, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, and never stopped\nuntil they came to a snug farmer\u2019s house in the county Limerick, close\nunder the old castle of Carrigogunnel, that was built, they say, by\nthe great Brian Boru. Within the house there was great carousing going\nforward, and the little man stopped outside for some time to listen;\nthen turning round all of a sudden, said, \u201cBilly, I will be a thousand\nyears old to-morrow!\u201d\n\n\u201cGod bless us, sir,\u201d said Billy, \u201cwill you?\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t say these words again, Billy,\u201d said the little man, \u201cor 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cI think so too, without any kind of doubt at all,\u201d said Billy, \u201cif\never you mean to marry.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd to that purpose,\u201d said the little man, \u201chave I come all the way\nto Carrigogunnel; 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what will Darby Riley say to that?\u201d said Billy.\n\n\u201cSilence!\u201d said the little man, putting on a mighty severe look: \u201cI\ndid not bring you here with me to ask questions;\u201d 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 cock-sparrow 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\u2014and under them were the priest and piper\u2014and the\nfather of Darby Riley, with Darby\u2019s two brothers and his uncle\u2019s\nson\u2014and there were both the father and the mother of Bridget Rooney,\nand proud enough the old couple were that night of their daughter, as\ngood right they had\u2014and her four sisters with bran new ribands in\ntheir caps, and her three brothers all looking as clean and as clever\nas any three boys in Munster\u2014and there were uncles and aunts, and\ngossips and cousins enough besides to make a full house of it\u2014and\nplenty was there to eat and drink on the table for every one of them,\nif they had been double the number.\n\nNow it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had helped his reverence to the\nfirst cut of the pig\u2019s 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 \u201cGod bless us.\u201d 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 pre-occupied with pig\u2019s head and greens. And after a\nmoment\u2019s 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. \u201cHa!\u201d 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\u2014\u201cHa!\u201d said he, leering down at\nthe bride, and then up at Billy, \u201cI 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.\u201d\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 \u201cGod bless us.\u201d\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, \u201cGod save us!\u201d 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, \u201cI discharge you my service, Billy\nMac Daniel\u2014take _that_ for your wages,\u201d 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 did he drink at it too, which\nwas what he thought more of than dancing.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LITTLE SHOE.\n\nXI.\n\n\n\u201cNow tell me, Molly,\u201d said Mr. Coote to Molly Cogan, as he met her on\nthe road one day, close to one of the old gateways of Kilmallock,[14]\n\u201cdid you ever hear of the Cluricaune?\u201d\n\n    [14] \u201cKilmallock seemed to me like the court of the Queen of\n    Silence.\u201d\u2014_O\u2019Keefe\u2019s Recollections._\n\n\u201cIs it the Cluricaune? why, then, sure I did, often and often; many\u2019s\nthe time I heard my father, rest his soul! tell about \u2019em.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut did you ever see one, Molly, yourself?\u201d\n\n\u201cOch! no, I never _see_ one in my life; but my grandfather, that\u2019s my\nfather\u2019s father, you know, he _see_ one, one time, and caught him\ntoo.\u201d\n\n\u201cCaught him! Oh! Molly, tell me how?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, then, I\u2019ll tell you. My grandfather, you see, was out there\nabove in the bog, drawing home turf, and the poor old mare was tired\nafter her day\u2019s work, and the old man went out to the stable to look\nafter her, and to see if she was eating her hay; and when he came to\nthe stable door there, my dear, he heard something hammering,\nhammering, hammering, just for all the world like a shoemaker making a\nshoe, and whistling all the time the prettiest tune he ever heard in\nhis whole life before. Well, my grandfather, he thought it was the\nCluricaune, and he said to himself, says he, \u2018I\u2019ll catch you, if I\ncan, and then, I\u2019ll have money enough always.\u2019 So he opened the door\nvery quietly, and didn\u2019t make a bit of noise in the world that ever\nwas heard; and looked all about, but the never a bit of the little man\nhe could see anywhere, but he heard him hammering and whistling, and\nso he looked and looked, till at last he _see_ the little fellow; and\nwhere was he, do you think, but in the girth under the mare; and there\nhe was with his little bit of an apron on him, and hammer in his\nhand, and a little red nightcap on his head, and he making a shoe; and\nhe was so busy with his work, and he was hammering and whistling so\nloud, that he never minded my grandfather till he caught him fast in\nhis hand. \u2018Faith I have you now,\u2019 says he, \u2018and I\u2019ll never let you go\ntill I get your purse\u2014that\u2019s what I won\u2019t; so give it here to me at\nonce, now.\u2019\u2014\u2018Stop, stop,\u2019 says the Cluricaune, \u2018stop, stop,\u2019 says he,\n\u2019till I get it for you.\u2019 So my grandfather, like a fool, you see,\nopened his hand a little, and the little fellow jumped away laughing,\nand he never saw him any more, and the never the bit of the purse did\nhe get, only the Cluricaune left his little shoe that he was making;\nand my grandfather was mad enough angry with himself for letting him\ngo; but he had the shoe all his life, and my own mother told me she\noften _see_ it, and had it in her hand, and \u2019twas the prettiest little\nshoe she ever saw.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd did you see it yourself, Molly?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! no, my dear, it was lost long afore I was born; but my mother\ntold me about it often and often enough.\u201d\n\n     The main point of distinction between the Cluricaune and the\n     Shefro, arises from the sottish and solitary habits of the\n     former, who are rarely found in troops or communities.\n\n     The Cluricaune of the county of Cork, the Luricaune of Kerry,\n     and the Lurigadaune of Tipperary, appear to be the same as the\n     Leprechan or Leprochaune of Leinster, and the Logherry-man of\n     Ulster; and these words are probably all provincialisms of the\n     Irish for a pigmy.\n\n     It is possible, and is in some measure borne out by the text of\n     one of the preceding stories [IX.], that the word _luacharman_\n     is merely an Anglo-Irish induction, compounded of (a rush,) and\n     the English word, _man_.\u2014A rushy man,\u2014that may be, a man of\n     the height of a rush, or a being who dwelt among rushes, that\n     is, unfrequented or boggy places.\n\n     The following dialogue is said to have taken place in an Irish\n     court of justice, upon the witness having used the word\n     Leprochaune:\u2014\n\n     _Court._\u2014Pray what is a leprochaune? the law knows no such\n     character or designation.\n\n     _Witness._\u2014My lord, it is a little counsellor man in the\n     fairies, or an attorney that robs them all, and he always\n     carries a purse that is full of money, and if you see him and\n     keep your eyes on him, and that you never turn them aside, he\n     cannot get away, and if you catch him he gives you the purse to\n     let him go, and then you\u2019re as rich as a Jew.\n\n     _Court._\u2014Did you ever know of any one that caught a\n     Leprochaune? I wish I could catch one.\n\n     _Witness._\u2014Yes, my lord, there was one\u2014\n\n     _Court._\u2014That will do.\n\n     With respect to \u201cmoney matters,\u201d there appears to be a strong\n     resemblance between the ancient Roman Incubus and the Irish\n     Cluricaune.\u2014\u201cSed quomodo dicunt, ego nihil scio, sed audivi,\n     quomodo incuboni pileum rapuisset et thesaurum invenit,\u201d are\n     the words of Petronius.\u2014See, for farther arguments in support\n     of identity of the two spirits, the Brothers Grimm\u2019s Essay on\n     the Nature of the Elves, prefixed to their translation of this\n     work, under the head of \u201cAncient Testimonies.\u201d\n\n     \u201cOld German and Northern poems contain numerous accounts of the\n     skill of the dwarfs in curious smith\u2019s-work.\u201d\u2014\u201cThe Irish\n     Cluricaune is heard hammering; he is particularly fond of\n     making shoes, but these were in ancient times made of metal (in\n     the old Northern language a shoemaker is called a\n     _shoe-smith_;) and, singularly enough, the wights in a German\n     tradition manifest the same propensity; for, whatever work the\n     shoemaker has been able to cut out in the day, they finish\n     with incredible quickness during the night.\u201d\n                                                 THE BROTHERS GRIMM.\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE.\n\n    \u201cWho sits upon the heath forlorn,\n    With robe so free and tresses torn?\n    Anon she pours a harrowing strain,\n    And then\u2014she sits all mute again!\n    Now peals the wild funereal cry\u2014\n    And now\u2014it sinks into a sigh.\u201d\n                              OURAWNS.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BANSHEE.\n\nXII.\n\n\nThe Reverend Charles Bunworth was rector of Buttevant, in the county\nof Cork, about the middle of the last century. He was a man of\nunaffected piety, and of sound learning; pure in heart, and benevolent\nin intention. By the rich he was respected, and by the poor beloved;\nnor did a difference of creed prevent their looking up to \u201c_the\nminister_\u201d (so was Mr. Bunworth called by them) in matters of\ndifficulty and in seasons of distress, confident of receiving from him\nthe advice and assistance that a father would afford to his children.\nHe was the friend and the benefactor of the surrounding country\u2014to\nhim, from the neighbouring town of Newmarket, came both Curran and\nYelverton for advice and instruction, previous to their entrance at\nDublin College. Young, indigent and inexperienced, these afterwards\neminent men received from him, in addition to the advice they sought,\npecuniary aid; and the brilliant career which was theirs, justified\nthe discrimination of the giver.\n\nBut what extended the fame of Mr. Bunworth, far beyond the limits of\nthe parishes adjacent to his own, was his performance on the Irish\nharp, and his hospitable reception and entertainment of the poor\nharpers who travelled from house to house about the country. Grateful\nto their patron, these itinerant minstrels sang his praises to the\ntingling accompaniment of their harps, invoking in return for his\nbounty abundant blessings on his white head, and celebrating in their\nrude verses the blooming charms of his daughters, Elizabeth and Mary.\nIt was all these poor fellows could do; but who can doubt that their\ngratitude was sincere, when, at the time of Mr. Bunworth\u2019s death, no\nless than fifteen harps were deposited in the loft of his granary,\nbequeathed to him by the last members of a race which has now ceased\nto exist. Trifling, no doubt, in intrinsic value were these relics,\nyet there is something in gifts of the heart that merits preservation;\nand it is to be regretted that, when he died, these harps were broken\nup one after the other, and used as fire-wood by an ignorant follower\nof the family, who, on a removal to Cork for a temporary change of\nscene, was left in charge of the house.\n\nThe circumstances attending the death of Mr. Bunworth may be doubted\nby some; but there are still living credible witnesses who declare\ntheir authenticity, and who can be produced to attest most, if not all\nof the following particulars.\n\nAbout a week previous to his dissolution, and early in the evening a\nnoise was heard at the hall door resembling the shearing of sheep; but\nat the time no particular attention was paid to it. It was nearly\neleven o\u2019clock the same night, when Kavanagh, the herdsman, returned\nfrom Mallow, whither he had been sent in the afternoon for some\nmedicine, and was observed by Miss Bunworth, to whom he delivered the\nparcel, to be much agitated. At this time, it must be observed, her\nfather was by no means considered in danger.\n\n\u201cWhat is the matter, Kavanagh?\u201d asked Miss Bunworth: but the poor\nfellow, with a bewildered look, only uttered, \u201cThe master, Miss\u2014the\nmaster\u2014he is going from us;\u201d and, overcome with real grief, he burst\ninto a flood of tears.\n\nMiss Bunworth, who was a woman of strong nerve, inquired if any thing\nhe had learned in Mallow induced him to suppose that her father was\nworse. \u201cNo, Miss,\u201d said Kavanagh; \u201cit was not in Mallow\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cKavanagh,\u201d said Miss Bunworth, with that stateliness of manner for\nwhich she is said to have been remarkable, \u201cI fear you have been\ndrinking, which, I must say, I did not expect at such a time as the\npresent, when it was your duty to have kept yourself sober;\u2014I thought\nyou might have been trusted:\u2014what should we have done if you had\nbroken the medicine bottle, or lost it? for the doctor said it was of\nthe greatest consequence that your master should take the medicine\nto-night. But I will speak to you in the morning, when you are in a\nfitter state to understand what I say.\u201d\n\nKavanagh looked up with a stupidity of aspect which did not serve to\nremove the impression of his being drunk, as his eyes appeared heavy\nand dull after the flood of tears;\u2014but his voice was not that of an\nintoxicated person.\n\n\u201cMiss,\u201d said he, \u201cas I hope to receive mercy hereafter, neither bit\nnor sup has passed my lips since I left this house; but the\nmaster\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cSpeak softly,\u201d said Miss Bunworth; \u201che sleeps, and is going on as\nwell as we could expect.\u201d\n\n\u201cPraise be to God for that, any way,\u201d replied Kavanagh; \u201cbut oh! Miss,\nhe is going from us surely\u2014we will lose him\u2014the master\u2014we will lose\nhim, we will lose him!\u201d and he wrung his hands together.\n\n\u201cWhat is it you mean, Kavanagh?\u201d asked Miss Bunworth.\n\n\u201cIs it mean?\u201d said Kavanagh: \u201cthe Banshee has come for him, Miss, and\n\u2019tis not I alone who have heard her.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis an idle superstition,\u201d said Miss Bunworth.\n\n\u201cMay be so,\u201d replied Kavanagh, as if the words \u2018idle superstition\u2019\nonly sounded upon his ear without reaching his mind\u2014\u201cMay be so,\u201d he\ncontinued; \u201cbut as I came through the glen of Ballybeg, she was along\nwith me, keening, and screeching, and clapping her hands, by my side,\nevery step of the way, with her long white hair falling about her\nshoulders, and I could hear her repeat the master\u2019s name every now and\nthen, as plain as ever I heard it. When I came to the old abbey, she\nparted from me there, and turned into the pigeon-field next the\n_berrin_ ground, and folding her cloak about her, down she sat under\nthe tree that was struck by the lightning, and began keening so\nbitterly, that it went through one\u2019s heart to hear it.\u201d\n\n\u201cKavanagh,\u201d said Miss Bunworth, who had, however, listened attentively\nto this remarkable relation, \u201cmy father is, I believe, better; and I\nhope will himself soon be up and able to convince you that all this is\nbut your own fancy; nevertheless, I charge you not to mention what you\nhave told me, for there is no occasion to frighten your\nfellow-servants with the story.\u201d\n\nMr. Bunworth gradually declined; but nothing particular occurred until\nthe night previous to his death: that night both his daughters,\nexhausted with continued attendance and watching, were prevailed upon\nto seek some repose; and an elderly lady, a near relative and friend\nof the family, remained by the bed-side of their father. The old\ngentleman then lay in the parlour, where he had been in the morning\nremoved at his own request, fancying the change would afford him\nrelief; and the head of his bed was placed close to the window. In a\nroom adjoining sat some male friends, and, as usual on like occasions\nof illness, in the kitchen many of the followers of the family had\nassembled.\n\nThe night was serene and moonlit\u2014the sick man slept\u2014and nothing\nbroke the stillness of their melancholy watch, when the little party\nin the room adjoining the parlour, the door of which stood open, was\nsuddenly roused by a sound at the window near the bed: a rose tree\ngrew outside the window, so close as to touch the glass; this was\nforced aside with some noise, and a low moaning was heard, accompanied\nby clapping of hands, as if of a female in deep affliction. It seemed\nas if the sound proceeded from a person holding her mouth close to the\nwindow. The lady who sat by the bed-side of Mr. Bunworth went into the\nadjoining room, and in a tone of alarm, inquired of the gentlemen\nthere, if they had heard the Banshee? Skeptical of supernatural\nappearances, two of them rose hastily and went out to discover the\ncause of these sounds, which they also had distinctly heard. They\nwalked all around the house, examining every spot of ground,\nparticularly near the window from whence the voice had proceeded; the\nbed of earth beneath, in which the rose tree was planted, had been\nrecently dug, and the print of a footstep\u2014if the tree had been forced\naside by mortal hand\u2014would have inevitably remained; but they could\nperceive no such impression; and an unbroken stillness reigned\nwithout. Hoping to dispel the mystery, they continued their search\nanxiously along the road, from the straightness of which and the\nlightness of the night, they were enabled to see some distance around\nthem; but all was silent and deserted, and they returned surprised and\ndisappointed. How much more then were they astonished at learning that\nthe whole time of their absence, those who remained within the house\nhad heard the moaning and clapping of hands even louder and more\ndistinct than before they had gone out; and no sooner was the door of\nthe room closed on them, than they again heard the same mournful\nsounds! Every succeeding hour the sick man became worse, and as the\nfirst glimpse of the morning appeared, Mr. Bunworth expired.\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE.\n\nXIII.\n\n\nThe family of Mac Carthy have for some generations possessed a small\nestate in the county of Tipperary. They are the descendants of a race,\nonce numerous and powerful in the south of Ireland; and though it is\nprobable that the property they at present hold is no part of the\nlarge possessions of their ancestors, yet the district in which they\nlive is so connected with the name of Mac Carthy by those associations\nwhich are never forgotten in Ireland, that they have preserved with\nall ranks a sort of influence much greater than that which their\nfortune or connexions could otherwise give them. They are, like most\nof this class, of the Roman Catholic persuasion, to which they adhere\nwith somewhat of the pride of ancestry, blended with a something, call\nit what you will, whether bigotry, or a sense of wrong, arising out of\nrepeated diminutions of their family possessions, during the more\nrigorous periods of the penal laws. Being an old family, and\nespecially being an old Catholic family, they have of course their\nBanshee; and the circumstances under which the appearance, which I\nshall relate, of this mysterious harbinger of death, took place, were\ntold me by an old lady, a near connexion of theirs, who knew many of\nthe parties concerned, and who, though not deficient in understanding\nor education, cannot to this day be brought to give a decisive opinion\nas to the truth or authenticity of the story. The plain inference to\nbe drawn from this is, that she believes it, though she does not own\nit; and as she was a contemporary of the persons concerned\u2014as she\nheard the account from many persons about the same period, all\nconcurring in the important particulars\u2014as some of her authorities\nwere themselves actors in the scene\u2014and as none of the parties were\ninterested in speaking what was false; I think we have about as good\nevidence that the whole is undeniably true as we have of many\nnarratives of modern history, which I could name, and which many grave\nand sober-minded people would deem it very great pyrrhonism to\nquestion. This, however, is a point which it is not my province to\ndetermine. People who deal out stories of this sort must be content to\nact like certain young politicians, who tell very freely to their\nfriends what they hear at a great man\u2019s table; not guilty of the\nimpertinence of weighing the doctrines, and leaving it to their\nhearers to understand them in any sense, or in no sense, just as they\nmay please.\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\u2014I 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 whose\nexample 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 pen\nheld in the other, or stuck beneath his hat-band, and the\nink-bottle (\u2018black emblem of the informer\u2019) dangling from his\nwaist-coat-button\u2014went not then from ale-house to ale-house,\ndenouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirit, who preferred\nselling whisky, which had nothing to do with English laws (but to\nelude them,) to retailing that poisonous liquor, which derived its\nname from the British \u201cparliament,\u201d that compelled its circulation\namong a reluctant people. Or if the gauger\u2014recording angel of the\nlaw\u2014wrote 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 whisky 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 for, or the power of,\nrepentance. Fervently she prayed that, if his life could not be\nspared, at least the delirium, which continued with increasing\nviolence from the first few hours of his disorder, might vanish before\ndeath, and leave enough of light and of calm for making his peace with\noffended Heaven. After several days, however, nature seemed quite\nexhausted, and he sunk into a state to like death to be mistaken for\nthe repose of sleep. His face had that pale, glossy, marble look,\nwhich is in general so sure a symptom that life has left its tenement\nof clay. His eyes were closed and sunk; the lids having that\ncompressed and stiffened appearance which seemed to indicate that some\nfriendly hand had done its last office. The lips, half-closed and\nperfectly ashy, discovered just so much of the teeth as to give to the\nfeatures of death their most ghastly, but most impressive look. He lay\nupon his back, with his hands stretched beside, quite motionless; and\nhis distracted mother, after repeated trials, could discover not the\nleast symptom of animation. The medical man who attended, having tried\nthe usual modes for ascertaining the presence of life, declared at\nlast his opinion that it was flown, and prepared to depart from the\nhouse of mourning. His horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of\npeople who were collected before the windows, or scattered in groups\non the lawn in front, gathered round when the door opened. These were\ntenants, fosterers, and poor relations of the family, with others\nattracted by affection, or by that interest which partakes of\ncuriosity, but is something more, and which collects the lower ranks\nround a house where a human being is in his passage to another world.\nThey saw the professional man come out from the hall door and approach\nhis horse, and while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to\nmount, they clustered round him with inquiring and wishful looks. Not\na word was spoken; but their meaning could not be misunderstood; and\nthe physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant\nwas still holding the bridle, as if to delay him, and was looking\nanxiously at his face, as if expecting that he would relieve the\ngeneral suspense, shook his head, and said in a low voice, \u201cIt\u2019s all\nover, James;\u201d and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the\nwomen present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which,\nhaving been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a\nfull, loud, continued and discordant but plaintive wailing, above\nwhich occasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man\u2019s voice,\nsometimes in broken sobs, sometimes in more distinct exclamations of\nsorrow. This was Charles\u2019s foster-brother, who moved about in the\ncrowd, now clapping his hands, now rubbing them together in an agony\nof grief. The poor fellow had been Charles\u2019s playmate and companion\nwhen a boy, and afterwards his servant; had always been distinguished\nby his peculiar regard, and loved his young master, as much, at least,\nas 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 visiters 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, every thing\nwas conducted with the greatest regularity; and though she made no\neffort to check her sorrows, they never once suspended her attention,\nnow more than ever required to preserve order in her household, which,\nin this season of calamity, but for her would have been all confusion.\n\nThe night was pretty far advanced; the boisterous lamentations which\nhad prevailed during part of the day in and about the house had given\nplace to a solemn and mournful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose\nheart, notwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore\nfor sleep, was kneeling in fervent prayer in a chamber adjoining that\nof her son:\u2014suddenly her devotions were disturbed by an unusual\nnoise, proceeding from the persons who were watching round the body.\nFirst, there was a low murmur\u2014then all was silent, as if the\nmovements of those in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic\u2014and\nthen a loud cry of terror burst from all within:\u2014the door of the\nchamber was thrown open, and all who were not overturned in the press\nrushed wildly into the passage which led to the stairs, and into which\nMrs. Mac Carthy\u2019s room opened. Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through\nthe crowd into her son\u2019s chamber, where she found him sitting up in\nthe bed, and looking vacantly around like one risen from the grave.\nThe glare thrown upon his sunk features and thin lathy frame gave an\nunearthly horror to his whole aspect. Mrs. Mac Carthy was a woman of\nsome firmness; but she was a woman, and not quite free from the\nsuperstitions of her country. She dropped on her knees, and, clasping\nher hands, began to pray aloud. The form before her moved only its\nlips and barely uttered, \u201cMother;\u201d\u2014but though the pale lips moved, as\nif there was a design to finish the sentence, the tongue refused its\noffice. Mrs. Mac Carthy sprung forward, and catching the arm of her\nson, exclaimed, \u201cSpeak! in the name of God and his saints, speak! are\nyou alive?\u201d\n\nHe turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent\ndifficulty, \u201cYes, my mother, alive, and\u2014\u2014 But sit down and collect\nyourself; I have that to tell, which will astonish you still more than\nwhat you have seen.\u201d He leaned back on his pillow, and while his\nmother remained kneeling by the bed-side, holding one of his hands\nclasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who\ndistrusted all her senses, he proceeded:\u2014\u201cdo not interrupt me until\nI have done. I wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is\nupon me, as I know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement\nof my illness I have only a confused recollection; but within the last\ntwelve hours, I have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not\nstare incredulously on me\u2014\u2019tis as true as have been my crimes, and,\nas I trust, shall be my repentance. I saw the awful Judge arrayed in\nall the terrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice.\nThe dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence, I saw,\u2014I remember. It is\nfixed here; printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it\npasseth human language. What I _can_ describe I _will_\u2014I 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\u2014not if I should pass\nthrough ten thousand successive states of being\u2014never, for eternity,\nshall I forget the horrors of that moment, when my fate hung\nsuspended\u2014when 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, \u2018Return\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.\u2019\u2014I heard no more; I saw no more, until I\nawoke to life, the moment before you entered.\u201d\n\nCharles\u2019s 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\u2019 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 a\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\u2019s 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\nbirth-day. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances\nwhich attended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the\nfollowing letters, which have been carefully preserved by some\nrelations of his family. The first is from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady,\na very near connexion and valued friend of hers, who lived in the\ncounty of Cork, at about fifty miles\u2019 distance from Spring House.\n\n                        _\u201cTo Mrs. Barry, Castle Barry._\n\n                                    Spring House, Tuesday morning,\n                                               October 15th, 1752.\n\n     \u201cMY DEAREST MARY,\n\n     \u201cI am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old\n     friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days\u2019 journey at\n     this season, over bad roads and through a troubled country, it\n     will indeed require friendship such as yours to persuade a\n     sober woman to encounter. But the truth is, I have, or fancy I\n     have, more than usual cause for wishing you near me. You know\n     my son\u2019s story. I can\u2019t tell how it is, but as next Sunday\n     approaches, when the prediction of his dream or his vision will\n     be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the heart, which\n     I cannot suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will\n     soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew, James\n     Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you know, is my\n     son\u2019s ward,) and the bridal entertainment will take place here\n     on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded hard to have it\n     postponed a day or two longer. Would to God\u2014but no more of\n     this till we meet. Do prevail upon yourself to leave your good\n     man for _one_ week, if his farming concerns will not admit of\n     his accompanying you; and come to us with the girls, as soon\n     before Sunday as you can.\n\n     \u201cEver my dear Mary\u2019s attached cousin and friend,\n                                                  \u201cANN MAC CARTHY.\u201d\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 younger daughters were unable to leave\nhome until late on the morning of Friday. The eldest daughter\nremained, to keep her father company, and superintend the concerns of\nthe household. As the travellers were to journey in an open one-horse\nvehicle, called a jaunting-car (still used in Ireland,) and as the\nroads, bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains,\nit was their design to make two easy stages; to stop about mid-way the\nfirst night, and reach Spring House early on Saturday evening. This\narrangement was now altered, as they found that from the lateness of\ntheir departure, they could proceed, at the utmost, no further than\ntwenty miles on the first day; and they therefore purposed sleeping at\nthe house of a Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat\nless than that distance from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke\u2019s\nin safety, after rather a disagreeable drive. What befell them on\ntheir journey the next day to the Spring House, and after their\narrival there, is fully related in a letter from the second Miss Barry\nto her eldest sister.\n\n                                       \u201cSpring House, Sunday evening,\n                                                  20th October, 1752.\n\n     \u201cDEAR ELLEN,\n\n     \u201cAs my mother\u2019s letter, which encloses this, will announce to\n     you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more\n     fully, I think it better to go regularly through the recital of\n     the extraordinary events of the last two days.\n\n     \u201cThe Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night, that yesterday\n     was pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and\n     the day closed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from\n     this place. The roads were excessively deep, from the heavy\n     rains of the last week, and we proceeded so slowly, that at\n     last my mother resolved on passing the night at the house of\n     Mr. Bourke\u2019s brother (who lives about a quarter of a mile off\n     the road), and coming here to breakfast in the morning. The day\n     had been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy,\n     and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone clear and\n     bright; at others, it was wholly concealed behind the thick,\n     black, and rugged masses of clouds, that rolled rapidly along,\n     and were every moment becoming larger, and collecting together,\n     as if gathering strength for a coming storm. The wind, which\n     blew in our faces, whistled bleakly along the low hedges of the\n     narrow road, on which we proceeded with difficulty from the\n     number of deep sloughs, and which afforded not the least\n     shelter, no plantation being within some miles of us. My\n     mother, therefore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car, how\n     far we were from Mr. Bourke\u2019s. \u2018\u2019Tis about ten spades from this\n     to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into\n     the avenue, ma\u2019am.\u2019 \u2018Very well, Leary: turn up to Mr. Bourke\u2019s\n     as soon as you reach the cross roads.\u2019 My mother had scarcely\n     spoken these words, when a shriek that made us thrill as if our\n     very hearts were pierced by it, burst from the hedge to the\n     right of our way. If it resembled any thing earthly, it seemed\n     the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and\n     giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring agony.\n     \u2018Heaven defend us!\u2019 exclaimed my mother. \u2018Go you over the\n     hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead,\n     while we run back to the hut we just passed, and alarm the\n     village near it.\u2019 \u2018Woman!\u2019 said Leary, beating the horse\n     violently, while his voice trembled\u2014\u2018that\u2019s no woman: the\n     sooner we get on, ma\u2019am, the better;\u2019 and he continued his\n     efforts to quicken the horse\u2019s pace. We saw nothing. The moon\n     was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some time\n     expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken,\n     and had succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we\n     distinctly heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a\n     succession of screams, that seemed to denote the last excess of\n     despair and anguish, and to issue from a person running forward\n     inside the hedge, to keep pace with our progress. Still we saw\n     nothing; until, when we were within about ten yards of the\n     place where an avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke\u2019s to the left,\n     and the road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon\n     started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to see, as\n     plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall thin\n     woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her\n     shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose\n     white cloak, or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on\n     the corner hedge, where the road on which we were, met that\n     which leads to Spring House, with her face towards us, her left\n     hand pointing to this place, and her right arm waving rapidly\n     and violently, as if to draw us on in that direction. The horse\n     had stopped, apparently frightened at the sudden presence of\n     the figure, which stood in the manner I have described, still\n     uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a minute. It\n     then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for one\n     instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a\n     little way up the avenue, on which we proposed going, still\n     pointing towards the road to Spring House, but in an attitude\n     of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage\n     up the avenue. The figure was now quite silent, and its\n     garments, which had before flown loosely in the wind, were\n     closely wrapped around it. \u2018Go on, Leary, to Spring House, in\n     God\u2019s name,\u2019 said my mother; \u2018whatever world it belongs to, we\n     will provoke it no longer.\u2019 \u2018\u2019Tis the Banshee, ma\u2019am,\u2019 said\n     Leary; \u2018and I would not, for what my life is worth, go any\n     where this blessed night but to Spring House. But I\u2019m afraid\n     there\u2019s something bad going forward, or _she_ would not send us\n     there.\u2019 So saying, he drove forward; and as we turned on the\n     road to the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we\n     saw the apparition no more; but we heard plainly a prolonged\n     clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it issued from a\n     person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as the\n     badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that\n     drew us would allow, and arrived here about eleven o\u2019clock last\n     night. The scene which awaited us you have learned from my\n     mother\u2019s letter. To explain it fully, I must recount to you\n     some of the transactions which took place here during the last\n     week.\n\n     \u201cYou are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been married this\n     day to James Ryan, and that they and their friends have been\n     here for the last week. On Tuesday last, the very day on the\n     morning of which cousin Mac Carthy despatched the letter\n     inviting us here, the whole of the company were walking about\n     the grounds a little before dinner. It seems that an\n     unfortunate creature, who had been seduced by James Ryan, was\n     seen prowling in the neighbourhood in a moody melancholy state\n     for some days previous. He had separated from her for several\n     months, and, they say, had provided for her rather handsomely;\n     but she had been seduced by the promise of his marrying her;\n     and the shame of her unhappy condition, uniting with\n     disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects.\n     During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday, she had been walking\n     in the plantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded\n     tight around her, the hood nearly covering her face; and she\n     had avoided conversing with or even meeting any of the family.\n\n     \u201cCharles Mac Carthy, at the time I mentioned, was walking\n     between James Ryan and another, at a little distance from the\n     rest, on a gravel path, skirting a shrubbery. The whole party\n     were thrown into the utmost consternation by the report of a\n     pistol, fired from a thickly planted part of the shrubbery,\n     which Charles and his companions had just passed. He fell\n     instantly, and it was found that he had been wounded in the\n     leg. One of the party was a medical man; his assistance was\n     immediately given, and, on examining, he declared that the\n     injury was very slight, that no bone was broken, that it was\n     merely a flesh wound, and that it would certainly be well in a\n     few days. \u2018We shall know more by Sunday,\u2019 said Charles, as he\n     was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately dressed,\n     and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave, that several\n     of his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apartment.\n\n     \u201cOn inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the\n     poor girl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that she had\n     aimed, not at Charles, but at the destroyer of her innocence\n     and happiness, who was walking beside him. After a fruitless\n     search for her through the grounds, she walked into the house\n     of her own accord, laughing, and dancing and singing wildly,\n     and every moment exclaiming that she had at last killed Mr.\n     Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles, and not Mr. Ryan, who\n     was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which, after\n     working convulsively for some time, she sprung to the door,\n     escaped from the crowd that pursued her, and could never be\n     taken until last night, when she was brought here, perfectly\n     frantic, a little before our arrival.\n\n     \u201cCharles\u2019s wound was thought of such little consequence, that\n     the preparations went forward, as usual, for the wedding\n     entertainment on Sunday. But on Friday night he grew restless\n     and feverish, and on Saturday (yesterday) morning felt so ill,\n     that it was deemed necessary to obtain additional medical\n     advice. Two physicians and a surgeon met in consultation about\n     twelve o\u2019clock in the day, and the dreadful intelligence was\n     announced, that unless a change, hardly hoped for, took place\n     before night, death must happen within twenty-four hours after.\n     The wound it seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and\n     otherwise injudiciously treated. The physicians were right in\n     their anticipations. No favourable symptom appeared, and long\n     before we reached Spring House every ray of hope had vanished.\n     The scene we witnessed on our arrival would have wrung the\n     heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the gate that Mr. Charles\n     was upon his death-bed. When we reached the house, the\n     information was confirmed by the servant who opened the door.\n     But just as we entered, we were horrified by the most appalling\n     screams issuing from the staircase. My mother thought she heard\n     the voice of poor Mrs. Mac Carthy, and sprung forward. We\n     followed, and on ascending a few steps of the stairs, we found\n     a young woman, in a state of frantic passion, struggling\n     furiously with two men-servants, whose united strength was\n     hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing up stairs over the\n     body of Mrs. Mac Carthy, who was lying in strong hysterics upon\n     the steps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the unhappy girl\n     I before described, who was attempting to gain access to\n     Charles\u2019s room, to \u2018get his forgiveness,\u2019 as she said, \u2018before\n     he went away to accuse her for having killed him.\u2019 This wild\n     idea was mingled with another, which seemed to dispute with the\n     former possession of her mind. In one sentence she called on\n     Charles to forgive her, in the next she would denounce James\n     Ryan as the murderer both of Charles and her. At length she was\n     torn away; and the last words I heard her scream were, \u2018James\n     Ryan, \u2019twas you killed him, and not I\u2014\u2019twas you killed him,\n     and not I.\u2019\n\n     \u201cMrs. Mac Carthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of my\n     mother, whose presence seemed a great relief to her. She wept\n     the first tears, I was told, that she had shed since the fatal\n     accident. She conducted us to Charles\u2019s room, who she said, had\n     desired to see us the moment of our arrival, as he found his\n     end approaching, and wished to devote the last hours of his\n     existence to uninterrupted prayer and meditation. We found him\n     perfectly calm, resigned, and even cheerful. He spoke of the\n     awful event which was at hand with courage and confidence, and\n     treated it as a doom for which he had been preparing ever since\n     his former remarkable illness, and which he never once doubted\n     was truly foretold to him. He bade us farewell with the air of\n     one who was about to travel a short and easy journey; and we\n     left him with impressions which, notwithstanding all their\n     anguish, will, I trust, never entirely forsake us.\n\n     \u201cPoor Mrs. Mac Carthy\u2014\u2014but I am just called away. There seems\n     a slight stir in the family; perhaps\u2014\u2014\u201d\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\nfarther learned of this branch of the Mac Carthy family. Before the\nsun had gone down upon Charles\u2019s seven-and-twentieth birth-day, his\nsoul had gone to render its last account to its Creator.\n\n     \u201cBANSHEE, correctly written she-fairies or women fairies,\n     credulously supposed, by the common people, to be so affected\n     to certain families, that they are heard to sing mournful\n     lamentations about their houses at night, whenever any of the\n     family labours under a sickness which is to end in death. But\n     no families which are not of an ancient and noble stock are\n     believed to be honoured with this fairy privilege.\u201d\u2014O\u2019BRIEN\u2019S\n     _Irish Dictionary_.\n\n     For accounts of the appearance of the Irish Banshee, see\n     \u201cPersonal Sketches, &c. by Sir Jonah Barrington;\u201d Miss Lefanu\u2019s\n     Memoirs of her Grandmother, Mrs. Frances Sheridan (1824,) p.\n     32; \u201cThe Memoirs of Lady Fanshaw\u201d (quoted by Sir Walter Scott\n     in a note on \u201cthe Lady of the Lake,\u201d) &c.\n\n     Sir Walter Scott terms the belief in the appearance of the\n     Banshee \u201cone of the most beautiful\u201d of the leading\n     superstitions of Europe. In his \u201cLetters on Demonology,\u201d he\n     says that \u201cseveral families of the Highlands of Scotland\n     anciently laid claim to the distinction of an attendant spirit,\n     who performed the office of the Irish Banshee,\u201d and\n     particularly refers to the supernatural cries and lamentations\n     which foreboded the death of the gallant Mac Lean of Lochbuy.\n\n     \u201cThe Welsh Gwr\u00e2ch y Rhibyn (or the hag of the Dribble) bears\n     some resemblance to the Irish Banshee, being regarded as an\n     omen of death. She is said to come after dusk and flap her\n     leathern wings against the window where she warns of death, and\n     in a broken, howling tone, to call on the one who is to quit\n     mortality by his or her name several times, as thus,\n     _A-a-a-n-ni-i-i-i! Anni._\u201d\u2014_MS. Communication from_ DR. OWEN\n     PUGHE. For some farther particulars, see, in \u201cA Relation of\n     Apparitions, &c. by the Rev. Edmund Jones,\u201d his account of the\n     _Kyhirraeth_, \u201ca doleful foreboding noise before death;\u201d and\n     Howell\u2019s \u201cCambrian Superstitions,\u201d (Tipton, 1831,) p. 31.\n\n     The reader will probably remember the White Lady of the House\n     of Brandenburgh, and the fairy Melusine, who usually\n     prognosticated the recurrence of mortality in some noble family\n     of Poitou. Prince, in his \u201cWorthies of Devon,\u201d records the\n     appearance of a white bird performing the same office for the\n     worshipful lineage of Oxenham.\n\n     \u201cIn the Tyrol, too, they believe in a spirit which looks in at\n     the window of the house in which a person is to die (_Deutsche\n     Sagen_, No. 266;) the white woman with a veil over her head\n     (267,) answers to the Banshee; but the tradition of the\n     _Klage-weib_ (mourning woman,) in the _L\u00fcneburger Heath_\n     (_Spiels Archiv._ ii. 297,) resembles it still more closely. On\n     stormy nights, when the moon shines faintly through the\n     fleeting clouds, she stalks, of gigantic stature, with\n     death-like aspect, and black hollow eyes, wrapt in\n     grave-clothes which float in the wind, and stretches her\n     immense arm over the solitary hut, uttering lamentable cries in\n     the tempestuous darkness. Beneath the roof over which the\n     _Klage-weib_ has leaned, one of the inmates must die in the\n     course of the month.\u201d\u2014THE BROTHERS GRIMM, _and MS.\n                               Communication from_ DR. WILLIAM GRIMM.\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE PHOOKA.\n\n    \u201cNe let house-fires, nor lightnings\u2019 helpless harms,\n    Ne let the _Pouke_, nor other evil spright,\n    Ne let mischievous witches with their charms,\n    Ne let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not,\n        Fray us with things that be not.\u201d\n                                                SPENSER.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPIRIT HORSE.\n\nXIV.\n\n\nThe history of Morty Sullivan ought to be a warning to all young men\nto stay at home, and to live decently and soberly if they can, and not\nto go roving about the world. Morty, when he had just turned of\nfourteen, ran away from his father and mother, who were a mighty\nrespectable old couple, and many and many a tear they shed on his\naccount. It is said they both died heart-broken for his loss: all they\never learned about him was that he went on board of a ship bound to\nAmerica.\n\nThirty years after the old couple had been laid peacefully in their\ngraves, there came a stranger to Beerhaven inquiring after them\u2014it\nwas their son Morty; and, to speak the truth of him, his heart did\nseem full of sorrow when he heard that his parents were dead and\ngone;\u2014but what else could he expect to hear? Repentance generally\ncomes when it is too late.\n\nMorty Sullivan, however, as an atonement for his sins, was recommended\nto perform a pilgrimage to the blessed chapel of Saint Gobnate, which\nis in a wild place called Ballyvourney.\n\nThis he readily undertook: and willing to lose no time, commenced his\njourney the same afternoon. He had not proceeded many miles before the\nevening came on: there was no moon, and the star-light was obscured by\na thick fog, which ascended from the valleys. His way was through a\nmountainous country, with many cross-paths and by-ways, so that it was\ndifficult for a stranger like Morty to travel without a guide. He was\nanxious to reach his destination, and exerted himself to do so; but\nthe fog grew thicker and thicker, and at last he became doubtful if\nthe track he was in led to the blessed chapel of Saint Gobnate. But\nseeing a light which he imagined not to be far off, he went towards\nit, and when he thought himself close to it, the light suddenly seemed\nat a great distance, twinkling dimly through the fog. Though Morty\nfelt some surprise at this, he was not disheartened, for he thought\nthat it was a light sent by the holy Saint Gobnate to guide his feet\nthrough the mountains to her chapel.\n\nAnd thus did he travel for many a mile, continually, as he believed,\napproaching the light, which would suddenly start off to a great\ndistance. At length he came so close as to perceive that the light\ncame from a fire: seated beside which he plainly saw an old\nwoman;\u2014then, indeed, his faith was a little shaken, and much did he\nwonder that both the fire and the old woman should travel before him,\nso many weary miles, and over such uneven roads.\n\n\u201cIn the holy names of the pious Gobnate, and of her preceptor Saint\nAbban,\u201d said Morty, \u201chow can that burning fire move on so fast before\nme, and who can that old woman be sitting beside the moving fire?\u201d\n\nThese words had no sooner passed Morty\u2019s lips than he found himself,\nwithout taking another step, close to this wonderful fire, beside\nwhich the old woman was sitting munching her supper. With every wag of\nthe old woman\u2019s jaw her eyes would roll fiercely upon Morty, as if she\nwas angry at being disturbed; and he saw with more astonishment than\never that her eyes were neither black, nor blue, nor gray, nor hazel,\nlike the human eye, but of a wild red colour, like the eye of a\nferret. If before he wondered at the fire, much greater was his wonder\nat the old woman\u2019s appearance; and stout-hearted as he was, he could\nnot but look upon her with fear\u2014judging, and judging rightly, that it\nwas for no good purpose her supping in so unfrequented a place, and at\nso late an hour, for it was near midnight. She said not one word,\nbut munched and munched away, while Morty looked at her in\nsilence.\u2014\u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d at last demanded the old hag, a\nsulphureous puff coming out of her mouth, her nostrils distending, and\nher eyes growing redder than ever, when she had finished her question.\n\nPlucking up all his courage, \u201cMorty Sullivan,\u201d replied he \u201cat your\nservice;\u201d meaning the latter words only in civility.\n\n\u201c_Ubbubbo!_\u201d said the old woman, \u201cwe\u2019ll soon see that;\u201d and the red\nfire of her eyes turned into a pale green colour. Bold and fearless as\nMorty was, yet much did he tremble at hearing this dreadful\nexclamation: he would have fallen down on his knees and prayed to\nSaint Gobnate, or any other saint, for he was not particular; but he\nwas so petrified with horror, that he could not move in the slightest\nway, much less go down on his knees.\n\n\u201cTake hold of my hand, Morty,\u201d said the old woman: \u201cI\u2019ll give you a\nhorse to ride that will soon carry you to your journey\u2019s end.\u201d So\nsaying, she led the way, the fire going before them;\u2014it is beyond\nmortal knowledge to say how, but on it went, shooting out bright\ntongues of flame, and flickering fiercely.\n\nPresently they came to a natural cavern in the side of the mountain,\nand the old hag called aloud in a most discordant voice for her horse!\nIn a moment a jet-black steed started from its gloomy stable, the\nrocky floor whereof rung with a sepulchral echo to the clanging\nhoofs.\n\n\u201cMount, Morty, mount!\u201d cried she, seizing him with supernatural\nstrength, and forcing him upon the back of the horse. Morty finding\nhuman power of no avail, muttered, \u201cO that I had spurs!\u201d and tried to\ngrasp the horse\u2019s mane; but he caught at a shadow; it nevertheless\nbore him up and bounded forward with him, now springing down a fearful\nprecipice, now clearing the rugged bed of a torrent, and rushing like\nthe dark midnight storm through the mountains.\n\nThe following morning Morty Sullivan was discovered by some pilgrims\n(who came that way after taking their rounds at Gougane Barra) lying\non the flat of his back, under a steep cliff, down which he had been\nflung by the Phooka. Morty was severely bruised by the fall, and he is\nsaid to have sworn on the spot, by the hand of O\u2019Sullivan (and that is\nno small oath),[15] never again to take a full quart bottle of whisky\nwith him on a pilgrimage.\n\n    [15]  \u201cNulla manus,\n          Tam liberalis\n          Atque generalis\n          Atque universalis\n          Quam Sullivanis.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nDANIEL O\u2019ROURKE.\n\nXV.\n\n\nPeople may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O\u2019Rourke,\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 Phooka\u2019s 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 that he told me the\nstory, with gray 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\u201cI am often _axed_ to tell it, sir,\u201d said he, \u201cso that this is not the\nfirst time. The master\u2019s son, you see, had come from beyond foreign\nparts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before\nBonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner\ngiven to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and\nlow, rich and poor. The _ould_ gentlemen were the gentlemen, after\nall, saving your honour\u2019s presence. They\u2019d 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;\u2014and they were so easy and civil, and\nkept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes;\u2014and there was\nno grinding for rent, and few agents; and there was hardly a tenant on\nthe estate that did not taste of his landlord\u2019s bounty often and often\nin the year;\u2014but now it\u2019s another thing: no matter for that, sir; for\nI\u2019d better be telling you my story.\n\n\u201cWell, we had every thing 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\u2014a 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\u2019t\nremember ever at all, no ways, how it was I left the place: only I did\nleave it, that\u2019s certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself,\nI\u2019d just step to Molly Cronohan\u2019s, 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 Ballyasheenough, and was looking up\nat the stars and blessing myself\u2014for why? it was Lady-day\u2014I missed\nmy foot, and souse I fell into the water. \u2018Death alive!\u2019 thought I,\n\u2018I\u2019ll be drowned now!\u2019 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\u201cI 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\u2019s 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;\u2014I could never\nfind out how I got into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure\nand certain I was that it would be my _berrin_ place. So I sat down\nupon a stone which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I\nbegan to scratch my head and sing the _Ullagone_\u2014when all of a sudden\nthe moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the\nworld as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell\nwhat it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the\nface; and what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from\nthe kingdom of Kerry.\n\n\u201cSo he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, \u2018Daniel O\u2019Rourke,\u2019\nsays he, \u2018how do you do?\u2019 \u2018Very well, I thank you, sir,\u2019 says I: \u2018I\nhope you\u2019re well;\u2019 wondering out of my senses all the time how an\neagle came to speak like a Christian. \u2018What brings you here, Dan?\u2019\nsays he. \u2018Nothing at all, sir,\u2019 says I: \u2018only I wish I was safe home\nagain.\u2019 \u2018Is it out of the Island you want to go, Dan?\u2019 says he. \u2018\u2019Tis,\nsir,\u2019 says I: so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much and\nfell into the water; how I swam to the Island; and how I got into the\nbog, and did not know my way out of it. \u2018Dan,\u2019 says he, after a\nminute\u2019s thought, \u2018though it is very improper for you to get drunk on\nLady-day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who \u2019tends mass well, and\nnever flings stones at me nor mine, nor cries out after us in the\nfields\u2014my life for yours,\u2019 says he; \u2018so get up on my back, and grip\nme well for fear you\u2019d fall off, and I\u2019ll fly you out of the bog.\u2019 \u2018I\nam afraid,\u2019 says I, \u2018your honour\u2019s making game of me; for who ever\nheard of riding a horseback on an eagle before?\u2019 \u2018\u2019Pon the honour of a\ngentleman,\u2019 says he, putting his right foot on his breast, \u2018I am quite\nin earnest; and so now either take my offer or starve in the\nbog\u2014besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.\u2019\n\n\u201cIt 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:\u2014\u2018I thank\nyour honour,\u2019 says I, \u2018for the loan of your civility; and I\u2019ll take\nyour kind offer.\u2019 I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and\nheld him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a\nlark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up\u2014up\u2014up\u2014I\nknow not how far up he flew.\n\n\u201c\u2018Why, then,\u2019 said I to him,\u2014thinking he did not know the right road\nhome\u2014very civilly, because why?\u2014I was in his power entirely;\u2014\u2018sir,\u2019\nsays I, \u2018please your honour\u2019s glory, and with humble submission to\nyour better judgment, if you\u2019d fly down a bit, you\u2019re now just over my\ncabin, and I could put down there, and many thanks to your worship.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018_Arrah_, Dan,\u2019 said he, \u2018do you think me a fool? Look down in the\nnext field, and don\u2019t you see two men and a gun? By my word it would\nbe no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I\npicked up off of a _cowld_ stone in a bog.\u2019 \u2018Bother you,\u2019 said I to\nmyself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up\nhe kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down,\nand all to no use. \u2018Where in the world are you going, sir?\u2019 says I to\nhim. \u2018Hold your tongue, Dan,\u2019 says he: \u2018mind your own business, and\ndon\u2019t be interfering with the business of other people.\u2019 \u2018Faith, this\nis my business, I think,\u2019 says I. \u2018Be quiet, Dan,\u2019 says he: so I said\nno more.\n\n\u201cAt last, where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you\ncan\u2019t see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a\nreaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way, (drawing\nthe figure thus [in-line illustration] on the ground with the end of\nhis stick.)\n\n\u201c\u2018Dan,\u2019 said the eagle, \u2018I\u2019m tired with this long fly; I had no\nnotion \u2019twas so far.\u2019 \u2018And my lord, sir,\u2019 said I, \u2018who in the world\n_axed_ you to fly so far\u2014was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and\nbeseech you to stop half an hour ago?\u2019 \u2018There\u2019s no use talking, Dan,\u2019\nsaid he; \u2018I\u2019m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on\nthe moon until I rest myself.\u2019 \u2018Is it sit down on the moon?\u2019 said I;\n\u2018is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I\u2019d fall\noff in a minute, and be _kilt_ and split, and smashed all to bits: you\nare a vile deceiver,\u2014so you are.\u2019 \u2018Not at all, Dan,\u2019 said he: \u2018you\ncan catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that\u2019s sticking out of the\nside of the moon, and \u2019twill keep you up.\u2019 \u2018I won\u2019t, then,\u2019 said I.\n\u2018May be not,\u2019 said he, quite quiet. \u2018If you don\u2019t, my man, I shall\njust give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to\nthe ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as\na drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.\u2019 \u2018Why, then, I\u2019m in a\nfine way,\u2019 said I to myself, \u2018ever to have come along with the likes\nof you;\u2019 and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he\u2019d know\nwhat I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took a hold of the\nreaping hook, and sat down upon the moon; and a mighty cold seat it\nwas, I can tell you that.\n\n\u201cWhen he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said,\n\u2018Good morning to you, Daniel O\u2019Rourke,\u2019 said he: \u2018I think I\u2019ve nicked\nyou fairly now. You robbed my nest last year,\u2019 (\u2019twas true enough for\nhim, but how he found it out is hard to say,) \u2018and in return you are\nfreely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a\ncock-throw.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?\u2019 says\nI. \u2018You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve me at\nlast? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all your\nbreed, you blackguard.\u2019 \u2019Twas 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\u2014sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I\nwas 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 \u2019em, and out there\nwalks\u2014who do you think but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by\nhis bush.\n\n\u201c\u2018Good morrow to you, Daniel O\u2019Rourke,\u2019 said he: \u2018How do you do?\u2019\n\u2018Very well, thank your honour,\u2019 said I. \u2018I hope your honour\u2019s well.\u2019\n\u2018What brought you here, Dan?\u2019 said he. So I told him how I was a\nlittle overtaken in liquor at the master\u2019s, 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 flew me up to the moon.\n\n\u201c\u2018Dan,\u2019 said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was\ndone, \u2018you must not stay here.\u2019 \u2018Indeed, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018\u2019tis much\nagainst my will I\u2019m here at all; but how am I to go back?\u2019 \u2018That\u2019s\nyour business,\u2019 said he, \u2018Dan: mine is to tell you that here you must\nnot stay; so be off in less than no time.\u2019 \u2018I\u2019m doing no harm,\u2019 says\nI, \u2018only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.\u2019\n\u2018That\u2019s what you must not do, Dan,\u2019 says he. \u2018Pray, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018may\nI ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor\ntraveller lodging: I\u2019m sure \u2019tis not so often you\u2019re troubled with\nstrangers coming to see you, for \u2019tis a long way.\u2019 \u2018I\u2019m by myself,\nDan,\u2019 says he; \u2018but you\u2019d better let go the reaping-hook.\u2019 \u2018Indeed,\nand with your leave,\u2019 says I, \u2018I\u2019ll not let go the grip, and the more\nyou bids me, the more I won\u2019t let go;\u2014so I will.\u2019 \u2018You had better,\nDan,\u2019 says he again. \u2018Why, then, my little fellow,\u2019 says I, taking the\nwhole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, \u2018there are two\nwords to that bargain, and I\u2019ll not budge, but you may if you like.\u2019\n\u2018We\u2019ll see how that is to be,\u2019 says he; and back he went, giving the\ndoor such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed),\nthat I thought the moon and all would fall down with it.\n\n\u201cWell, 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. \u2018Good morning to\nyou, Dan,\u2019 says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me\ncleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand: \u2018I thank\nyou for your visit, and fair weather after you, Daniel.\u2019 I had not\ntime to make any answer to him, for I was tumbling over and over, and\nrolling and rolling at the rate of a fox-hunt. \u2018Now help me,\u2019 says I,\n\u2018but this is a pretty pickle for a decent man to be seen in at this\ntime of night; I am now sold fairly.\u2019 The word was not out of my\nmouth, when whiz! what should fly by close to my ear but a flock of\nwild geese; all the way from my own bog of Ballyasheenough, else how\nshould they know _me_? The _ould_ gander, who was their general,\nturning about his head, cried out to me, \u2018Is that you, Dan?\u2019 \u2018The\nsame,\u2019 said I, not a bit daunted now at what he said, for I was by\nthis time used to all kinds of _bedevilment_, and, besides, I knew him\nof _ould_. \u2018Good morrow to you,\u2019 says he, \u2018Daniel O\u2019Rourke: how are\nyou in health this morning?\u2019 \u2018Very well, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018I thank you\nkindly,\u2019 drawing my breath, for I was mightily in want of some. \u2018I\nhope your honour\u2019s the same.\u2019 \u2018I think \u2019tis falling you are, Daniel,\u2019\nsays he. \u2018You may say that, sir,\u2019 says I. \u2018And where are you going all\nthe way so fast?\u2019 said the gander. So I told him how I had taken the\ndrop, and how I came on the island, and how I lost my way in the bog,\nand how the thief of an eagle flew me up to the moon, and how the man\nin the moon turned me out. \u2018Dan,\u2019 said he, \u2018I\u2019ll save you: put out\nyour hand and catch me by the leg, and I\u2019ll fly you home.\u2019 \u2018Sweet is\nyour hand in a pitcher of honey, my jewel,\u2019 says I, though all the\ntime I thought in myself that I don\u2019t much trust you; but there was no\nhelp, so I caught the gander by the leg, and away I and the other\ngeese flew after him as fast as hops.\n\n\u201cWe 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. \u2018Ah! my lord,\u2019 said I to the goose, for I thought\nit best to keep a civil tongue in my head any way, \u2018fly to land if you\nplease.\u2019 \u2018It is impossible, you see, Dan,\u2019 said he, \u2018for awhile,\nbecause you see we are going to Arabia.\u2019 \u2018To Arabia!\u2019 said I; \u2018that\u2019s\nsurely some place in foreign parts, far away. Oh! Mr. Goose: why then\nto be sure, I\u2019m a man to be pitied among you.\u2019 \u2018Whist, whist, you\nfool,\u2019 said he, \u2018hold your tongue; I tell you Arabia is a very decent\nsort of place, as like West Carbery as one egg is like another, only\nthere is a little more sand there.\u2019\n\n\u201cJust as we were talking, a ship hove in sight, scudding so beautiful\nbefore the wind: \u2018Ah! then, sir,\u2019 said I, \u2018will you drop me on the\nship, if you please?\u2019 \u2018We are not fair over it,\u2019 said he. \u2018We are,\u2019\nsaid I. \u2018We are not,\u2019 said he: \u2018If I dropped you now you would go\nsplash into the sea.\u2019 \u2018I would not,\u2019 says I: \u2018I know better than that,\nfor it\u2019s just clean under us, so let me drop now at once.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018If you must, you must,\u2019 said he. \u2018There, take your own way;\u2019 and he\nopened his claw, and indeed he was right\u2014sure enough I came down\nplump into the very bottom of the salt sea! Down to the very bottom I\nwent, and I gave myself up then for ever, when a whale walked up to\nme, scratching himself after his night\u2019s sleep, and looked me full in\nthe face, 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\u2019t\na dry stitch upon my whole carcass; and I heard somebody saying\u2014\u2019twas\na voice I knew too\u2014\u2018Get up, you drunken brute, off of that;\u2019 and with\nthat I woke up, and there was Judy with a tub full of water, which she\nwas splashing all over me;\u2014for, rest her soul! though she was a good\nwife, she never could bear to see me in drink, and had a bitter hand\nof her own.\n\n\u201c\u2018Get up,\u2019 said she again: \u2018and of all places in the parish, would no\nplace _sarve_ your turn to lie down upon but under the _ould_ walls of\nCarrigaphooka? an uneasy resting I am sure you had of it.\u2019 And sure\nenough I had; for I was fairly bothered out of my senses with eagles,\nand men of the moon, and flying ganders, and whales, driving me\nthrough bogs, and up to the moon, and down to the bottom of the green\nocean. If I was in drink ten times over, long would it be before I\u2019d\nlie down on the same spot again; I know that.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE CROOKENED BACK.\n\nXVI.\n\n\nPeggy Barrett was once tall, well shaped, and comely. She was in her\nyouth remarkable for two qualities, not often found together, of being\nthe most thrifty housewife, and the best dancer in her native village\nof Ballyhooley. But she is now upwards of sixty years old; and during\nthe last ten years of her life, she has never been able to stand\nupright. Her back is bent nearly to a level; yet she has the freest\nuse of all her limbs that can be enjoyed in such a posture; her health\nis good, and her mind vigorous; and, in the family of her eldest son,\nwith whom she has lived since the death of her husband, she performs\nall the domestic services which her age, and the infirmity just\nmentioned, allow. She washes the potatoes, makes the fire, sweeps the\nhouse (labours in which she good-humouredly says \u201cshe finds her\ncrooked back mighty convenient\u201d), plays with the children, and tells\nstories to the family and their neighbouring friends, who often\ncollect round her son\u2019s fire-side to hear them during the long winter\nevenings. Her powers of conversation are highly extolled, both for\nhumour and in narration; and anecdotes of droll, awkward incidents,\nconnected with the posture in which she has been so long fixed, as\nwell as the history of the occurrence to which she owes that\nmisfortune, are favourite topics of her discourse. Among other\nmatters, she is fond of relating how, on a certain day at the close of\na bad harvest, when several tenants of the estate on which she lived\nconcerted in a field a petition for an abatement of rent, they placed\nthe paper on which they wrote upon her back, which was found no very\ninconvenient substitute for a table.\n\nPeggy, like all experienced story-tellers, suited her tales, both in\nlength and subject, to the audience and the occasion. She knew that,\nin broad daylight, when the sun shines brightly, and the trees are\nbudding, and the birds singing around us, when men and women, like\nourselves, are moving and speaking, employed variously in business or\namusement; she knew, in short (though certainly without knowing or\nmuch caring wherefore), that when we are engaged about the realities\nof life and nature, we want that spirit of credulity, without which\ntales of the deepest interest will lose their power. At such times\nPeggy was brief, very particular as to facts, and never dealt in the\nmarvellous. But round the blazing hearth of a Christmas evening, when\ninfidelity is banished from all companies, at least in low and simple\nlife, as a quality, to say the least of it, out of season; when the\nwinds of \u201cdark December\u201d whistled bleakly round the walls, and almost\nthrough the doors of the little mansion, reminding its inmates, that\nas the world is vexed by elements superior to human power, so it may\nbe visited by beings of a superior nature:\u2014at such times would Peggy\nBarrett give full scope to her memory, or her imagination, or both;\nand upon one of these occasions, she gave the following circumstantial\naccount of the \u201ccrookening of her back.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt was, of all days in the year, the day before May-day, that I went\nout to the garden to weed the potatoes. I would not have gone out that\nday, but I was dull in myself, and sorrowful, and wanted to be alone;\nall the boys and girls were laughing and joking in the house, making\ngoaling-balls and dressing out ribands for the mummers next day. I\ncouldn\u2019t bear it. \u2019Twas only at the Easter that was then past (and\nthat\u2019s ten years last Easter\u2014I won\u2019t forget the time,) that I buried\nmy poor man; and I thought how gay and joyful I was, many a long year\nbefore that, at the May-eve before our wedding, when with Robin by my\nside, I sat cutting and sewing the ribands for the goaling-ball I was\nto give the boys on the next day, proud to be preferred above all the\nother girls of the banks of the Blackwater, by the handsomest boy and\nthe best hurler in the village; so I left the house and went to the\ngarden. I staid there all the day, and didn\u2019t come home to dinner. I\ndon\u2019t know how it was, but somehow I continued on, weeding, and\nthinking sorrowfully enough, and singing over some of the old songs\nthat I sung many and many a time in the days that are gone, and for\nthem that never will come back to me to hear them. The truth is, I\nhated to go and sit silent and mournful among the people in the house,\nthat were merry and young, and had the best of their days before them.\n\u2019Twas late before I thought of returning home, and I did not leave the\ngarden till some time after sunset. The moon was up; but though there\nwasn\u2019t a cloud to be seen, and though a star was winking here and\nthere in the sky, the day wasn\u2019t long enough gone to have it clear\nmoonlight; still it shone enough to make every thing on one side of\nthe heavens look pale and silvery-like; and the thin white mist was\njust beginning to creep along the fields. On the other side, near\nwhere the sun was set, there was more of daylight, and the sky looked\nangry, red, and fiery through the trees, like as if it was lighted up\nby a great town burning below. Every thing was as silent as a\nchurchyard, only now and then one could hear far off a dog barking, or\na cow lowing after being milked. There wasn\u2019t a creature to be seen on\nthe road or in the fields. I wondered at this first, but then I\nremembered it was May-eve, and that many a thing, both good and bad,\nwould be wandering about that night, and that I ought to shun danger\nas well as others. So I walked on as quick as I could, and soon came\nto the end of the demesne wall, where the trees rise high and thick at\neach side of the road, and almost meet at the top. My heart misgave me\nwhen I got under the shade. There was so much light let down from the\nopening above, that I could see about a stone-throw before me. All of\na sudden I heard a rustling among the branches, on the right side of\nthe road, and saw something like a small black goat, only with long\nwide horns turned out instead of being bent backwards, standing upon\nits hind legs upon the top of the wall, and looking down on me. My\nbreath was stopped, and I couldn\u2019t move for near a minute. I couldn\u2019t\nhelp, somehow, keeping my eyes fixed on it; and it never stirred, but\nkept looking in the same fixed way down at me. At last I made a rush,\nand went on; but I didn\u2019t go ten steps, when I saw the very same\nsight, on the wall to the left of me, standing in exactly the same\nmanner, but three or four times as high, and almost as tall as the\ntallest man. The horns looked frightful; it gazed upon me as before;\nmy legs shook, and my teeth chattered, and I thought I would drop\ndown dead every moment. At last I felt as if I was obliged to go\non\u2014and on I went; but it was without feeling how I moved, or whether\nmy legs carried me. Just as I passed the spot where this frightful\nthing was standing, I heard a noise as if something sprung from the\nwall, and felt like as if a heavy animal plumped down upon me, and\nheld with the fore feet clinging to my shoulder, and the hind ones\nfixed in my gown, that was folded and pinned up behind me. \u2019Tis the\nwonder of my life ever since how I bore the shock; but so it was, I\nneither fell, nor even staggered with the weight, but walked on as if\nI had the strength of ten men, though I felt as if I couldn\u2019t help\nmoving, and couldn\u2019t stand still if I wished it. Though I gasped with\nfear, I knew as well as I do now what I was doing. I tried to cry out,\nbut couldn\u2019t; I tried to run, but wasn\u2019t able; I tried to look back,\nbut my head and neck were as if they were screwed in a vice. I could\nbarely roll my eyes on each side, and then I could see, as clearly and\nplainly as if it was in the broad light of the blessed sun, a black\nand cloven foot planted upon each of my shoulders. I heard a low\nbreathing in my ear; I felt at every step I took, my leg strike back\nagainst the feet of the creature that was on my back. Still I could do\nnothing but walk straight on. At last I came within sight of the\nhouse, and a welcome sight it was to me, for I thought I would be\nreleased when I reached it. I soon came close to the door, but it was\nshut; I looked at the little window, but it was shut too, for they\nwere more cautious about May-eve than I was; I saw the light inside,\nthrough the chinks of the door; I heard \u2019em talking and laughing\nwithin; I felt myself at three yards\u2019 distance from them that would\ndie to save me;\u2014and may the Lord save me from ever again feeling what\nI did that night, when I found myself held by what couldn\u2019t be good\nnor friendly, but without the power to help myself, or to call my\nfriends, or to put out my hand to knock, or even to lift my leg to\nstrike the door, and let them know that I was outside it! \u2019Twas as if\nmy hands grew to my sides, and my feet were glued to the ground, or\nhad the weight of a rock fixed to them. At last I thought of blessing\nmyself; and my right hand, that would do nothing else, did that for\nme. Still the weight remained on my back, and all was as before. I\nblessed myself again: \u2019twas still all the same. I then gave myself up\nfor lost: but I blessed myself a third time, and my hand no sooner\nfinished the sign, than all at once I felt the burden spring off of my\nback; the door flew open as if a clap of thunder burst it, and I was\npitched forward on my forehead, in upon the middle of the floor. When\nI got up my back was crookened, and I never stood straight from that\nnight to this blessed hour.\u201d\n\nThere was a pause when Peggy Barrett finished. Those who heard the\nstory before had listened with a look of half-satisfied interest,\nblended, however, with an expression of that serious and solemn\nfeeling, which always attends a tale of supernatural wonders, how\noften soever told. They moved upon their seats out of the posture in\nwhich they had remained fixed during the narrative, and sat in an\nattitude which denoted that their curiosity as to the cause of this\nstrange occurrence had been long since allayed. Those to whom it was\nbefore unknown still retained their look and posture of strained\nattention, and anxious but solemn expectation. A grandson of Peggy\u2019s,\nabout nine years old (not the child of the son with whom she lived,)\nhad never before heard the story. As it grew in interest, he was\nobserved to cling closer and closer to the old woman\u2019s side; and at\nthe close he was gazing steadfastly at her, with his body bent back\nacross her knees, and his face turned up to hers, with a look, through\nwhich a disposition to weep seemed contending with curiosity. After a\nmoment\u2019s pause, he could no longer restrain his impatience, and\ncatching her gray locks in one hand, while a tear of dread and wonder\nwas just dropping from his eye-lash, he cried, \u201cGranny, what was it?\u201d\n\nThe old woman smiled first at the elder part of her audience, and then\nat her grandson, and patting him on the forehead, she said, \u201cIt was\nthe Phooka.\u201d\n\n     The _Pouke_ or _Phooka_, as the word is pronounced, means, in\n     plain terms, the Evil One. \u201cPlaying the puck,\u201d a common\n     Anglo-Irish phrase, is equivalent to \u201cplaying the devil.\u201d Much\n     learning has been displayed in tracing this word through\n     various languages, vide Quarterly Review [vol. xxii. &c.] The\n     commentators on Shakspeare derive the beautiful and frolicksome\n     Puck of the Midsummer Night\u2019s Dream from the mischievous\n     Pouke.\u2014Vide Drayton\u2019s Nymphidia.\n\n        \u201cThis Puck seems but a dreaming dolt,\n        Still walking like a ragged colt,\u201d &c.\n\n     In Golding\u2019s translation of Ovid\u2019s Metamorphoses (1587) we\n     find,\n\n        \u201c\u2014\u2014 and the countrie where Chgm\u00e6ra, that same _Pooke_,\n        Hath goatish bodie,\u201d &c.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n     The Irish Phooka, in its nature, perfectly resembles the\n     _Mahr_; and we have only to observe, that there is a particular\n     German tradition of a spirit, which sits among reeds and alder\n     bushes; and which, like the Phooka, leaps upon the back of\n     those who pass by in the night, and does not leave them till\n     they faint and fall to the earth.\n\n                                                 THE BROTHERS GRIMM.\n\n\n\n\nTHIERNA NA OGE.\n\n    \u201cOn Lough-Neagh\u2019s bank, as the fisherman strays,\n    When the clear cold eve\u2019s declining,\n    He sees the round towers of other days\n    In the wave beneath him shining.\u201d\n                                              MOORE.\n\n\n\n\nFIOR USGA.\n\nXVII.\n\n\nA little way beyond the Gallows Green of Cork, and just outside the\ntown, there is a great lough of water, where people in the winter go\nand skate for the sake of diversion; but the sport above the water is\nnothing to what is under it, for at the very bottom of this lough\nthere are buildings and gardens, far more beautiful than any now to be\nseen, and how they came there was in this manner.\n\nLong before Saxon foot pressed Irish ground, there was a great king\ncalled Core, whose palace stood where the lough now is, in a round\ngreen valley, that was just a mile about. In the middle of the\ncourt-yard was a spring of fair water, so pure, and so clear, that it\nwas the wonder of all the world. Much did the king rejoice at having\nso great a curiosity within his palace; but as people came in crowds\nfrom far and near to draw the precious water of this spring, he was\nsorely afraid that in time it might become dry; so he caused a high\nwall to be built up round it, and would allow nobody to have the\nwater, which was a very great loss to the poor people living about the\npalace. Whenever he wanted any for himself, he would send his daughter\nto get it, not liking to trust his servants with the key of the\nwell-door, fearing that they might give some away.\n\nOne night the king gave a grand entertainment, and there were many\ngreat princes present, and lords and nobles without end; and there\nwere wonderful doings throughout the palace: there were bonfires,\nwhose blaze reached up to the very sky; and dancing was there, to such\nsweet music, that it ought to have waked up the dead out of their\ngraves; and feasting was there in the greatest of plenty for all who\ncame; nor was any one turned away from the palace gates\u2014but \u201cyou\u2019re\nwelcome\u2014you\u2019re welcome, heartily,\u201d was the porter\u2019s salute for all.\n\nNow it happened at this grand entertainment there was one young prince\nabove all the rest mighty comely to behold, and as tall and as\nstraight as ever eye would wish to look on. Right merrily did he dance\nthat night with the old king\u2019s daughter, wheeling here, and wheeling\nthere, as light as a feather, and footing it away to the admiration of\nevery one. The musicians played the better for seeing their dancing;\nand they danced as if their lives depended upon it. After all this\ndancing came the supper; and the young prince was seated at table by\nthe side of his beautiful partner, who smiled upon him as often as he\nspoke to her; and that was by no means so often as he wished, for he\nhad constantly to turn to the company and thank them for the many\ncompliments passed upon his fair partner and himself.\n\nIn the midst of this banquet, one of the great lords said to King\nCore, \u201cMay it please your majesty, here is every thing in abundance\nthat heart can wish for, both to eat and drink, except water.\u201d\n\n\u201cWater!\u201d said the king, mightily pleased at some one calling for that\nof which purposely there was a want: \u201cwater shall you have, my lord,\nspeedily, and that of such a delicious kind, that I challenge all the\nworld to equal it. Daughter,\u201d said he, \u201cgo fetch some in the golden\nvessel which I caused to be made for the purpose.\u201d\n\nThe king\u2019s daughter, who was called Fior Usga, (which signifies, in\nEnglish, Spring Water,) did not much like to be told to perform so\nmenial a service before so many people, and though she did not venture\nto refuse the commands of her father, yet hesitated to obey him, and\nlooked down upon the ground. The king, who loved his daughter very\nmuch, seeing this, was sorry for what he had desired her to do, but\nhaving said the word, he was never known to recall it; he therefore\nthought of a way to make his daughter go speedily and fetch the water,\nand it was by proposing that the young prince her partner should go\nalong with her. Accordingly, with a loud voice, he said, \u201cDaughter, I\nwonder not at your fearing to go alone so late at night; but I doubt\nnot the young prince at your side will go with you.\u201d The prince was\nnot displeased at hearing this; and taking the golden vessel in one\nhand, with the other led the king\u2019s daughter out of the hall so\ngracefully that all present gazed after them with delight.\n\nWhen they came to the spring of water, in the court-yard of the palace,\nthe fair Usga unlocked the door with the greatest care, and stooping\ndown with the golden vessel to take some of the water out of the well,\nfound the vessel so heavy that she lost her balance and fell in. The\nyoung prince tried in vain to save her, for the water rose and rose so\nfast, that the entire court-yard was speedily covered with it, and he\nhastened back almost in a state of distraction to the king.\n\nThe door of the well being left open, the water, which had been so\nlong confined, rejoiced at obtaining its liberty, rushed forth\nincessantly, every moment rising higher and higher, and was in the\nhall of the entertainment sooner than the young prince himself, so\nthat when he attempted to speak to the king he was up to his neck in\nwater. At length the water rose to such a height, that it filled the\nentire of the green valley in which the king\u2019s palace stood, and so\nthe present lough of Cork was formed.\n\nYet the king and his guests were not drowned, as would now happen, if\nsuch an awful inundation were to take place; neither was his daughter,\nthe fair Usga, who returned to the banquet-hall the very next night\nafter this dreadful event; and every night since the same\nentertainment and dancing goes on in the palace at the bottom of the\nlough, and will last until some one has the luck to bring up out of it\nthe golden vessel which was the cause of all this mischief.\n\nNobody can doubt that it was a judgment upon the king for his shutting\nup the well in the court-yard from the poor people: and if there are\nany who do not credit my story, they may go and see the lough of Cork,\nfor there it is to be seen to this day; the road to Kinsale passes at\none side of it; and when its waters are low and clear, the tops of\ntowers and stately buildings may be plainly viewed in the bottom by\nthose who have good eyesight, without the help of spectacles.\n\n\n\n\nCORMAC AND MARY.\n\nXVIII.\n\n\n    \u201cShe is not dead\u2014she has no grave\u2014\n      She lives beneath Lough Corrib\u2019s water;[16]\n    And in the murmur of each wave\n      Methinks I catch the songs I taught her.\u201d\n\n    Thus many an evening on the shore\n      Sat Cormac raving wild and lowly;\n    Still idly muttering o\u2019er and o\u2019er,\n      \u201cShe lives, detain\u2019d by spells unholy.\n\n    \u201cDeath claims her not, too fair for earth,\n      Her spirit lives\u2014alien of heaven;\n    Nor will it know a second birth\n      When sinful mortals are forgiven!\n\n    \u201cCold is this rock\u2014the wind comes chill,\n      And mists the gloomy waters cover;\n    But oh! her soul is colder still\u2014\n      To lose her God\u2014to leave her lover!\u201d\n\n    The lake was in profound repose,\n      Yet one white wave came gently curling,\n    And as it reach\u2019d the shore, arose\n      Dim figures\u2014banners gay unfurling.\n\n    Onward they move, an airy crowd:\n      Through each thin form a moonlight ray shone;\n    While spear and helm, in pageant proud,\n      Appear in liquid undulation.\n\n    Bright barbed steeds curvetting tread\n      Their trackless way with antic capers;\n    And curtain clouds hang overhead,\n      Festoon\u2019d by rainbow-colour\u2019d vapours.\n\n    And when a breath of air would stir\n      That drapery of Heaven\u2019s own wreathing,\n    Light wings of prismy gossamer\n      Just moved and sparkled to the breathing.\n\n    Nor wanting was the choral song,\n      Swelling in silvery chimes of sweetness;\n    To sound of which this subtile throng\n      Advanced in playful grace and fleetness.\n\n    With music\u2019s strain, all came and went\n      Upon poor Cormac\u2019s doubting vision;\n    Now rising in wild merriment,\n      Now softly fading in derision.\n\n    \u201cChrist save her soul,\u201d he boldly cried;\n      And when that blessed name was spoken,\n    Fierce yells and fiendish shrieks replied,\n      And vanished all,\u2014the spell was broken.\n\n    And now on Corrib\u2019s lonely shore,\n      Freed by his word from power of fa\u00ebry,\n    To life, to love, restored once more,\n      Young Cormac welcomes back his Mary.\n\n    [16] In the county of Galway.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF LOUGH GUR.\n\nXIX.\n\n\nLarry Cotter had a farm on one side of Lough Gur,[17] and was thriving\nin it, for he was an industrious proper sort of man, who would have\nlived quietly and soberly to the end of his days, but for the\nmisfortune that came upon him, and you shall hear how that was. He had\nas nice a bit of meadow-land, down by the water-side, as ever a man\nwould wish for; but its growth was spoiled entirely on him, and no one\ncould tell how.\n\n    [17] In the county of Limerick.\n\nOne year after the other it was all ruined just in the same way: the\nbounds were well made up, and not a stone of them was disturbed;\nneither could his neighbours\u2019 cattle have been guilty of the trespass,\nfor they were spancelled;[18] but however it was done, the grass of\nthe meadow was destroyed, which was a great loss to Larry.\n\n    [18] Spancelled\u2014fettered.\n\n\u201cWhat in the wide world will I do?\u201d said Larry Cotter to his\nneighbour, Tom Welsh, who was a very decent sort of man himself: \u201cthat\nbit of meadow-land, which I am paying the great rent for, is doing\nnothing at all to make it for me; and the times are bitter bad,\nwithout the help of that to make them worse.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis true for you, Larry,\u201d replied Welsh: \u201cthe times are bitter\nbad\u2014no doubt of that; but may be if you were to watch by night, you\nmight make out all about it: sure there\u2019s Mick and Terry, my two boys,\nwill watch with you; for \u2019tis a thousand pities any honest man like\nyou should be ruined in such a scheming way.\u201d\n\nAccordingly, the following night, Larry Cotter, with Welsh\u2019s two sons,\ntook their station in a corner of the meadow. It was just at the full\nof the moon, which was shining beautifully down upon the lake, that\nwas as calm all over as the sky itself; not a cloud was there to be\nseen any where, nor a sound to be heard, but the cry of the corn-creaks\nanswering one another across the water.\n\n\u201cBoys! boys!\u201d said Larry, \u201clook there! look there! but for your lives\ndon\u2019t make a bit of noise, nor stir a step till I say the word.\u201d\n\nThey looked, and saw a great fat cow, followed by seven milk-white\nheifers, moving on the smooth surface of the lake towards the meadow.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis not Tim Dwyer the piper\u2019s cow, any way, that danced all the\nflesh off her bones,\u201d whispered Mick to his brother.\n\n\u201cNow boys!\u201d said Larry Cotter, when he saw the fine cow and her seven\nwhite heifers fairly in the meadow, \u201cget between them and the lake if\nyou can, and, no matter who they belong to, we\u2019ll just put them into\nthe pound.\u201d\n\nBut the cow must have overheard Larry speaking, for down she went in a\ngreat hurry to the shore of the lake, and into it with her, before all\ntheir eyes: away made the seven heifers after her, but the boys got\ndown to the bank before them, and work enough they had to drive them\nup from the lake to Larry Cotter.\n\nLarry drove the seven heifers, and beautiful beasts they were, to the\npound: but after he had them there for three days, and could hear of\nno owner, he took them out, and put them up in a field of his own.\nThere he kept them, and they were thriving mighty well with him, until\none night the gate of the field was left open, and in the morning the\nseven heifers were gone. Larry could not get any account of them\nafter; and, beyond all doubt, it was back into the lake they went.\nWherever they came from, or to whatever world they belonged, Larry\nCotter never had a crop of grass off the meadow through their means.\nSo he took to drink, fairly out of the grief; and it was the drink\nthat killed him, they say.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ENCHANTED LAKE.\n\nXX.\n\n\nIn the west of Ireland there was a lake, and no doubt it is there\nstill, in which many young men had been at various times drowned. What\nmade the circumstance remarkable was, that the bodies of the drowned\npersons were never found. People naturally wondered at this: and at\nlength the lake came to have a bad repute. Many dreadful stories were\ntold about that lake; some would affirm, that on a dark night its\nwaters appeared like fire\u2014others would speak of horrid forms which\nwere seen to glide over it; and every one agreed that a strange\nsulphureous smell issued from out of it.\n\nThere lived, not far distant from this lake a young farmer, named\nRoderick Keating, who was about to be married to one of the prettiest\ngirls in that part of the country. On his return from Limerick, where\nhe had been to purchase the wedding-ring, he came up with two or three\nof his acquaintance, who were standing on the shore, and they began to\njoke with him about Peggy Honan. One said that young Delaney, his\nrival, had in his absence contrived to win the affection of his\nmistress:\u2014but Roderick\u2019s confidence in his intended bride was too\ngreat to be disturbed at this tale, and putting his hand in his\npocket, he produced and held up with a significant look the\nwedding-ring. As he was turning it between his fore-finger and thumb,\nin token of triumph, somehow or other the ring fell from his hand, and\nrolled into the lake: Roderick looked after it with the greatest\nsorrow; it was not so much for its value, though it had cost him\nhalf-a-guinea, as for the ill-luck of the thing; and the water was so\ndeep, that there was little chance of recovering it. His companions\nlaughed at him, and he in vain endeavoured to tempt any of them by the\noffer of a handsome reward to dive after the ring: they were all as\nlittle inclined to venture as Roderick Keating himself; for the tales\nwhich they had heard when children were strongly impressed on their\nmemories, and a superstitious dread filled the mind of each.\n\n\u201cMust I then go back to Limerick to buy another ring?\u201d exclaimed the\nyoung farmer. \u201cWill not ten times what the ring cost tempt any one of\nyou to venture after it?\u201d\n\nThere was within hearing a man who was considered to be a poor, crazy,\nhalf-witted fellow, but he was as harmless as a child, and used to go\nwandering up and down through the country from one place to another.\nWhen he heard of so great a reward, Paddeen, for that was his name,\nspoke out, and said, that if Roderick Keating would give him\nencouragement equal to what he had offered to others, he was ready to\nventure after the ring into the lake; and Paddeen, all the while he\nspoke, looked as covetous after the sport as the money.\n\n\u201cI\u2019ll take you at your word,\u201d said Keating. So Paddeen pulled off his\ncoat, and without a single syllable more, down he plunged, head\nforemost, into the lake: what depth he went to, no one can tell\nexactly; but he was going, going, going down through the water, until\nthe water parted from him, and he came upon the dry land; the sky, and\nthe light, and every thing, was there just as it is here; and he saw\nfine pleasure-grounds, with an elegant avenue through them, and a\ngrand house, with a power of steps going up to the door. When he had\nrecovered from his wonder at finding the land so dry and comfortable\nunder the water, he looked about him, and what should he see but all\nthe young men that were drowned working away in the pleasure-grounds\nas if nothing had ever happened to them! Some of them were mowing down\nthe grass, and more were settling out the gravel walks, and doing all\nmanner of nice work, as neat and as clever as if they had never been\ndrowned; and they were singing away with high glee:\u2014\n\n    \u201cShe is fair as Cappoquin;\n    Have you courage her to win?\n    And her wealth it far outshines\n    Cullen\u2019s bog and Silvermines.\n    She exceeds all heart can wish;\n    Not brawling like the Foherish,\n    But as the brightly flowing Lee,\n    Graceful, mild, and pure is she!\u201d\n\nWell, Paddeen could not but look at the young men, for he knew some of\nthem before they were lost in the lake; but he said nothing, though he\nthought a great deal more for all that, like an oyster:\u2014no, not the\nwind of a word passed his lips; so on he went towards the big house,\nbold enough, as if he had seen nothing to speak of; yet all the time\nmightily wishing to know who the young woman could be that the young\nmen were singing the song about.\n\nWhen he had nearly reached the door of the great house, out walks from\nthe kitchen a powerful fat woman, moving along like a beer-barrel on\ntwo legs, with teeth as big as horses\u2019 teeth, and up she made towards\nhim.\n\n\u201cGood morrow, Paddeen,\u201d said she.\n\n\u201cGood morrow, Ma\u2019am,\u201d said he.\n\n\u201cWhat brought you here?\u201d said she.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis after Rory Keating\u2019s gold ring,\u201d said he, \u201cI\u2019m come.\u201d\n\n\u201cHere it is for you,\u201d said Paddeen\u2019s fat friend, with a smile on her\nface that moved like boiling stirabout [gruel.]\n\n\u201cThank you, Ma\u2019am,\u201d replied Paddeen, taking it from her:\u2014\u201cI need not\nsay the Lord increase you, for you\u2019re fat enough already. Will you\ntell me, if you please, am I to go back the same way I came?\u201d\n\n\u201cThen you did not come to marry me?\u201d cried the corpulent woman in a\ndesperate fury.\n\n\u201cJust wait till I come back again, my darling,\u201d said Paddeen: \u201cI\u2019m to\nbe paid for my message, and I must return with the answer, or else\nthey\u2019ll wonder what has become of me.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever mind the money,\u201d said the fat woman: \u201cif you marry me, you\nshall live for ever and a day in that house, and want for nothing.\u201d\n\nPaddeen saw clearly that, having got possession of the ring, the fat\nwoman had no power to detain him; so without minding any thing she\nsaid, he kept moving and moving down the avenue, quite quietly, and\nlooking about him; for, to tell the truth, he had no particular\ninclination to marry a fat fairy. When he came to the gate, without\never saying good by, out he bolted, and he found the water coming all\nabout him again. Up he plunged through it, and wonder enough there\nwas, when Paddeen was seen swimming away at the opposite side of the\nlake; but he soon made the shore, and told Roderick Keating, and the\nother boys that were standing there looking out for him, all that had\nhappened. Roderick paid him the five guineas for the ring on the spot;\nand Paddeen thought himself so rich with such a sum of money in his\npocket, that he did not go back to marry the fat lady with the fine\nhouse at the bottom of the lake, knowing she had plenty of young men\nto choose a husband from, if she pleased to be married.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF O\u2019DONOGHUE.\n\nXXI.\n\n\nIn an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain\nnamed O\u2019Donoghue 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 \u201cO\u2019Donoghue\u2019s Prison,\u201d in which this prince once confined his\nown son for some act of disorder and disobedience.\n\nHis end\u2014for it cannot correctly be called his death\u2014was 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 towards 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\u2019Donoghue has been cherished by successive\ngenerations with affectionate reverence: and it is believed that at\nsunrise, on every May-dew 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,\u2014a blessing, the want of which during\nthis prince\u2019s reign was never felt by his people.\n\nSome years have elapsed since the last appearance of O\u2019Donoghue. 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 shores 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 moment a\nfoaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse,\nexulting in his strength, rushed across the lake towards 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, sprang\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\u2019Donoghue; 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\u2019Donoghue\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\u2019s 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    _Thierna na Oge_, or the Country of Youth, is the name given to\n    the foregoing section, from the belief that those who dwell in regions\n    of enchantment beneath the water are not affected by the\n    movements of time.\n\n\n\n\nLEGENDS OF THE MERROW.\n\n              \u2014\u2014\u201cThe mysterious depths\n    And wild and wondrous forms of ocean old.\u201d\n                              MATTIMA\u2019S _Conchologist_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LADY OF GOLLERUS.\n\nXXII.\n\n\nOn the shore of Smerwick harbour, one fine summer\u2019s morning, just at\nday-break, stood Dick Fitzgerald \u201cshoghing the dudeen,\u201d which may be\ntranslated, smoking his pipe. The sun was gradually rising behind the\nlofty Brandon, the dark sea was getting green in the light, and the\nmists, clearing away out of the valleys, went rolling and curling like\nthe smoke from the corner of Dick\u2019s mouth.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis just the pattern of a pretty morning,\u201d said Dick, taking the\npipe from between his lips, and looking towards the distant ocean,\nwhich lay as still and tranquil as a tomb of polished marble. \u201cWell,\nto be sure,\u201d continued he, after a pause, \u201c\u2019tis mighty lonesome to be\ntalking to one\u2019s self by way of company, and not to have another soul\nto answer one\u2014nothing but the child of one\u2019s own voice, the echo! I\nknow this, that if I had the luck, or may be the misfortune,\u201d said\nDick with a melancholy smile, \u201cto have the woman, it would not be this\nway with me!\u2014and what in the wide world is a man without a wife? He\u2019s\nno more surely than a bottle without a drop of drink in it, or dancing\nwithout music, or the left leg of a scissors, or a fishing line\nwithout a hook, or any other matter that is no ways complete\u2014Is it\nnot so?\u201d said Dick Fitzgerald, casting his eyes towards a rock upon\nthe strand, which though it could not speak, stood up as firm and\nlooked as bold as ever Kerry witness did.\n\nBut what was his astonishment at beholding, just at the foot of that\nrock a beautiful young creature combing her hair, which was of a\nsea-green colour; and now the salt water shining on it, appeared in\nthe morning light, like melted butter upon cabbage.\n\nDick guessed at once that she was a Merrow, although he had never seen\none before, for he spied the _cohuleen driuth_, or little enchanted\ncap, which the sea people use for diving down into the ocean, lying\nupon the strand, near her; and he had heard that if once he could\npossess himself of the cap, she would lose the power of going away\ninto the water: so he seized it with all speed, and she, hearing the\nnoise, turned her head about as natural as any Christian.\n\nWhen the Merrow saw that her little diving-cap was gone, the salt\ntears\u2014doubly salt, no doubt, from her\u2014came trickling down her\ncheeks, and she began a low mournful cry with just the tender voice of\na new-born infant. Dick, although he knew well enough what she was\ncrying for, determined to keep the _cohuleen driuth_, let her cry\nnever so much, to see what luck would come out of it. Yet he could not\nhelp pitying her, and when the dumb thing looked up in his face, and\nher cheeks all moist with tears, \u2019twas enough to make any one feel let\nalone Dick, who had ever and always, like most of his countrymen, a\nmighty tender heart of his own.\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t cry, my darling,\u201d said Dick Fitzgerald; but the Merrow, like\nany bold child, only cried the more for that.\n\nDick sat himself down by her side, and took hold of her hand, by way\nof comforting her. \u2019Twas in no particular an ugly hand, only there was\na small web between the fingers, as there is in a duck\u2019s foot; but\n\u2019twas as thin and as white as the skin between egg and shell.\n\n\u201cWhat\u2019s your name, my darling?\u201d says Dick, thinking to make her\nconversant with him; but he got no answer; and he was certain sure\nnow, either that she could not speak, or did not understand him: he\ntherefore squeezed her hand in his, as the only way he had of talking\nto her. It\u2019s the universal language; and there\u2019s not a woman in the\nworld, be she fish or lady, that does not understand it.\n\nThe Merrow did not seem much displeased at this mode of conversation;\nand, making an end of her whining all at once\u2014\u201cMan,\u201d says she,\nlooking up in Dick Fitzgerald\u2019s face, \u201cMan, will you eat me?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy all the red petticoats and check aprons between Dingle and\nTralee,\u201d cried Dick, jumping up in amazement, \u201cI\u2019d as soon eat myself,\nmy jewel! Is it I eat you, my pet?\u2014Now \u2019twas some ugly ill-looking\nthief of a fish put that notion into your own pretty head, with the\nnice green hair down upon it, that is so cleanly combed out this\nmorning!\u201d\n\n\u201cMan,\u201d said the Merrow, \u201cwhat will you do with me, if you won\u2019t eat\nme?\u201d\n\nDick\u2019s thoughts were running on a wife: he saw, at the first glimpse,\nthat she was handsome; but since she spoke, and spoke too like any\nreal woman, he was fairly in love with her. \u2019Twas the neat way she\ncalled him man, that settled the matter entirely.\n\n\u201cFish,\u201d says Dick, trying to speak to her after her own short fashion;\n\u201cfish,\u201d says he, \u201chere\u2019s my word, fresh and fasting, for you this\nblessed morning, that I\u2019ll make you mistress Fitzgerald before all the\nworld, and that\u2019s what I\u2019ll do.\u201d\n\n\u201cNever say the word twice,\u201d says she; \u201cI\u2019m ready and willing to be\nyours, mister Fitzgerald; but stop, if you please, \u2019till I twist up my\nhair.\u201d\n\nIt was some time before she had settled it entirely to her liking; for\nshe guessed, I suppose, that she was going among strangers, where she\nwould be looked at. When that was done, the Merrow put the comb in her\npocket, and then bent down her head and whispered some words to the\nwater that was close to the foot of the rock.\n\nDick saw the murmur of the words upon the top of the sea, going out\ntowards the wide ocean, just like a breath of wind rippling along, and\nsays he in the greatest wonder; \u201cIs it speaking you are, my darling,\nto the salt water?\u201d\n\n\u201cIt\u2019s nothing else,\u201d says she quite carelessly, \u201cI\u2019m just sending word\nhome to my father, not to be waiting breakfast for me; just to keep\nhim from being uneasy in his mind.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who\u2019s your father, my duck?\u201d says Dick.\n\n\u201cWhat!\u201d said the Merrow, \u201cdid you never hear of my father? he\u2019s the\nking of the waves, to be sure!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd yourself, then, is a real king\u2019s daughter?\u201d said Dick, opening\nhis two eyes to take a full and true survey of his wife that was to\nbe.\n\n\u201cOh, I\u2019m nothing else but a made man with you, and a king your\nfather;\u2014to be sure he has all the money that\u2019s down in the bottom of\nthe sea!\u201d\n\n\u201cMoney,\u201d repeated the Merrow, \u201cwhat\u2019s money?\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis no bad thing to have when one wants it,\u201d replied Dick; \u201cand may\nbe now the fishes have the understanding to bring up whatever you bid\nthem?\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! yes,\u201d said the Merrow, \u201cthey bring me what I want.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo speak the truth, then,\u201d said Dick, \u201c\u2019tis a straw bed I have at\nhome before you, and that, I\u2019m thinking, is no ways fitting for a\nking\u2019s daughter: so, if \u2019twould not be displeasing to you, just to\nmention, a nice feather-bed, with a pair of new blankets\u2014but what am\nI talking about? may be you have not such things as beds down under\nthe water?\u201d\n\n\u201cBy all means,\u201d said she, \u201cMr. Fitzgerald\u2014plenty of beds at your\nservice. I\u2019ve fourteen oyster-beds of my own, not to mention one just\nplanting for the rearing of young ones.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou have?\u201d says Dick, scratching his head and looking a little\npuzzled. \u201c\u2019Tis a feather-bed I was speaking of\u2014but clearly, yours is\nthe very cut of a decent plan, to have bed and supper so handy to each\nother, that a person when they\u2019d have the one, need never ask for the\nother.\u201d\n\nHowever, bed or no bed, money or no money, Dick Fitzgerald determined\nto marry the Merrow, and the Merrow had given her consent. Away they\nwent, therefore, across the strand, from Gollerus to Ballinrunnig,\nwhere Father Fitzgibbon happened to be that morning.\n\n\u201cThere are two words to this bargain, Dick Fitzgerald,\u201d said his\nReverence, looking mighty glum. \u201cAnd is it a fishy woman you\u2019d\nmarry?\u2014the Lord preserve us!\u2014Send the scaly creature home to her own\npeople, that\u2019s my advice to you, wherever she came from.\u201d\n\nDick had the _cohuleen driuth_ in his hand, and was about to give it\nback to the Merrow, who looked covetously at it, but he thought for a\nmoment, and then, says he\u2014\n\n\u201cPlease your Reverence she\u2019s a king\u2019s daughter.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf she was the daughter of fifty kings,\u201d said Father Fitzgibbon, \u201cI\ntell you, you can\u2019t marry her, she being a fish.\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease your Reverence,\u201d said Dick again, in an under tone, \u201cshe is as\nmild and as beautiful as the moon.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf she was as mild and as beautiful as the sun, moon, and stars, all\nput together, I tell you, Dick Fitzgerald,\u201d said the Priest stamping\nhis right foot, \u201cyou can\u2019t marry her, she being a fish!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut she has all the gold that\u2019s down in the sea only for the asking,\nand I\u2019m a made man if I marry her; and,\u201d said Dick, looking up slily,\n\u201cI can make it worth any one\u2019s while to do the job.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh! that alters the case entirely,\u201d replied the Priest; \u201cwhy there\u2019s\nsome reason now in what you say: why didn\u2019t you tell me this\nbefore?\u2014marry her by all means if she was ten times a fish. Money,\nyou know, is not to be refused in these bad times, and I may as well\nhave the hansel of it as another, that may be would not take half the\npains in counselling you as I have done.\u201d\n\nSo Father Fitzgibbon married Dick Fitzgerald to the Merrow, and like\nany loving couple, they returned to Gollerus well pleased with each\nother. Every thing prospered with Dick\u2014he was at the sunny side of\nthe world; the Merrow made the best of wives, and they lived together\nin the greatest contentment.\n\nIt was wonderful to see, considering where she had been brought up,\nhow she would busy herself about the house, and how well she nursed\nthe children; for, at the end of three years, there were as many young\nFitzgeralds\u2014two boys and a girl.\n\nIn short, Dick was a happy man, and so he might have continued to the\nend of his days, if he had only the sense to take proper care of what\nhe had got; many another man, however, beside Dick, has not had wit\nenough to do that.\n\nOne day when Dick was obliged to go to Tralee, he left his wife,\nminding the children at home after him, and thinking she had plenty to\ndo without disturbing his fishing tackle.\n\nDick was no sooner gone than Mrs. Fitzgerald set about cleaning up the\nhouse, and chancing to pull down a fishing-net, what should she find\nbehind it in a hole in the wall but her own _cohuleen driuth_.\n\nShe took it out and looked at it, and then she thought of her father\nthe king, and her mother the queen, and her brothers and sisters, and\nshe felt a longing to go back to them.\n\nShe sat down on a little stool and thought over the happy days she had\nspent under the sea; then she looked at her children, and thought on\nthe love and affection of poor Dick, and how it would break his heart\nto lose her. \u201cBut,\u201d says she, \u201che won\u2019t lose me entirely, for I\u2019ll\ncome back to him again; and who can blame me for going to see my\nfather and my mother, after being so long away from them.\u201d\n\nShe got up and went towards the door, but came back again to look once\nmore at the child that was sleeping in the cradle. She kissed it\ngently, and as she kissed it, a tear trembled for an instant in her\neye and then fell on its rosy cheek. She wiped away the tear, and\nturning to the eldest little girl, told her to take good care of her\nbrothers, and to be a good child herself, until she came back. The\nMerrow then went down to the strand.\u2014The sea was lying calm and\nsmooth, just heaving and glittering in the sun, and she thought she\nheard a faint sweet singing, inviting her to come down. All her old\nideas and feelings came flooding over her mind, Dick and her children\nwere at the instant forgotten, and placing the _cohuleen driuth_ on\nher head, she plunged in.\n\nDick came home in the evening, and missing his wife, he asked\nKathelin, his little girl, what had become of her mother, but she\ncould not tell him. He then inquired of the neighbours, and he learned\nthat she was seen going towards the strand with a strange looking\nthing like a cocked hat in her hand. He returned to his cabin to\nsearch for the _cohuleen driuth_. It was gone and the truth now\nflashed upon him.\n\nYear after year did Dick Fitzgerald wait, expecting the return of his\nwife, but he never saw her more. Dick never married again, always\nthinking that the Merrow would sooner or later return to him, and\nnothing could ever persuade him but that her father the king kept her\nbelow by main force; \u201cFor,\u201d says Dick, \u201cshe surely would not of\nherself give up her husband and her children.\u201d\n\nWhile she was with him, she was so good a wife in every respect, that\nto this day she is spoken of in the tradition of the country as the\npattern for one, under the name of THE LADY OF GOLLERUS.\n\n\n\n\nFLORY CANTILLON\u2019S FUNERAL.\n\nXXIII.\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\nencroachments which the Atlantic has made on that part of the coast of\nKerry. The fishermen declare they have often seen the ruined walls of\nan old chapel beneath them in the water, as they sailed over the clear\ngreen sea, of a sunny afternoon.[19] However this may be, it is well\nknown that the Cantillons were, like most other Irish families,\nstrongly attached to their ancient burial-place; and this attachment\nled to the custom, when any of the family died, of carrying the corpse\nto the seaside, where the coffin was left on the shore within reach of\nthe tide. In the morning it had disappeared, being, as was\ntraditionally believed, conveyed away by the ancestors of the deceased\nto their family tomb.\n\n    [19] \u201cThe neighbouring inhabitants,\u201d says Dr. Smith, in his\n    History of Kerry, speaking of Ballyheigh, \u201cshow some rocks\n    visible in this bay only at low tides, which, they say, are the\n    remains of an island, that was formerly the burial-place of the\n    family of Cantillon, the ancient proprietors of Ballyheigh.\u201d p.\n    210.\n\nConnor Crowe, a county Clare man, was related to the Cantillons by\nmarriage. \u201cConnor Mac in Cruagh, of the seven quarters of Breintragh,\u201d\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 whisky between breakfast and night, which last he\ndid with as little inconvenience to himself as any man in the barony\nof Moyferta; and were I to add Clanderalaw and Ibrickan, I don\u2019t think\nI 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\u2019s 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 rollocking 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 less\nthan three girls got husbands there\u2014more luck to them. Every thing\nwas as it should be: all that side of the country, from Dingle to\nTarbet, was at the funeral. The Keen was sung long and bitterly; and,\naccording to the family custom, the coffin was carried to Ballyheigh\nstrand, where it was laid upon the shore with a prayer for the repose\nof the dead.\n\nThe mourners departed, one group after another, and at last Connor\nCrowe was left alone: he then pulled out his whisky 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\npensive.\n\n\u201cIf \u2019twas near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own sweet county, I\nwas,\u201d said Connor Crowe, with a sigh, \u201cone 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. \u2019Tis often, sure enough, I have heard lamentations\nand great mourning coming from the vaults of Dunmore Castle; but,\u201d\ncontinued he, after fondly pressing his lips to the mouth of his\ncompanion and silent comforter, the whisky bottle, \u201cdidn\u2019t I know all\nthe time well enough, \u2019twas 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\u2019s Lake at\nmidnight. Well then, any how,\u201d said Connor, after a pause, \u201cis 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!\u201d\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 of watching; he caught\nhimself more than once in the fact 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\u201cThis comes of marrying with the creatures of earth,\u201d said one of the\nfigures, in a clear, yet hollow tone.\n\n\u201cTrue,\u201d replied another, with a voice still more fearful, \u201cour 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!\u201d\n\n\u201cBut the time will come,\u201d said a third, bending over the coffin,\n\n    \u201cWhen mortal eye\u2014our work shall spy,\n    And mortal ear\u2014our dirge shall hear.\u201d\n\n\u201cThen,\u201d said a fourth, \u201cour burial of the Cantillons is at an end for\never!\u201d\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\u201cThe time is come,\u201d cried the unearthly being, \u201cthe 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!\u201d\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 LORD OF DUNKERRON.\n\nXXIV.\n\n\n    The lord of Dunkerron[20]\u2014O\u2019Sullivan More,\n    Why seeks he at midnight the sea-beaten shore?\n    His bark lies in haven his hounds are asleep;\n    No foes are abroad on the land or the deep.\n\n    Yet nightly the lord of Dunkerron is known\n    On the wild shore to watch and to wander alone;\n    For a beautiful spirit of ocean, \u2019tis said,\n    The lord of Dunkerron would win to his bed.\n\n    When, by moonlight, the waters were hush\u2019d to repose,\n    That beautiful spirit of ocean arose;\n    Her hair, full of lustre, just floated and fell\n    O\u2019er her bosom, that heaved with a billowy swell.\n\n    Long, long had he loved her\u2014long vainly essay\u2019d\n    To lure from her dwelling the coy ocean maid;\n    And long had he wander\u2019d and watch\u2019d by the tide,\n    To claim the fair spirit O\u2019Sullivan\u2019s bride!\n\n    The maiden she gazed on the creature of earth,\n    Whose voice in her breast to a feeling gave birth;\n    Then smiled; and, abashed as a maiden might be,\n    Looking down, gently sank to her home in the sea.\n\n    Though gentle that smile, as the moonlight above,\n    O\u2019Sullivan felt \u2019twas the dawning of love,\n    And hope came on hope, spreading over his mind,\n    Like the eddy of circles her wake left behind.\n\n    The lord of Dunkerron he plunged in the waves,\n    And sought through the fierce rush of waters, their caves;\n    The gloom of whose depth studded over with spars,\n    Had the glitter of midnight when lit up by stars.\n\n    Who can tell or can fancy the treasures that sleep,\n    Entombed in the wonderful womb of the deep?\n    The pearls and the gems, as if valueless, thrown\n    To lie \u2018mid the sea-wrack concealed and unknown.\n\n    Down, down went the maid,\u2014still the chieftain pursued;\n    Who flies must be followed ere she can be wooed.\n    Untempted by treasures, unawed by alarms,\n    The maiden at length he has clasped in his arms!\n\n    They rose from the deep by a smooth-spreading strand,\n    Whence beauty and verdure stretch\u2019d over the land.\n    \u2019Twas an isle of enchantment! and lightly the breeze,\n    With a musical murmur, just crept through the trees.\n\n    The haze-woven shroud of that newly born isle,\n    Softly faded away, from a magical pile,\n    A palace of crystal, whose bright-beaming sheen\n    Had the tints of the rainbow\u2014red, yellow, and green.\n\n    And grottoes, fantastic in hue and in form,\n    Were there, as flung up\u2014the wild sport of the storm;\n    Yet all was so cloudless, so lovely, and calm,\n    It seemed but a region of sunshine and balm.\n\n    \u201cHere, here shall we dwell in a dream of delight,\n    Where the glories of earth and of ocean unite!\n    Yet, loved son of earth! I must from thee away;\n    There are laws which e\u2019en spirits are bound to obey!\n\n    \u201cOnce more must I visit the chief of my race,\n    His sanction to gain ere I meet thy embrace.\n    In a moment I dive to the chambers beneath:\n    One cause can detain me\u2014one only\u2014\u2019tis death!\u201d\n\n    They parted in sorrow, with vows true and fond;\n    The language of promise had nothing beyond.\n    His soul all on fire, with anxiety burns:\n    The moment is gone\u2014but no maiden returns.\n\n    What sounds from the deep meet his terrified ear\u2014\n    What accents of rage and of grief does he hear?\n    What sees he? what change has come over the flood\u2014\n    What tinges its green with a jetty of blood?\n\n    Can he doubt what the gush of warm blood would explain?\n    That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain!\n    For see all around him, in white foam and froth,\n    The waves of the ocean boil up in their wroth!\n\n    The palace of crystal has melted in air,\n    And the dyes of the rainbow no longer are there;\n    The grottoes with vapour and clouds are o\u2019ercast,\n    The sunshine is darkness\u2014the vision has past!\n\n    Loud, loud was the call of his serfs for their chief;\n    They sought him with accents of wailing and grief:\n    He heard, and he struggled\u2014a wave to the shore,\n    Exhausted and faint, bears O\u2019Sullivan More!\n\n    [20] The remains of Dunkerron Castle are distant about a mile\n    from the village of Kenmare, in the county of Kerry. It is\n    recorded to have been built in 1596, by Owen O\u2019Sullivan\n    More.\u2014[_More_, is merely an epithet signifying _the Great_.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE WONDERFUL TUNE.\n\nXXV.\n\n\nMaurice Connor was the king, and that\u2019s no small word, of all the\npipers in Munster. He could play jig and planxty without end, and\nOllistrum\u2019s March, and the Eagle\u2019s Whistle, and the Hen\u2019s Concert, and\nodd tunes of every sort and kind. But he knew one, far more surprising\nthan the rest, which had in it the power to set every thing dead or\nalive dancing.\n\nIn what way he learned it is beyond my knowledge, for he was mighty\ncautious about telling how he came by so wonderful a tune. At the very\nfirst note of that tune, the brogues began shaking upon the feet of\nall who heard it\u2014old or young it mattered not\u2014just as if their\nbrogues had the ague; then the feet began going\u2014going\u2014going from\nunder them, and at last up and away with them, dancing like\nmad!\u2014whisking here, there, and every where, like a straw in a\nstorm\u2014there was no halting while the music lasted!\n\nNot a fair, nor a wedding, nor a patron in the seven parishes round,\nwas counted worth the speaking of without \u201cblind Maurice and his\npipes.\u201d His mother, poor woman, used to lead him about from one place\nto another, just like a dog.\n\nDown through Iveragh\u2014a place that ought to be proud of itself, for\n\u2019tis Daniel O\u2019Connell\u2019s country\u2014Maurice Connor and his mother were\ntaking their rounds. Beyond all other places Iveragh is the place for\nstormy coast and steep mountains: as proper a spot it is as any in\nIreland to get yourself drowned, or your neck broken on the land,\nshould you prefer that. But, notwithstanding, in Ballinskellig bay\nthere is a neat bit of ground, well fitted for diversion, and down\nfrom it towards the water, is a clean smooth piece of strand\u2014the dead\nimage of a calm summer\u2019s sea on a moonlight night, with just the curl\nof the small waves upon it.\n\nHere it was that Maurice\u2019s music had brought from all parts a great\ngathering of the young men and the young women\u2014_O the darlints!_\u2014for\n\u2019twas not every day the strand of Trafraska was stirred up by the\nvoice of a bagpipe. The dance began; and as pretty a rinkafadda it was\nas ever was danced. \u201cBrave music,\u201d said every body, \u201cand well done,\u201d\nwhen Maurice stopped.\n\n\u201cMore power to your elbow, Maurice, and a fair wind in the bellows,\u201d\ncried Paddy Dorman, a hump-backed dancing-master, who was there to\nkeep order. \u201c\u2019Tis a pity,\u201d said he, \u201cif we\u2019d let the piper run dry\nafter such music; \u2019twould be a disgrace to Iveragh, that didn\u2019t come\non it since the week of the three Sundays.\u201d So, as well became him,\nfor he was always a decent man, says he: \u201cDid you drink, piper?\u201d\n\n\u201cI will, sir,\u201d says Maurice, answering the question on the safe side,\nfor you never yet knew piper or schoolmaster who refused his drink.\n\n\u201cWhat will you drink, Maurice?\u201d says Paddy.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m no ways particular,\u201d says Maurice; \u201cI drink any thing, and give\nGod thanks, barring _raw_ water; but if \u2019tis all the same to you,\nmister Dorman, may be you wouldn\u2019t lend me the loan of a glass of\nwhiskey.\u201d\n\n\u201cI\u2019ve no glass, Maurice,\u201d said Paddy; \u201cI\u2019ve only the bottle.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet that be no hindrance,\u201d answered Maurice; \u201cmy mouth just holds a\nglass to the drop; often I\u2019ve tried it, sure.\u201d\n\nSo Paddy Dorman trusted him with the bottle\u2014more fool was he; and, to\nhis cost, he found that though Maurice\u2019s mouth might not hold more\nthan the glass at one time, yet, owing to the hole in his throat, it\ntook many a filling.\n\n\u201cThat was no bad whisky neither,\u201d says Maurice, handing back the empty\nbottle.\n\n\u201cBy the holy frost, then!\u201d says Paddy, \u201c\u2019tis but _cowld_ comfort\nthere\u2019s in that bottle now; and \u2019tis your word we must take for the\nstrength of the whisky, for you\u2019ve left us no sample to judge by:\u201d and\nto be sure Maurice had not.\n\nNow I need not tell any gentleman or lady with common understanding,\nthat if he or she was to drink an honest bottle of whiskey at one\npull, it is not at all the same thing as drinking a bottle of water;\nand in the whole course of my life, I never knew more than five men\nwho could do so without being overtaken by the liquor. Of these\nMaurice Connor was not one, though he had a stiff head enough of his\nown\u2014he was fairly tipsy. Don\u2019t think I blame him for it; \u2019tis often a\ngood man\u2019s case; but true is the word that says, \u201cwhen liquor\u2019s in,\nsense is out;\u201d and puff, at a breath, before you could say \u201cLord save\nus!\u201d out he blasted his wonderful tune.\n\n\u2019Twas really then beyond all belief or telling the dancing Maurice\nhimself could not keep quiet; staggering now on one leg, now on the\nother, and rolling about like a ship in a cross sea, trying to humour\nthe tune. There was his mother too, moving her old bones as light as\nthe youngest girl of them all; but her dancing, no, nor the dancing of\nall the rest, is not worthy the speaking about to the work that was\ngoing on down on the strand. Every inch of it covered with all manner\nof fish jumping and plunging about to the music, and every moment more\nand more would tumble in out of the water, charmed by the wonderful\ntune. Crabs of monstrous size spun round and round on one claw with\nthe nimbleness of a dancing-master, and twirled and tossed their other\nclaws about like limbs that did not belong to them. It was a sight\nsurprising to behold. But perhaps you may have heard of father\nFlorence Conry, a Franciscan Friar, and a great Irish poet; _bolg an\ndana_, as they used to call him\u2014a wallet of poems. If you have not he\nwas as pleasant a man as one would wish to drink with of a hot\nsummer\u2019s day; and he has rhymed out all about the dancing fishes so\nneatly, that it would be a thousand pities not to give you his verses;\nso here\u2019s my hand at an upset of them into English:\n\n    The big seals in motion,\n    Like waves of the ocean,\n      Or gouty feet prancing,\n    Came heading the gay fish,\n    Crabs, lobsters, and cray fish,\n      Determined on dancing.\n\n    The sweet sounds they follow\u2019d,\n    The gasping cod swallow\u2019d;\n      \u2019Twas wonderful, really!\n    And turbot and flounder,\n    \u2018Mid fish that were rounder,\n      Just caper\u2019d as gaily.\n\n    John-dories came tripping;\n    Dull hake, by their skipping\n      To frisk it seem\u2019d given;\n    Bright mackerel went springing,\n    Like small rainbows winging\n      Their flight up to heaven.\n\n    The whiting and haddock\n    Left salt-water paddock,\n      This dance to be put in:\n    Where skate with flat faces\n    Edged out some odd plaices;\n      But soles kept their footing.\n\n    Sprats and herrings in powers\n    Of silvery showers\n      All number out-number\u2019d;\n    And great ling so lengthy\n    Were there in such plenty,\n      The shore was encumber\u2019d.\n\n    The scollop and oyster\n    Their two shells did roister,\n      Like castanets fitting;\n    While limpets moved clearly,\n    And rocks very nearly\n      With laughter were splitting.\n\nNever was such an ullabulloo in this world, before or since; \u2019twas as\nif heaven and earth were coming together; and all out of Maurice\nConnor\u2019s wonderful tune!\n\nIn the height of all these doings, what should there be dancing among\nthe outlandish set of fishes but a beautiful young woman\u2014as beautiful\nas the dawn of day! She had a cocked hat upon her head; from under it\nher long green hair\u2014just the colour of the sea\u2014fell down behind,\nwithout hindrance to her dancing. Her teeth were like rows of pearl;\nher lips for all the world looked like red coral; and she had an\nelegant gown, as white as the foam of the wave, with little rows of\npurple and red sea-weeds settled out upon it; for you never yet saw a\nlady, under the water or over the water, who had not a good notion of\ndressing herself out.\n\nUp she danced at last to Maurice, who was flinging his feet from under\nhim as fast as hops\u2014for nothing in this world could keep still while\nthat tune of his was going on\u2014and says she to him, chaunting it out\nwith a voice as sweet as honey\u2014\n\n    \u201cI\u2019m a lady of honour\n      Who live in the sea;\n    Come down, Maurice Connor,\n      And be married to me.\n\n    \u201cSilver plates and gold dishes\n      You shall have, and shall be\n    The king of the fishes,\n      When you\u2019re married to me.\u201d\n\nDrink was strong in Maurice\u2019s head, and out he chaunted in return for\nher great civility. It is not every lady, may be, that would be after\nmaking such an offer to a blind piper; therefore \u2019twas only right in\nhim to give her as good as she gave herself\u2014so says Maurice,\n\n    \u201cI\u2019m obliged to you, madam:\n      Off a gold dish or plate,\n    If a king, and I had \u2019em,\n      I could dine in great state.\n\n    \u201cWith your own father\u2019s daughter\n      I\u2019d be sure to agree;\n    But to drink the salt water\n      Wouldn\u2019t do so with me!\u201d\n\nThe lady looked at him quite amazed, and swinging her head from side\nto side like a great scholar, \u201cWell,\u201d says she, \u201cMaurice, if you\u2019re\nnot a poet, where is poetry to be found?\u201d\n\nIn this way they kept on at it, framing high compliments; one\nanswering the other, and their feet going with the music as fast as\ntheir tongues. All the fish kept dancing too: Maurice heard the\nclatter, and was afraid to stop playing lest it might be displeasing\nto the fish, and not knowing what so many of them may take it into\ntheir heads to do to him if they got vexed.\n\nWell, the lady with the green hair kept on coaxing of Maurice with\nsoft speeches, till at last she overpersuaded him to promise to marry\nher, and be king over the fishes, great and small. Maurice was well\nfitted to be their king, if they wanted one that could make them\ndance; and he surely would drink, barring the salt water, with any\nfish of them all.\n\nWhen Maurice\u2019s mother saw him, with that unnatural thing in the form\nof a green-haired lady as his guide, and he and she dancing down\ntogether so lovingly to the water\u2019s edge through the thick of the\nfishes, she called out after him to stop and come back. \u201cOh then,\u201d\nsays she, \u201cas if I was not widow enough before, there he is going away\nfrom me to be married to that scaly woman. And who knows but \u2019tis\ngrandmother I may be to a hake or a cod\u2014Lord help and pity me, but\n\u2019tis a mighty unnatural thing!\u2014and may be \u2019tis boiling and eating my\nown grandchild I\u2019ll be, with a bit of salt butter, and I not knowing\nit!\u2014Oh Maurice, Maurice, if there\u2019s any love or nature left in you,\ncome back to your own _ould_ mother, who reared you like a decent\nChristian!\u201d\n\nThen the poor woman began to cry and ullagoane so finely that it would\ndo any one good to hear her.\n\nMaurice was not long getting to the rim of the water; there he kept\nplaying and dancing on as if nothing was the matter, and a great\nthundering wave coming in towards him ready to swallow him up alive;\nbut as he could not see it, he did not fear it. His mother it was who\nsaw it plainly through the big tears that were rolling down her\ncheeks; and though she saw it, and her heart was aching as much as\never mother\u2019s heart ached for a son, she kept dancing, dancing, all\nthe time for the bare life of her. Certain it was she could not help\nit, for Maurice never stopped playing that wonderful tune of his.\n\nHe only turned the bothered ear to the sound of his mother\u2019s voice,\nfearing it might put him out in his steps, and all the answer he made\nback was\u2014\n\n\u201cWhisht with you, mother\u2014sure I\u2019m going to be king over the fishes\ndown in the sea, and for a token of luck, and a sign that I am alive\nand well, I\u2019ll send you in, every twelvemonth on this day, a piece of\nburned wood to Trafraska.\u201d Maurice had not the power to say a word\nmore, for the strange lady with the green hair, seeing the wave just\nupon them, covered him up with herself in a thing like a cloak with a\nbig hood to it, and the wave curling over twice as high as their\nheads, burst upon the strand, with a rush and a roar that might be\nheard as far as Cape Clear.\n\nThat day twelvemonth the piece of burned wood came ashore in\nTrafraska. It was a queer thing for Maurice to think of sending all\nthe way from the bottom of the sea. A gown or a pair of shoes would\nhave been something like a present for his poor mother; but he had\nsaid it, and he kept his word. The bit of burned wood regularly came\nashore on the appointed day for as good, ay, and better than a hundred\nyears. The day is now forgotten, and may be that is the reason why\npeople say how Maurice Connor has stopped sending the luck-token to\nhis mother. Poor woman, she did not live to get as much as one of\nthem; for what through the loss of Maurice, and the fear of eating her\nown grandchildren, she died in three weeks after the dance\u2014some say\nit was the fatigue that killed her, but whichever it was, Mrs. Connor\nwas decently buried with her own people.\n\nSeafaring men have often heard off the coast of Kerry, on a still\nnight, the sound of music coming up from the water; and some, who have\nhad good ears, could plainly distinguish Maurice Connor\u2019s voice\nsinging these words to his pipes:\u2014\n\n    Beautiful shore, with thy spreading strand,\n    Thy crystal water, and diamond sand;\n    Never would I have parted from thee\n    But for the sake of my fair ladie.[21]\n\n    [21] This is almost a literal translation of a Rann in the\n    well-known song of Deardra.\n\n    The Irish _Merrow_ answers exactly to the English Mermaid. It\n    is also used to express a sea-monster, like the Armorick and\n    Cornish _Morhuch_, to which it evidently bears analogy.\n\n    The romantic historians of Ireland describe the _Suire_ as\n    playing round the ships of the Milesians when on their passage\n    to that Island.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DULLAHAN.\n\n    \u201cThen wonder not at _headless folk_,\n      Since every day you greet \u2019em;\n    Nor treat old stories as a joke,\n      When fools you daily meet \u2019em.\u201d\n\n                      \u2014_The Legendary._\n\n    \u201cSays the friar, \u2019tis strange headless horses should trot.\u201d\n\n                                                    _Old Song._\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOOD WOMAN.\n\nXXVI.\n\n\nIn a pleasant and not unpicturesque valley of the White Knight\u2019s\ncountry, at the foot of the Galtee mountains, lived Larry Dodd and his\nwife Nancy. They rented a cabin and a few acres of land, which they\ncultivated with great care, and its crops rewarded their industry.\nThey were independent and respected by their neighbours; they loved\neach other in a marriageable sort of way, and few couples had\naltogether more the appearance of comfort about them.\n\nLarry was a hard working, and, occasionally, a hard drinking,\nDutch-built, little man, with a fiddle head and a round stern; a\nsteady-going straight-forward fellow, barring when he carried too much\nwhisky, which, it must be confessed, might occasionally prevent his\nwalking the chalked line with perfect philomathical accuracy. He had a\nmoist, ruddy countenance, rather inclined to an expression of gravity,\nand particularly so in the morning; but, taken all together he was\ngenerally looked upon as a marvellously proper person, notwithstanding\nhe had, every day in the year, a sort of unholy dew upon his face,\neven in the coldest weather, which gave rise to a supposition (amongst\ncensorious persons, of course,) that Larry was apt to indulge in\nstrong and frequent potations. However, all men of talents have their\nfaults,\u2014indeed, who is without them?\u2014and as Larry, setting aside his\ndomestic virtues and skill in farming, was decidedly the most\ndistinguished breaker of horses for forty miles round, he must be in\nsome degree excused, considering the inducements of \u201cthe stirrup cup,\u201d\nand the fox-hunting society in which he mixed, if he had also been the\ngreatest drunkard in the county: but, in truth, this was not the case.\n\nLarry was a man of mixed habits, as well in his mode of life and his\ndrink, as in his costume. His dress accorded well with his\ncharacter\u2014a sort of half-and-half between farmer and horse-jockey. He\nwore a blue coat of coarse cloth, with short skirts, and a stand-up\ncollar; his waistcoat was red, and his lower habiliments were made of\nleather, which in course of time had shrunk so much, that they fitted\nlike a second skin; and long use had absorbed their moisture to such a\ndegree, that they made a strange sort of crackling noise as he walked\nalong. A hat covered with oil-skin; a cutting-whip, all worn and jagged\nat the end; a pair of second-hand, or, to speak more correctly\nsecond-footed, greasy top boots, that seemed never to have imbibed a\nrefreshing draught of Warren\u2019s blacking of matchless lustre!\u2014and one\nspur without a rowel, completed the every-day dress of Larry Dodd.\n\nThus equipped was Larry returning from Cashel, mounted on a\nrough-coated and wall-eyed nag, though, notwithstanding these and a\nfew other trifling blemishes, a well-built animal; having just\npurchased the said nag, with a fancy that he could make his own money\nagain of his bargain, and, may be, turn an odd penny more by it at the\nensuing Kildorrery fair. Well pleased with himself, he trotted fair\nand easy along the road in the delicious and lingering twilight of a\nlovely June evening, thinking of nothing at all, only whistling, and\nwondering would horses always be so low. \u201cIf they go at this rate,\u201d\nsaid he to himself, \u201cfor half nothing, and that paid in butter buyer\u2019s\nnotes, who would be the fool to walk?\u201d This very thought, indeed, was\npassing in his mind, when his attention was roused by a woman pacing\nquickly by the side of his horse and hurrying on as if endeavouring to\nreach her destination before the night closed in. Her figure,\nconsidering the long strides she took, appeared to be under the common\nsize\u2014rather of the dumpy order; but farther, as to whether the damsel\nwas young or old, fair or brown, pretty or ugly, Larry could form no\nprecise notion, from her wearing a large cloak (the usual garb of the\nfemale Irish peasant,) the hood of which was turned up, and completely\nconcealed every feature.\n\nEnveloped in this mass of dark and concealing drapery, the strange\nwoman, without much exertion, contrived to keep up with Larry Dodd\u2019s\nsteed for some time, when his master very civilly offered her a lift\nbehind him, as far as he was going her way. \u201cCivility begets\ncivility,\u201d they say; however he received no answer; and thinking that\nthe lady\u2019s silence proceeded only from bashfulness, like a man of true\ngallantry, not a word more said Larry until he pulled up by the side\nof a gap, and then says he, \u201c_Ma colleen beg_,[22] just jump up behind\nme, without a word more, though never a one have you spoke, and I\u2019ll\ntake you safe and sound through the lonesome bit of road that is\nbefore us.\u201d\n\n    [22] My little girl.\n\nShe jumped at the offer, sure enough, and up with her on the back of\nthe horse as light as a feather. In an instant there she was seated up\nbehind Larry, with her hand and arm buckled round his waist holding\non.\n\n\u201cI hope you\u2019re comfortable there, my dear,\u201d said Larry, in his own\ngood-humoured way; but there was no answer; and on they went\u2014trot,\ntrot, trot\u2014along the road; and all was so still and so quiet, that\nyou might have heard the sound of the hoofs on the limestone a mile\noff; for that matter there was nothing else to hear except the moaning\nof a distant stream, that kept up a continued _cronane_,[23] like a\nnurse _hushoing_. Larry, who had a keen ear, did not, however, require\nso profound a silence to detect the click of one of the shoes. \u201c\u2019Tis\nonly loose the shoe is,\u201d said he to his companion, as they were just\nentering on the lonesome bit of road of which he had before spoken.\nSome old trees, with huge trunks, all covered, and irregular branches\nfestooned with ivy, grew over a dark pool of water, which had been\nformed as a drinking-place for cattle; and in the distance was seen\nthe majestic head of Gaultee-more. Here the horse, as if in grateful\nrecognition, made a dead halt; and Larry, not knowing what vicious\ntricks his new purchase might have, and unwilling that through any odd\nchance the young woman should get _spilt_ in the water, dismounted,\nthinking to lead the horse quietly by the pool.\n\n    [23] A monotonous song; a drowsy humming noise.\n\n\u201cBy the piper\u2019s luck, that always found what he wanted,\u201d said Larry,\nrecollecting himself, \u201cI\u2019ve a nail in my pocket: \u2019tis not the first\ntime I\u2019ve put on a shoe, and may be it won\u2019t be the last; for here is\nno want of paving-stones to make hammers in plenty.\u201d\n\nNo sooner was Larry off, than off with a spring came the young woman\njust at his side. Her feet touched the ground without making the least\nnoise in life, and away she bounded like an ill-mannered wench, as she\nwas, without saying, \u201cby your leave,\u201d or no matter what else. She\nseemed to glide rather than run, not along the road, but across a\nfield, up towards the old ivy-covered walls of Kilnaslattery\nchurch\u2014and a pretty church it was.\n\n\u201cNot so fast, if you please, young woman\u2014not so fast,\u201d cried Larry,\ncalling after her: but away she ran, and Larry followed, his leathern\ngarment, already described, crack, crick, crackling at every step he\ntook. \u201cWhere\u2019s my wages?\u201d said Larry: \u201c_Thorum pog, ma colleen\noge_,[24]\u2014sure I\u2019ve earned a kiss from your pair of pretty lips\u2014and\nI\u2019ll have it too!\u201d But she went on faster and faster, regardless of\nthese and other flattering speeches from her pursuer; at last she came\nto the churchyard wall, and then over with her in an instant.\n\n    [24] Give me a kiss, my young girl.\n\n\u201cWell, she\u2019s a mighty smart creature any how. To be sure, how neat she\nsteps upon her pasterns! Did any one ever see the like of that\nbefore;\u2014but I\u2019ll not be balked by any woman that ever wore a head, or\nany ditch either,\u201d exclaimed Larry, as with a desperate bound he\nvaulted, scrambled, and tumbled over the wall into the churchyard. Up\nhe got from the elastic sod of a newly-made grave in which Tade Leary\nthat morning was buried\u2014rest his soul!\u2014and on went Larry, stumbling\nover headstones, and foot-stones, over old graves and new graves,\npieces of coffins, and the skulls and bones of dead men\u2014the Lord save\nus!\u2014that were scattered about there as plenty as paving-stones;\nfloundering amidst great overgrown dock-leaves and brambles that, with\ntheir long prickly arms, tangled round his limbs, and held him back\nwith a fearful grasp. Mean time the merry wench in the cloak moved\nthrough all these obstructions as evenly and as gaily as if the\nchurchyard, crowded up as it was with graves and grave-stones (for\npeople came to be buried there from far and near,) had been the floor\nof a dancing-room. Round and round the walls of the old church she\nwent. \u201cI\u2019ll just wait,\u201d said Larry, seeing this, and thinking it all\nnothing but a trick to frighten him; \u201cwhen she comes round again, if I\ndon\u2019t take the kiss, I won\u2019t, that\u2019s all,\u2014and here she is!\u201d Larry\nDodd sprang forward with open arms, and clasped in them\u2014a woman, it\nis true\u2014but a woman without any lips to kiss, by reason of her having\nno head.\n\n\u201cMurder!\u201d cried he. \u201cWell, that accounts for her not speaking.\u201d Having\nuttered these words, Larry himself became dumb with fear and\nastonishment; his blood seemed turned to ice, and a dizziness came\nover him; and, staggering like a drunken man, he rolled against the\nbroken window of the ruin, horrified at the conviction that he had\nactually held a Dullahan in his embrace!\n\nWhen he recovered to something like a feeling of consciousness, he\nslowly opened his eyes, and then, indeed, a scene of wonder burst upon\nhim. In the midst of the ruin stood an old wheel of torture,\nornamented with heads, like Cork gaol, when the heads of Murty\nSullivan and other gentlemen were stuck upon it. This was plainly\nvisible in the strange light which spread itself around. It was\nfearful to behold, but Larry could not choose but look, for his limbs\nwere powerless through the wonder and the fear. Useless as it was, he\nwould have called for help, but his tongue cleaved to the roof of his\nmouth, and not one word could he say. In short, there was Larry,\ngazing through a shattered window of the old church, with eyes bleared\nand almost starting from their sockets; his breast resting on the\nthickness of the wall, over which, on one side, his head and\noutstretched neck projected, and on the other, although one toe\ntouched the ground, it derived no support from thence: terror, as it\nwere, kept him balanced. Strange noises assailed his ears, until at\nlast they tingled painfully to the sharp clatter of little bells,\nwhich kept up a continued ding\u2014ding\u2014ding\u2014ding: marrowless bones\nrattled and clanked, and the deep and solemn sound of a great bell\ncame booming on the night wind.\n\n    \u2019Twas a spectre rung\n    That bell when it swung\u2014\n        Swing-swang!\n    And the chain it squeaked,\n    And the pulley creaked,\n        Swing-swang!\n\n    And with every roll\n    Of the deep death toll\n        Ding-dong!\n    The hollow vault rang\n    As the clapper went bang,\n        Ding-dong!\n\nIt was strange music to dance by; nevertheless, moving to it, round\nand round the wheel set with skulls, were well-dressed ladies and\ngentlemen, and soldiers and sailors, and priests and publicans, and\njockeys and jennys, but all without their heads. Some poor skeletons,\nwhose bleached bones were ill covered by moth-eaten palls, and who\nwere not admitted into the ring, amused themselves by bowling their\nbrainless noddles at one another, which seemed to enjoy the sport\nbeyond measure.\n\nLarry did not know what to think; his brains were all in a mist; and\nlosing the balance which he had so long maintained, he fell head\nforemost into the midst of the company of Dullahans.\n\n\u201cI\u2019m done for and lost for ever,\u201d roared Larry, with his heels turned\ntowards the stars, and souse down he came.\n\n\u201cWelcome, Larry Dodd, welcome,\u201d cried every head, bobbing up and down\nin the air. \u201cA drink for Larry Dodd,\u201d shouted they, as with one voice,\nthat quavered like a shake on the bagpipes. No sooner said than done,\nfor a player at heads, catching his own as it was bowled at him, for\nfear of its going astray, jumped up, put the head, without a word,\nunder his left arm, and, with the right stretched out, presented a\nbrimming cup to Larry, who, to show his manners, drank it off like a\nman.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis capital stuff,\u201d he would have said, which surely it was, but he\ngot no farther than cap, when decapitated was he, and his head began\ndancing over his shoulders like those of the rest of the party. Larry,\nhowever, was not the first man who lost his head through the\ntemptation of looking at the bottom of a brimming cup. Nothing more\ndid he remember clearly,\u2014for it seems body and head being parted is\nnot very favourable to thought\u2014but a great hurry scurry with the\nnoise of carriages and the cracking of whips.\n\nWhen his senses returned, his first act was to put up his hand to\nwhere his head formerly grew, and to his great joy there he found it\nstill. He then shook it gently, but his head remained firm enough, and\nsomewhat assured at this, he proceeded to open his eyes and look\naround him. It was broad daylight, and in the old church of\nKilnaslattery he found himself lying, with that head, the loss of\nwhich he had anticipated, quietly resting, poor youth, \u201cupon the lap\nof earth.\u201d Could it have been an ugly dream? \u201cOh no,\u201d said Larry, \u201ca\ndream could never have brought me here, stretched on the flat of my\nback, with that death\u2019s head and cross marrow bones forenenting me on\nthe fine old tombstone there that was _faced_ by Pat Kearney[25] of\nKilcrea\u2014but where is the horse?\u201d He got up slowly, every joint aching\nwith pain from the bruises he had received, and went to the pool of\nwater, but no horse was there. \u201c\u2019Tis home I must go,\u201d said Larry, with\na rueful countenance; \u201cbut how will I face Nancy?\u2014what will I tell\nher about the horse, and the seven I. O. U.\u2019s that he cost me?\u2014\u2019Tis\nthem Dullahans that have made their own of him from me\u2014the\nhorse-stealing robbers of the world, that have no fear of the\ngallows!\u2014but what\u2019s gone is gone, that\u2019s a clear case!\u201d\u2014so saying,\nhe turned his steps homewards, and arrived at his cabin about noon\nwithout encountering any farther adventures. There he found Nancy,\nwho, as he expected, looked as black as a thundercloud at him for\nbeing out all night. She listened to the marvellous relation which he\ngave with exclamations of astonishment, and, when he had concluded, of\ngrief, at the loss of the horse that he had paid for like an honest\nman with seven I. O. U.\u2019s, three of which she knew to be as good as\ngold.\n\n    [25] _Faced_, so written by the Chantrey of Kilcrea, for\n    \u201c_fecit_.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what took you up to the old church at all, out of the road, and\nat that time of the night, Larry?\u201d inquired his wife.\n\nLarry looked like a criminal for whom there was no reprieve; he\nscratched his head for an excuse, but not one could he muster up, so\nhe knew not what to say.\n\n\u201cOh! Larry, Larry,\u201d muttered Nancy, after waiting some time for his\nanswer, her jealous fears during the pause rising like barm; \u201c\u2019tis the\nvery same way with you as with any other man\u2014you are all alike for\nthat matter\u2014I\u2019ve no pity for you\u2014but, confess the truth.\u201d\n\nLarry shuddered at the tempest which he perceived was about to break\nupon his devoted head.\n\n\u201cNancy,\u201d said he, \u201cI do confess:\u2014it was a young woman without any\nhead that\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\nHis wife heard no more. \u201cA woman I knew it was,\u201d cried she; \u201cbut a\nwoman without a head, Larry!\u2014well, it is long before Nancy Gollagher\never thought it would come to that with her!\u2014that she would be left\ndissolute and alone here by her _baste_ of a husband, for a woman\nwithout a head!\u2014O father, father! and O mother, mother! it is well\nyou are low to-day!\u2014that you don\u2019t see this affliction and disgrace\nto your daughter that you reared decent and tender.\n\n\u201cO Larry, you villain, you\u2019ll be the death of your lawful wife going\nafter such O\u2014O\u2014O\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d says Larry, putting his hands in his coat-pockets, \u201cleast said\nis soonest mended. Of the young woman I know no more than I do of Moll\nFlanders: but this I know, that a woman without a head may well be\ncalled a Good Woman, because she has no tongue!\u201d\n\nHow this remark operated on the matrimonial dispute history does not\ninform us. It is, however, reported that the lady had the last word.\n\n\n\n\nHANLON\u2019S MILL.\n\nXXVII.\n\n\nOne fine summer\u2019s evening Michael Noonan went over to Jack Brien\u2019s,\nthe shoemaker, at Ballyduff, for the pair of brogues which Jack was\nmending for him. It was a pretty walk the way he took, but very\nlonesome; all along by the river-side, down under the oak-wood, till\nhe came to Hanlon\u2019s mill, that used to be, but that had gone to ruin\nmany a long year ago.\n\nMelancholy enough the walls of that same mill looked; the great old\nwheel, black with age, all covered over with moss and ferns, and the\nbushes all hanging down about it. There it stood silent and\nmotionless; and a sad contrast it was to its former busy clack, with\nthe stream which once gave it use rippling idly along.\n\nOld Hanlon was a man that had great knowledge of all sorts; there was\nnot an herb that grew in the field but he could tell the name of it\nand its use, out of a big book he had written, every word of it in the\nreal Irish _karacter_. He kept a school once, and could teach the\nLatin; that surely is a blessed tongue all over the wide world; and I\nhear tell as how \u201cthe great Burke\u201d went to school to him. Master\nEdmund lived up at the old house there, which was then in the family,\nand it was the Nagles that got it afterwards, but they sold it.\n\nBut it was Michael Noonan\u2019s walk I was about speaking of. It was\nfairly between lights, the day was clean gone, and the moon was not\nyet up, when Mick was walking smartly across the Inch. Well, he heard,\ncoming down out of the wood, such blowing of horns and hallooing, and\nthe cry of all the hounds in the world, and he thought they were\ncoming after him; and the galloping of the horses, and the voice of\nthe whipper-in, and he shouting out, just like the fine old song,\n\n    \u201cHallo Piper, Lilly, agus Finder;\u201d\n\nand the echo over from the gray rock across the river giving back\nevery word as plainly as it was spoken. But nothing could Mick see,\nand the shouting and hallooing following him every step of the way\ntill he got up to Jack Brien\u2019s door; and he was certain, too, he heard\nthe clack of old Hanlon\u2019s mill going, through all the clatter. To be\nsure, he ran as fast as fear and his legs could carry him, and never\nonce looked behind him, well knowing that the Duhallow hounds were out\nin quite another quarter that day, and that nothing good could come\nout of the noise of Hanlon\u2019s mill.\n\nWell, Michael Noonan got his brogues, and well heeled they were, and\nwell pleased was he with them; when who should be seated at Jack\nBrien\u2019s before him, but a gossip of his, one Darby Haynes, a mighty\ndecent man, that had a horse and car of his own, and that used to be\ntravelling with it, taking loads like the royal mail coach between\nCork and Limerick; and when he was at home, Darby was a near neighbour\nof Michael Noonan\u2019s.\n\n\u201cIs it home you\u2019re going with the brogues this blessed night?\u201d said\nDarby to him.\n\n\u201cWhere else would it be?\u201d replied Mick: \u201cbut, by my word, \u2019tis not\nacross the Inch back again I\u2019m going, after all I heard coming here;\n\u2019tis to no good that old Hanlon\u2019s mill is busy again.\u201d\n\n\u201cTrue, for you,\u201d said Darby; \u201cand may be you\u2019d take the horse and car\nhome for me, Mick, by way of company, as \u2019tis along the road you go.\nI\u2019m waiting here to see a sister\u2019s son of mine that I expect from\nKilcoleman.\u201d \u201cThat same I\u2019ll do,\u201d answered Mick, \u201cwith a thousand\nwelcomes.\u201d So Mick drove the car fair and easy, knowing that the poor\nbeast had come off a long journey; and Mick\u2014God reward him for\nit\u2014was always tender-hearted and good to the dumb creatures.\n\nThe night was a beautiful one; the moon was better than a quarter old;\nand Mick, looking up at her, could not help bestowing a blessing on\nher beautiful face, shining down so sweetly upon the gentle Awbeg. He\nhad now got out of the open road, and had come to where the trees grew\non each side of it: he proceeded for some space in the chequered light\nwhich the moon gave through them. At one time, when a big old tree got\nbetween him and the moon, it was so dark, that he could hardly see the\nhorse\u2019s head; then, as he passed on, the moonbeams would stream\nthrough the open boughs and variegate the road with light and shade.\nMick was lying down in the car at his ease, having got clear of the\nplantation, and was watching the bright piece of a moon in a little\npool at the road-side, when he saw it disappear all of a sudden as if\na great cloud came over the sky. He turned round on his elbow to see\nif it was so; but how was Mick astonished at finding, close alongside\nof the car, a great high black coach drawn by six black horses, with\nlong black tails reaching almost down to the ground, and a coachman\ndressed all in black sitting up on the box. But what surprised Mick\nthe most was, that he could see no sign of a head either upon coachman\nor horses. It swept rapidly by him, and he could perceive the horses\nraising their feet as if they were in a fine slinging trot, the\ncoachman touching them up with his long whip, and the wheels spinning\nround like hoddy-doddies; still he could hear no noise, only the\nregular step of his gossip Darby\u2019s horse, and the squeaking of the\ngudgeons of the car, that were as good as lost entirely for want of a\nlittle grease.\n\nPoor Mick\u2019s heart almost died within him, but he said nothing, only\nlooked on; and the black coach swept away and was soon lost among\nsome distant trees. Mick saw nothing more of it, or, indeed, of any\nthing else. He got home just as the moon was going down behind Mount\nHillery\u2014took the tackling off the horse, turned the beast out in the\nfield for the night, and got to his bed.\n\nNext morning, early, he was standing at the road-side, thinking of all\nthat had happened the night before, when he saw Dan Madden, that was\nMr. Wrixon\u2019s huntsman, coming on the master\u2019s best horse down the\nhill, as hard as ever he went at the tail of the hounds. Mick\u2019s mind\ninstantly misgave him that all was not right, so he stood out in the\nvery middle of the road, and caught hold of Dan\u2019s bridle when he came\nup.\n\n\u201cMick, dear\u2014for the love of heaven! don\u2019t stop me,\u201d cried Dan.\n\n\u201cWhy, what\u2019s the hurry?\u201d said Mick.\n\n\u201cOh, the master!\u2014he\u2019s off,\u2014he\u2019s off\u2014he\u2019ll never cross a horse again\ntill the day of judgment!\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy, what would ail his honour?\u201d said Mick; \u201csure it is no later than\nyesterday morning that I was talking to him, and he stout and hearty;\nand says he to me, Mick, says he\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cStout and hearty was he?\u201d answered Madden; \u201cand was he not out with\nme in the kennel last night, when I was feeding the dogs; and didn\u2019t\nhe come out to the stable, and give a ball to Peg Pullaway with his\nown hand, and tell me he\u2019d ride the old General to-day; and sure,\u201d\nsaid Dan, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his coat, \u201cwho\u2019d have\nthought that the first thing I\u2019d see this morning was the mistress\nstanding at my bed-side, and bidding me get up and ride off like fire\nfor Doctor Galway; for the master had got a fit, and\u201d\u2014poor Dan\u2019s\ngrief choked his voice\u2014\u201coh, Mick! if you have a heart in you, run\nover yourself, or send the gossoon for Kate Finnigan, the midwife;\nshe\u2019s a cruel skilful woman, and may be she might save the master,\ntill I get the doctor.\u201d\n\nDan struck his spurs into the hunter, and Michael Noonan flung off his\nnewly-mended brogues, and cut across the fields to Kate Finnigan\u2019s;\nbut neither the doctor nor Katty was of any avail, and the next\nnight\u2019s moon saw Ballygibblin\u2014and more\u2019s the pity\u2014a house of\nmourning.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEATH COACH.\n\nXXVIII.\n\n\n    \u2019Tis midnight!\u2014how gloomy and dark!\n      By Jupiter there\u2019s not a star!\u2014\n    \u2019Tis fearful!\u2014\u2019tis awful!\u2014and hark!\n      What sound is that comes from afar?\n\n    Still rolling and rumbling, that sound\n      Makes nearer and nearer approach;\n    Do I tremble, or is it the ground?\u2014\n      Lord save us!\u2014what is it?\u2014a coach!\u2014\n\n    A coach!\u2014but that coach has no head;\n      And the horses are headless as it:\n    Of the driver the same may be said,\n      And the passengers inside who sit.\n\n    See the wheels! how they fly o\u2019er the stones!\n      And whirl, as the whip it goes crack:\n    Their spokes are of dead men\u2019s thigh bones,\n      And the pole is the spine of the back!\n\n    The hammer-cloth, shabby display,\n      Is a pall rather mildew\u2019d by damps;\n\n    And to light this strange coach on its way,\n      Two hollow skulls hang up for lamps!\n\n    From the gloom of Rathcooney churchyard,\n      They dash down the hill of Glanmire;\n    Pass Lota in gallop as hard\n      As if horses were never to tire!\n\n    With people thus headless \u2019tis fun\n      To drive in such furious career;\n    Since _headlong_ their horses can\u2019t run,\n      Nor coachman be _heady_ from beer.\n\n    Very steep is the Tivoli lane,\n      But up-hill to them is as down;\n    Nor the charms of Woodhill can detain\n      These Dullahans rushing to town.\n\n    Could they feel as I\u2019ve felt\u2014in a song\u2014\n      A spell that forbade them depart;\n    They\u2019d a lingering visit prolong,\n      And after their head lose their heart!\n\n    No matter!\u2014\u2019tis past twelve o\u2019clock;\n      Through the streets they sweep on like the wind,\n    And, taking the road to Blackrock,\n      Cork city is soon left behind.\n\n    Should they hurry thus reckless along,\n      To supper instead of to bed,\n    The landlord will surely be wrong,\n      If he charge it at so much a head!\n\n    Yet mine host may suppose them too poor\n      To bring to his wealth an increase;\n    As till now, all who drove to his door,\n      Possess\u2019d at least _one crown_ a-piece.\n\n    Up the Deadwoman\u2019s hill they are roll\u2019d;\n      Boreenmannah is quite out of sight;\n    Ballintemple they reach, and behold!\n      At its churchyard they stop and alight.\n\n    \u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d said a voice from the ground,\n      \u201cWe\u2019ve no room, for the place is quite full.\u201d\n    \u201cO! room must be speedily found,\n      For we come from the parish of Skull.\n\n    \u201cThough Murphys and Crowleys appear\n      On headstones of deep-letter\u2019d pride;\n    Though Scannels and Murleys lie here,\n      Fitzgeralds and Toonies beside;\n\n    \u201cYet here for the night we lie down,\n      To-morrow we speed on the gale;\n    For having no heads of our own,\n      We seek the Old Head of Kinsale.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTHE HEADLESS HORSEMAN.\n\nXXIX.\n\n\n\u201cGod speed you, and a safe journey this night to you, Charley,\u201d\nejaculated the master of the little sheebeen house at Ballyhooley\nafter his old friend and good customer, Charley Culnane, who at length\nhad turned his face homewards, with the prospect of as dreary a ride\nand as dark a night as ever fell upon the Blackwater, along the banks\nof which he was about to journey.\n\nCharley Culnane knew the country well, and, moreover, was as bold a\nrider as any Mallow-boy that ever _rattled_ a four-year-old upon\nDrumrue race-course. He had gone to Fermoy in the morning, as well for\nthe purpose of purchasing some ingredients required for the Christmas\ndinner by his wife, as to gratify his own vanity by having new reins\nfitted to his snaffle, in which he intended showing off the old mare\nat the approaching St. Stephen\u2019s day hunt.\n\nCharley did not get out of Fermoy until late; for although he was not\none of your \u201cnasty particular sort of fellows\u201d in any thing that\nrelated to the common occurrences of life, yet in all the appointments\nconnected with hunting, riding, leaping, in short, in whatever was\nconnected with the old mare, \u201cCharley,\u201d the saddlers said, \u201cwas the\ndevil to _plase_.\u201d An illustration of this fastidiousness was afforded\nby his going such a distance for his snaffle bridle. Mallow was full\ntwelve miles nearer \u201cCharley\u2019s farm\u201d (which lay just three quarters\nof a mile below Carrick) than Fermoy; but Charley had quarrelled with\nall the Mallow saddlers, from hard-working and hard-drinking Tim\nClancey, up to Mr. Ryan, who wrote himself \u201cSaddler to the Duhallow\nHunt;\u201d and no one could content him in all particulars but honest\nMichael Twomey of Fermoy, who used to assert\u2014and who will doubt\nit\u2014that he could stitch a saddle better than the lord-lieutenant,\nalthough they made him all as one as king over Ireland.\n\nThis delay in the arrangement of the snaffle bridle did not allow\nCharley Culnane to pay so long a visit as he had at first intended to\nhis old friend and gossip, Con Buckley, of the \u201cHarp of Erin.\u201d Con,\nhowever, knew the value of time, and insisted upon Charley making good\nuse of what he had to spare. \u201cI won\u2019t bother you waiting for water,\nCharley, because I think you\u2019ll have enough of that same before you\nget home; so drink off your liquor, man. It\u2019s as good _parliament_ as\never a gentleman tasted, ay, and holy church too, for it will bear \u2018x\n_waters_,\u2019 and carry the bead after that, may be.\u201d\n\nCharley, it must be confessed, nothing loath, drank success to Con,\nand success to the jolly \u201cHarp of Erin,\u201d with its head of beauty and\nits strings of the hair of gold, and to their better acquaintance, and\nso on, from the bottom of his soul, until the bottom of the bottle\nreminded him that Carrick was at the bottom of the hill on the other\nside of Castletown Roche, and that he had got no farther on his\njourney than his gossip\u2019s at Ballyhooley, close to the big gate of\nConvamore. Catching hold of his oil-skin hat, therefore, whilst Con\nBuckley went to the cupboard for another bottle of the \u201creal stuff,\u201d\nhe regularly, as it is termed, bolted from his friend\u2019s hospitality,\ndarted to the stable, tightened his girths, and put the old mare into\na canter towards home.\n\nThe road from Ballyhooley to Carrick follows pretty nearly the course\nof the Blackwater, occasionally diverging from the river and passing\nthrough rather wild scenery, when contrasted with the beautiful seats\nthat adorn its banks. Charley cantered gaily, regardless of the rain,\nwhich, as his friend Con had anticipated, fell in torrents: the good\nwoman\u2019s currants and raisins were carefully packed between the folds\nof his yeomanry cloak, which Charley, who was proud of showing that he\nbelonged to the \u201cRoyal Mallow Light Horse Volunteers,\u201d always strapped\nto the saddle before him, and took care never to destroy the military\neffect of by putting it on.\u2014Away he went singing like a thrush\u2014\n\n    \u201cSporting, belleing, dancing, drinking,\n    Breaking windows\u2014(_hiccup_!)\u2014sinking,\n    Ever raking\u2014never thinking,\n                    Live the rakes of Mallow.\n\n    \u201cSpending faster than it comes,\n    Beating\u2014(_hiccup, hic_,) and duns,\n    Duhallow\u2019s true-begotten sons,\n                    Live the rakes of Mallow.\u201d\n\nNotwithstanding that the visit to the jolly \u201cHarp of Erin\u201d had a\nlittle increased the natural complacency of his mind, the drenching of\nthe new snaffle reins began to disturb him; and then followed a train\nof more anxious thoughts than even were occasioned by the dreaded\ndefeat of the pride of his long-anticipated _turn out_ on St.\nStephen\u2019s day. In an hour of good fellowship, when his heart was warm,\nand his head not over cool, Charley had backed the old mare against\nMr. Jephson\u2019s bay filly Desdemona for a neat hundred, and he now felt\nsore misgivings as to the prudence of the match. In a less gay tone\nhe continued\u2014\n\n    \u201cLiving short, but merry lives,\n    Going where the devil drives,\n    Keeping\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cKeeping\u201d he muttered, as the old mare had reduced her canter to a\ntrot at the bottom of Kilcummer Hill. Charley\u2019s eye fell on the old\nwalls that belonged, in former times, to the Templars: but the silent\ngloom of the ruin was broken only by the heavy rain which splashed and\npattered on the grave-stones. He then looked up at the sky, to see if\nthere was, among the clouds, any hopes for mercy on his new snaffle\nreins; and no sooner were his eyes lowered, than his attention was\narrested by an object so extraordinary as almost led him to doubt the\nevidence of his senses. The head, apparently, of a white horse, with\nshort cropped ears, large open nostrils and immense eyes, seemed\nrapidly to follow him. No connexion with body, legs, or rider, could\npossibly be traced\u2014the head advanced\u2014Charley\u2019s old mare, too, was\nmoved at this unnatural sight, and snorting violently, increased her\ntrot up the hill. The head moved forward, and passed on: Charley,\npursuing it with astonished gaze, and wondering by what means, and for\nwhat purpose, this detached head thus proceeded through the air, did\nnot perceive the corresponding body until he was suddenly startled by\nfinding it close at his side. Charley turned to examine what was thus\nso sociably jogging on with him, when a most unexampled apparition\npresented itself to his view. A figure, whose height (judging as well\nas the obscurity of the night would permit him) he computed to be at\nleast eight feet, was seated on the body and legs of a white horse\nfull eighteen hands and a half high. In this measurement Charley could\nnot be mistaken, for his own mare was exactly fifteen hands, and the\nbody that thus jogged alongside he could at once determine, from his\npractice in horseflesh, was at least three hands and a half higher.\n\nAfter the first feeling of astonishment, which found vent in the\nexclamation \u201cI\u2019m sold now for ever!\u201d was over, the attention of\nCharley, being a keen sportsman, was naturally directed to this\nextraordinary body; and having examined it with the eye of a\nconnoisseur, he proceeded to reconnoitre the figure so unusually\nmounted, who had hitherto remained perfectly mute. Wishing to see\nwhether his companion\u2019s silence proceeded from bad temper, want of\nconversational powers, or from a distaste to water, and the fear that\nthe opening of his mouth might subject him to have it filled by the\nrain, which was then drifting in violent gusts against them, Charley\nendeavoured to catch a sight of his companion\u2019s face, in order to form\nan opinion on that point. But his vision failed in carrying him\nfarther than the top of the collar of the figure\u2019s coat, which was a\nscarlet single-breasted hunting frock, having a waist of a very\nold-fashioned cut reaching to the saddle, with two huge shining\nbuttons at about a yard distance behind. \u201cI ought to see farther than\nthis, too,\u201d thought Charley, \u201calthough he is mounted on his high\nhorse, like my cousin Darby, who was made barony constable last week,\nunless \u2019tis Con\u2019s whiskey that has blinded me entirely.\u201d However, see\nfarther he could not, and after straining his eyes for a considerable\ntime to no purpose, he exclaimed, with pure vexation, \u201cBy the big\nbridge of Mallow, it is no head at all he has!\u201d\n\n\u201cLook again, Charley Culnane,\u201d said a hoarse voice, that seemed to\nproceed from under the right arm of the figure.\n\nCharley did look again, and now in the proper place, for he clearly\nsaw, under the aforesaid right arm, that head from which the voice had\nproceeded, and such a head no mortal ever saw before. It looked like a\nlarge cream cheese hung round with black puddings; no speck of colour\nenlivened the ashy paleness of the depressed features; the skin lay\nstretched over the unearthly surface, almost like the parchment head\nof a drum. Two fiery eyes of prodigious circumference, with a strange\nand irregular motion, flashed like meteors upon Charley, and to\ncomplete all, a mouth reached from either extremity of two ears, which\npeeped forth from under a profusion of matted locks of lustreless\nblackness. This head, which the figure had evidently hitherto\nconcealed from Charley\u2019s eyes, now burst upon his view in all its\nhideousness. Charley, although a lad of proverbial courage in the\ncounty of Cork, yet could not but feel his nerves a little shaken by\nthis unexpected visit from the headless horseman, whom he considered\nhis fellow-traveller must be. The cropped-eared head of the gigantic\nhorse moved steadily forward, always keeping from six to eight yards\nin advance. The horseman, unaided by whip or spur, and disdaining the\nuse of stirrups, which dangled uselessly from the saddle, followed at\na trot by Charley\u2019s side, his hideous head now lost behind the lappet\nof his coat, now starting forth in all its horror, as the motion of\nthe horse caused his arm to move to and fro. The ground shook under\nthe weight of its supernatural burden, and the water in the pools\nbecame agitated into waves as he trotted by them.\n\nOn they went\u2014heads without bodies, and bodies without heads.\u2014The\ndeadly silence of night was broken only by the fearful clattering of\nhoofs, and the distant sound of thunder, which rumbled above the\nmystic hill of Cecaune a Mona Finnea. Charley, who was naturally a\nmerry-hearted, and rather a talkative fellow, had hitherto felt\ntongue-tied by apprehension, but finding his companion showed no evil\ndisposition towards him, and having become somewhat more reconciled to\nthe Patagonian dimensions of the horseman and his headless steed,\nplucked up all his courage, and thus addressed the stranger:\u2014\n\n\u201cWhy, then, your honour rides mighty well without the stirrups!\u201d\n\n\u201cHumph,\u201d growled the head from under the horseman\u2019s right arm.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis not an over civil answer,\u201d thought Charley; \u201cbut no matter, he\nwas taught in one of them riding-houses, may be, and thinks nothing at\nall about bumping his leather breeches at the rate of ten miles an\nhour. I\u2019ll try him on the other track. Ahem!\u201d said Charley, clearing\nhis throat, and feeling at the same time rather daunted at this second\nattempt to establish a conversation. \u201cAhem! that\u2019s a mighty neat coat\nof your honour\u2019s, although \u2019tis a little too long in the waist for the\npresent cut.\u201d\n\n\u201cHumph,\u201d growled again the head.\n\nThis second humph was a terrible thump in the face to poor Charley,\nwho was fairly bothered to know what subject he could start that would\nprove more agreeable. \u201c\u2019Tis a sensible head,\u201d thought Charley,\n\u201calthough an ugly one, for \u2019tis plain enough the man does not like\nflattery.\u201d A third attempt, however, Charley was determined to make,\nand having failed in his observations as to the riding and coat of his\nfellow-traveller, thought he would just drop a trifling allusion to\nthe wonderful headless horse, that was jogging on so sociably beside\nhis old mare; and as Charley was considered about Carrick to be very\nknowing in horses, besides, being a full private in the Royal Mallow\nLight Horse Volunteers, which were every one of them mounted like real\nHessians, he felt rather sanguine as to the result of his third\nattempt.\n\n\u201cTo be sure, that\u2019s a brave horse your honour rides,\u201d recommenced the\npersevering Charley.\n\n\u201cYou may say that, with your own ugly mouth,\u201d growled the head.\n\nCharley, though not much flattered by the compliment, nevertheless\nchuckled at his success in obtaining an answer, and thus continued:\u2014\n\n\u201cMay be your honour wouldn\u2019t be after riding him across the country?\u201d\n\n\u201cWill you try me, Charley?\u201d said the head, with an inexpressible look\nof ghastly delight.\n\n\u201cFaith, and that\u2019s what I\u2019d do,\u201d responded Charley, \u201conly I\u2019m afraid,\nthe night being so dark, of laming the old mare, and I\u2019ve every\nhalfpenny of a hundred pounds on her heels.\u201d\n\nThis was true enough; Charley\u2019s courage was nothing dashed at the\nheadless horseman\u2019s proposal; and there never was a steeple-chase, nor\na fox-chase, riding or leaping in the country, that Charley Culnane\nwas not at it, and foremost in it.\n\n\u201cWill you take my word,\u201d said the man who carried his head so snugly\nunder his right arm, \u201cfor the safety of your mare?\u201d\n\n\u201cDone,\u201d said Charley; and away they started, helter skelter, over\nevery thing, ditch and wall, pop, pop, the old mare never went in such\nstyle, even in broad daylight: and Charley had just the start of his\ncompanion, when the hoarse voice called out, \u201cCharley Culnane,\nCharley, man, stop for your life, stop!\u201d\n\nCharley pulled up hard. \u201cAy,\u201d said he, \u201cyou may beat me by the head,\nbecause it always goes so much before you; but if the bet was\nneck-and-neck, and that\u2019s the go between the old mare and Desdemona,\nI\u2019d win it hollow!\u201d\n\nIt appeared as if the stranger was well aware of what was passing in\nCharley\u2019s mind, for he suddenly broke out quite loquacious.\n\n\u201cCharley Culnane,\u201d says he, \u201cyou have a stout soul in you, and are\nevery inch of you a good rider. I\u2019ve tried you, and I ought to know;\nand that\u2019s the sort of man for my money. A hundred years it is since\nmy horse and I broke our necks at the bottom of Kilcummer hill, and\never since I have been trying to get a man that dared to ride with me,\nand never found one before. Keep, as you have always done, at the tail\nof the hounds, never balk a ditch, nor turn away from a stone wall,\nand the headless horseman will never desert you nor the old mare.\u201d\n\nCharley, in amazement, looked towards the stranger\u2019s right arm, for\nthe purpose of seeing in his face whether or not he was in earnest,\nbut behold! the head was snugly lodged in the huge pocket of the\nhorseman\u2019s scarlet hunting-coat. The horse\u2019s head had ascended\nperpendicularly above them, and his extraordinary companion, rising\nquickly after his avant-coureur, vanished from the astonished gaze of\nCharley Culnane.\n\nCharley, as may be supposed, was lost in wonder, delight, and\nperplexity; the pelting rain, the wife\u2019s pudding, the new\nsnaffle\u2014even the match against squire Jephson\u2014all were forgotten;\nnothing could he think of, nothing could he talk of, but the headless\nhorseman. He told it, directly that he got home, to Judy; he told it\nthe following morning to all the neighbours; and he told it to the\nhunt on St. Stephen\u2019s day: but what provoked him after all the pains\nhe took in describing the head, the horse, and the man, was that one\nand all attributed the creation of the headless horseman to his\nfriend Con Buckley\u2019s \u201cX water parliament.\u201d This, however, should be\ntold, that Charley\u2019s old mare beat Mr. Jephson\u2019s bay filly, Desdemona,\nby Diamond, and Charley pocketed his cool hundred; and if he didn\u2019t\nwin by means of the headless horseman, I am sure I don\u2019t know any\nother reason for his doing so.\n\n     DULLAHAN or DULACHAN signifies a dark sullen person. The word\n     _Durrachan_ or _Dullahan_, by which in some places the goblin\n     is known, has the same signification. It comes from _Dorr_ or\n     _Durr_, anger, or _Durrach_, malicious, fierce, &c.\u2014_MS.\n     communication from the late_ MR. EDWARD O\u2019REILLY.\n\n     The correctness of this last etymology may be questioned, as\n     black is evidently a component part of the word.\n\n     The Death Coach, or Headless Coach and Horses, is called in\n     Ireland \u201c_Coach a bower_;\u201d and its appearance is generally\n     regarded as a sign of death, or an omen of some misfortune.\n\n     The belief in the appearance of headless people and horses\n     appears to be, like most popular superstitions, widely\n     extended.\n\n     In England, see the Spectator (No. 110) for mention of a spirit\n     that had appeared in the shape of a black horse without a head.\n\n     In Wales, the apparition of \u201c_Fenyw heb un pen_,\u201d the headless\n     woman, and \u201c_Ceffyl heb un pen_,\u201d the headless horse, are\n     generally accredited.\u2014_MS. communication from_ MISS WILLIAMS.\n\n     \u201cThe Irish Dullahan puts me in mind of a spectre at Drumlanrig\n     Castle, of no less a person than the Duchess of\n     Queensberry,\u2014\u2018Fair Kitty, blooming, young, and gay,\u2019\u2014who,\n     instead of setting fire to the world in mamma\u2019s chariot, amuses\n     herself with wheeling her own head in a wheel-barrow through\n     the great gallery.\u201d\u2014_MS. communication from_ SIR WALTER SCOTT.\n\n     In Scotland, so recently as January, 1826, that veritable\n     paper, the Glasgow Chronicle, records, upon the occasion of\n     some silk-weavers being out of employment at Paisley, that\n     \u201cVisions have been seen of carts, caravans, and coaches, going\n     up Gleniffer braes without horses, with horses without heads,\u201d\n     &c.\n\n     Cervantes mentions tales of the \u201c_Caballo sin cabe\u00e7a_ among the\n     _cuentos de viejas con que se entretienen al fuego las\n     dilatadas noches del invierno_,\u201d &c.\n\n     \u201cThe people of Basse Br\u00e9tagne believe, that when the death of\n     any person is at hand, a hearse drawn by skeletons (which they\n     call _carriquet au nankon_,) and covered with a white sheet,\n     passes by the house where the sick person lies, and the\n     creaking of the wheels may be plainly heard.\u201d\u2014_Journal des\n     Sciences_, 1826, _communicated by_ DR. WILLIAM GRIMM.\n\n     See also _Thiele\u2019s Danske Folkesagn_, vol. iv. p. 66, &c.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIR DARRIG.\n\n    Whene\u2019er such wanderers I meete,\n      As from their night-sports they trudge home,\n    With counterfeiting voice I greete,\n      And call them on with me to roame\n            Through woods, through lakes,\n            Through bogs, through brakes;\n      Or else, unseene, with them I go,\n            All in the nicke,\n            To play some tricke,\n      And frolicke it, with ho, ho, ho!\n\n                                     \u2014_Old Song._\n\n\n\n\nDIARMID BAWN, THE PIPER\n\nXXX.\n\n\nOne stormy night Patrick Burke was seated in the chimney corner\nsmoking his pipe quite contentedly after his hard day\u2019s work; his two\nlittle boys were roasting potatoes in the ashes, while his rosy\ndaughter held a splinter[26] to her mother, who, seated on a\nsiesteen,[27] was mending a rent in Patrick\u2019s old coat; and Judy, the\nmaid, was singing merrily to the sound of her wheel, that kept up a\nbeautiful humming noise, just like the sweet drone of a bagpipe.\nIndeed they all seemed quite contented and happy; for the storm howled\nwithout, and they were warm and snug within, by the side of a blazing\nturf fire. \u201cI was just thinking,\u201d said Patrick, taking the dudeen from\nhis mouth and giving it a rap on his thumb-nail to shake out the\nashes\u2014\u201cI was just thinking how thankful we ought to be to have a snug\nbit of a cabin this pelting night over our heads, for in all my born\ndays I never heard the like of it.\u201d\n\n    [26] A splinter, or slip of bog-deal, which, being dipped in\n    tallow, is used as a candle.\n\n    [27] Siesteen is a low block-like seat, made of straw bands\n    firmly sewed or bound together.\n\n\u201cAnd that\u2019s no lie for you, Pat,\u201d said his wife; \u201cbut, whisht! what\nnoise is that I _hard_?\u201d and she dropped her work upon her knees, and\nlooked fearfully towards the door. \u201cThe _Vargin_ herself defend us\nall!\u201d cried Judy, at the same time rapidly making a pious sign on her\nforehead, \u201cif \u2019tis not the banshee!\u201d\n\n\u201cHold your tongue, you fool,\u201d said Patrick, \u201cit\u2019s only the old gate\nswinging in the wind;\u201d and he had scarcely spoken, when the door was\nassailed by a violent knocking. Molly began to mumble her prayers, and\nJudy proceeded to mutter over the muster-roll of saints; the\nyoungsters scampered off to hide themselves behind the settle-bed; the\nstorm howled louder and more fiercely than ever, and the rapping was\nrenewed with redoubled violence.\n\n\u201cWhisht, whisht!\u201d said Patrick\u2014\u201cwhat a noise ye\u2019re all making about\nnothing at all. Judy a-roon, can\u2019t you go and see who\u2019s at the door?\u201d\nfor, notwithstanding his assumed bravery, Pat Burke preferred that the\nmaid should open the door.\n\n\u201cWhy, then, is it me you\u2019re speaking to?\u201d said Judy in the tone of\nastonishment; \u201cand is it cracked mad you are, Mister Burke; or is it,\nmay be, that you want me to be _rund_ away with, and made a horse of,\nlike my grandfather was?\u2014the sorrow a step will I stir to open the\ndoor, if you were as great a man again as you are, Pat Burke.\u201d\n\n\u201cBother you, then! and hold your tongue, and I\u2019ll go myself.\u201d So\nsaying, up got Patrick, and made the best of his way to the door.\n\u201cWho\u2019s there?\u201d said he, and his voice trembled mightily all the while.\n\u201cIn the name of Saint Patrick, who\u2019s there?\u201d \u201c\u2019Tis I, Pat,\u201d answered a\nvoice which he immediately knew to be the young squire\u2019s. In a moment\nthe door was opened, and in walked a young man, with a gun in his\nhand, and a brace of dogs at his heels. \u201cYour honour\u2019s honour is quite\nwelcome, entirely,\u201d said Patrick; who was a very civil sort of a\nfellow, especially to his betters. \u201cYour honour\u2019s honour is quite\nwelcome; and if ye\u2019ll be so condescending as to demean yourself by\ntaking off your wet jacket, Molly can give ye a bran new blanket, and\nye can sit forenent the fire while the clothes are drying.\u201d \u201cThank\nyou, Pat,\u201d said the squire, as he wrapt himself, like Mr. Weld, in the\nproffered blanket.[28]\n\n    [28] See Weld\u2019s Killarney, 8vo ed. p. 228.\n\n\u201cBut what made you keep me so long at the door?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy then, your honour, \u2019twas all along of Judy, there, being so much\nafraid of the good people; and a good right she has, after what\nhappened to her grandfather\u2014the Lord rest his soul!\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd what was that, Pat?\u201d said the squire.\n\n\u201cWhy, then, your honour must know that Judy had a grandfather; and he\nwas _ould_ Diarmid Bawn, the piper, as personable a looking man as any\nin the five parishes he was; and he could play the pipes so sweetly,\nand make them _spake_ to such perfection, that it did one\u2019s heart good\nto hear him. We never had any one, for that matter, in this side of\nthe country like him, before or since, except James Gandsey, that is\nown piper to Lord Headley\u2014his honour\u2019s lordship is the real good\ngentleman\u2014and \u2019tis Mr. Gandsey\u2019s music that is the pride of Killarney\nlakes. Well, as I was saying, Diarmid was Judy\u2019s grandfather, and he\nrented a small mountainy farm; and he was walking about the fields one\nmoonlight night, quite melancholy-like in himself for want of the\n_tobaccy_; because why, the river was flooded, and he could not get\nacross to buy any, and Diarmid would rather go to bed without his\nsupper than a whiff of the dudeen. Well, your honour, just as he came\nto the old fort in the far field, what should he see?\u2014but a large\narmy of the good people, \u2019coutered for all the world just like the\ndragoons! \u2018Are ye all ready?\u2019 said a little fellow at their head\ndressed out like a general. \u2018No,\u2019 said a little curmudgeon of a chap\nall dressed in red, from the crown of his cocked hat to the sole of\nhis boot. \u2018No, general,\u2019 said he: \u2018if you don\u2019t get the Fir darrig a\nhorse he must stay behind, and ye\u2019ll lose the battle.\u2019\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2018There\u2019s Diarmid Bawn,\u2019 said the general, pointing to Judy\u2019s\ngrandfather, your honour, \u2018make a horse of him.\u2019\n\n\u201cSo with that master Fir darrig comes up to Diarmid, who, you may be\nsure, was in a mighty great fright; but he determined, seeing there\nwas no help for him, to put a bold face on the matter; and so he began\nto cross himself, and to say some blessed words, that nothing bad\ncould stand before.\n\n\u201c\u2018Is that what you\u2019d be after, you spalpeen?\u2019 said the little red imp,\nat the same time grinning a horrible grin; \u2018I\u2019m not the man to care a\nstraw for either your words or your crossings.\u2019 So, without more to\ndo, he gives poor Diarmid a rap with the flat side of his sword, and\nin a moment he was changed into a horse, with little Fir darrig stuck\nfast on his back.\n\n\u201cAway they all flew over the wide ocean, like so many wild geese,\nscreaming and chattering all the time, till they came to Jamaica; and\nthere they had a murdering fight with the good people of that country.\nWell, it was all very well with them, and they stuck to it manfully,\nand fought it out fairly, till one of the Jamaica men made a cut with\nhis sword under Diarmid\u2019s left eye. And then, sir, you see, poor\nDiarmid lost his temper entirely, and he dashed into the very middle\nof them, with Fir darrig mounted upon his back, and he threw out his\nheels, and whisked his tail about, and wheeled and turned round and\nround at such a rate, that he soon made a fair clearance of them,\nhorse, foot, and dragoons. At last Diarmid\u2019s faction got the better,\nall through his means; and then they had such feasting and rejoicing,\nand gave Diarmid, who was the finest horse amongst them all, the best\nof every thing.\n\n\u201c\u2018Let every man take a hand of _tobaccy_ for Diarmid Bawn,\u2019 said the\ngeneral; and so they did; and away they flew, for \u2019twas getting near\nmorning, to the old fort back again, and there they vanished like the\nmist from the mountain.\n\n\u201cWhen Diarmid looked about, the sun was rising, and he thought it was\nall a dream, till he saw a big rick of _tobaccy_ in the old fort, and\nfelt the blood running from his left eye: for sure enough he was\nwounded in the battle, and would have been _kilt_ entirely, if it\nwasn\u2019t for a gospel composed by father Murphy that hung about his neck\never since he had the scarlet fever; and for certain, it was enough to\nhave given him another scarlet fever to have had the little red man\nall night on his back, whip and spur for the bare life. However, there\nwas the _tobaccy_ heaped up in a great heap by his side; and he heard\na voice, although he could see no one, telling him, \u2018That \u2019twas all\nhis own, for his good behaviour in the battle; and that whenever Fir\ndarrig would want a horse again he\u2019d know where to find a clever\nbeast, as he never rode a better than Diarmid Bawn.\u2019 That\u2019s what he\nsaid, sir.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank you, Pat,\u201d said the squire; \u201cit certainly is a wonderful story,\nand I am not surprised at Judy\u2019s alarm. But now, as the storm is over,\nand the moon shining brightly, I\u2019ll make the best of my way home.\u201d So\nsaying, he disrobed himself of the blanket, put on his coat, and\nwhistling his dogs, set off across the mountain; while Patrick stood\nat the door, bawling after him, \u201cMay God and the blessed Virgin\npreserve your honour, and keep ye from the good people; for \u2019twas of a\nmoonlight night like this that Diarmid Bawn was made a horse of, for\nthe Fir darrig to ride.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nTEIGUE OF THE LEE.\n\nXXXI.\n\n\n\u201cI can\u2019t stop in the house\u2014I won\u2019t stop in it for all the money that\nis buried in the old castle of Carrigrohan. If ever there was such a\nthing in the world!\u2014to be abused to my face night and day, and nobody\nto the fore doing it! and then, if I\u2019m angry, to be laughed at with a\ngreat roaring ho, ho, ho! I won\u2019t stay in the house after to-night, if\nthere was not another place in the country to put my head under.\u201d This\nangry soliloquy was pronounced in the hall of the old manor-house of\nCarrigrohan by John Sheehan. John was a new servant: he had been only\nthree days in the house, which had the character of being haunted, and\nin that short space of time he had been abused and laughed at by a\nvoice which sounded as if a man spoke with his head in a cask; nor\ncould he discover who was the speaker, or from whence the voice came.\n\u201cI\u2019ll not stop here,\u201d said John; \u201cand that ends the matter.\u201d\n\n\u201cHo, ho, ho! be quiet, John Sheehan, or else worse will happen to\nyou.\u201d\n\nJohn instantly ran to the hall window, as the words were evidently\nspoken by a person immediately outside, but no one was visible. He had\nscarcely placed his face at the pane of glass, when he heard another\nloud \u201cHo, ho, ho!\u201d as if behind him in the hall; as quick as lightning\nhe turned his head, but no living thing was to be seen.\n\n\u201cHo, ho, ho, John!\u201d shouted a voice that appeared to come from the\nlawn before the house; \u201cdo you think you\u2019ll see Teigue?\u2014oh, never! as\nlong as you live! so leave alone looking after him, and mind your\nbusiness; there\u2019s plenty of company to dinner from Cork to be here\nto-day, and \u2019tis time you had the cloth laid.\u201d\n\n\u201cLord bless us! there\u2019s more of it!\u2014I\u2019ll never stay another day\nhere,\u201d repeated John.\n\n\u201cHold your tongue, and stay where you are quietly, and play no tricks\non Mr. Pratt, as you did on Mr. Jervois about the spoons.\u201d\n\nJohn Sheehan was confounded by this address from his invisible\npersecutor, but nevertheless he mustered courage enough to say\u2014\u201cWho\nare you?\u2014come here, and let me see you, if you are a man;\u201d but he\nreceived in reply only a laugh of unearthly derision, which was\nfollowed by a \u201cGood-bye\u2014I\u2019ll watch you at dinner, John!\u201d\n\n\u201cLord between us and harm! this beats all!\u2014I\u2019ll watch you at\ndinner!\u2014may be you will;\u2014\u2019tis the broad daylight, so \u2019tis no ghost;\nbut this is a terrible place, and this is the last day I\u2019ll stay in\nit. How does he know about the spoons?\u2014if he tells it, I\u2019m a ruined\nman!\u2014there was no living soul could tell it to him but Tim Barrett,\nand he\u2019s far enough off in the wilds of Botany Bay now, so how could\nhe know it\u2014I can\u2019t tell for the world! But what\u2019s that I see there at\nthe corner of the wall?\u2014\u2019tis not a man!\u2014oh, what a fool I am! \u2019tis\nonly the old stump of a tree!\u2014But this is a shocking place\u2014I\u2019ll\nnever stop in it, for I\u2019ll leave the house to-morrow; the very look of\nit is enough to frighten any one.\u201d\n\nThe mansion had certainly an air of desolation; it was situated in a\nlawn, which had nothing to break its uniform level, safe a few tufts\nof narcissuses and a couple of old trees coeval with the building. The\nhouse stood at a short distance from the road; it was upwards of a\ncentury old, and Time was doing his work upon it; its walls were\nweather-stained in all colours, its roof showed various white patches,\nit had no look of comfort; all was dim and dingy without, and within\nthere was an air of gloom, of departed and departing greatness, which\nharmonized well with the exterior. It required all the exuberance of\nyouth and of gaiety to remove the impression, almost amounting to awe,\nwith which you trod the huge square hall, paced along the gallery\nwhich surrounded the hall, or explored the long rambling passages\nbelow stairs. The ball-room, as the large drawing-room was called, and\nseveral other apartments, were in a state of decay: the walls were\nstained with damp; and I remember well the sensation of awe which I\nfelt creeping over me when, boy as I was, and full of boyish life, and\nwild and ardent spirits, I descended to the vaults; all without and\nwithin me became chilled beneath their dampness and gloom\u2014their\nextent, too, terrified me; nor could the merriment of my two\nschoolfellows, whose father, a respectable clergyman, rented the\ndwelling for a time, dispel the feelings of a romantic imagination,\nuntil I once again ascended to the upper regions.\n\nJohn had pretty well recovered himself as the dinner-hour approached,\nand the several guests arrived. They were all seated at table, and had\nbegun to enjoy the excellent repast, when a voice was heard from the\nlawn:\u2014\n\n\u201cHo, ho, ho, Mr. Pratt, won\u2019t you give poor Teigue some dinner? ho,\nho, a fine company you have there, and plenty of every thing that\u2019s\ngood; sure you won\u2019t forget poor Teigue?\u201d\n\nJohn dropped the glass he had in his hand.\n\n\u201cWho is that?\u201d said Mr. Pratt\u2019s brother, an officer of the artillery.\n\n\u201cThat is Teigue,\u201d said Mr. Pratt, laughing, \u201cwhom you must often have\nheard me mention.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd pray, Mr. Pratt,\u201d inquired another gentleman, \u201cwho _is_ Teigue?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat,\u201d he replied, \u201cis more than I can tell. No one has ever been\nable to catch even a glimpse of him. I have been on the watch for a\nwhole evening with three of my sons, yet, although his voice sometimes\nsounded almost in my ear, I could not see him. I fancied, indeed, that\nI saw a man in a white frieze jacket pass into the door from the\ngarden to the lawn, but it could be only fancy, for I found the door\nlocked, while the fellow whoever he is, was laughing at our trouble.\nHe visits us occasionally, and sometimes a long interval passes\nbetween his visits, as in the present case; it is now nearly two years\nsince we heard that hollow voice outside the window. He has never done\nany injury that we know of, and once when he broke a plate, he brought\none back exactly like it.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is very extraordinary,\u201d said several of the company.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d remarked a gentleman to young Mr. Pratt, \u201cyour father said he\nbroke a plate; how did he get it without your seeing him?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhen he asks for some dinner, we put it outside the window and go\naway; whilst we watch he will not take it, but no sooner have we\nwithdrawn, than it is gone.\u201d\n\n\u201cHow does he know that you are watching?\u201d\n\n\u201cThat\u2019s more than I can tell, but he either knows or suspects. One day\nmy brothers Robert and James with myself were in our back parlour,\nwhich has a window into the garden, when he came outside and said,\n\u2018Ho, ho, ho! master James, and Robert, and Henry, give poor Teigue a\nglass of whisky.\u2019 James went out of the room, filled a glass with\nwhisky, vinegar, and salt, and brought it to him. \u2018Here Teigue,\u2019 said\nhe, \u2018come for it now.\u2019 \u2018Well, put it down, then, on the step outside\nthe window.\u2019 This was done, and we stood looking at it. \u2018There, now,\ngo away,\u2019 he shouted. We retired, but still watched it. \u2018Ho, ho! you\nare watching Teigue; go out of the room, now, or I won\u2019t take it.\u2019 We\nwent outside the door and returned; the glass was gone, and a moment\nafter we heard him roaring and cursing frightfully. He took away the\nglass, but the next day the glass was on the stone step under the\nwindow, and there were crumbs of bread in the inside, as if he had put\nit in his pocket; from that time he was not heard till to-day.\u201d\n\n\u201cOh,\u201d said the colonel, \u201cI\u2019ll get a sight of him; you are not used to\nthese things; an old soldier has the best chance; and as I shall\nfinish my dinner with this wing, I\u2019ll be ready for him when he speaks\nnext.\u2014Mr. Bell, will you take a glass of wine with me?\u201d\n\n\u201cHo, ho! Mr. Bell,\u201d shouted Teigue. \u201cHo, ho! Mr. Bell, you were a\nquaker long ago. Ho, ho! Mr. Bell, you\u2019re a pretty boy;\u2014a pretty\nquaker you were; and now you\u2019re no quaker, nor any thing else:\u2014ho,\nho! Mr. Bell. And there\u2019s Mr. Parkes: to be sure, Mr. Parkes looks\nmighty fine to-day, with his powdered head, and his grand silk\nstockings, and his bran new rakish-red waistcoat.\u2014And there\u2019s Mr.\nCole,\u2014did you ever see such a fellow? a pretty company you\u2019ve brought\ntogether, Mr. Pratt: kiln-dried quakers, butter-buying buckeens from\nMallow-lane, and a drinking exciseman from the Coal-quay, to meet the\ngreat thundering artillery-general that is come out of the Indies, and\nis the biggest dust of them all.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou scoundrel!\u201d exclaimed the colonel: \u201cI\u2019ll make you show yourself;\u201d\nand snatching up his sword from a corner of the room, he sprang out of\nthe window upon the lawn. In a moment a shout of laughter, so hollow,\nso unlike any human sound, made him stop, as well as Mr. Bell, who\nwith a huge oak stick was close at the colonel\u2019s heels; others of the\nparty followed on the lawn, and the remainder rose and went to the\nwindows. \u201cCome on, colonel,\u201d said Mr. Bell; \u201clet us catch this\nimpudent rascal.\u201d\n\n\u201cHo, ho! Mr. Bell, here I am\u2014here\u2019s Teigue\u2014why don\u2019t you catch\nhim?\u2014Ho, ho! Colonel Pratt, what a pretty soldier you are to draw\nyour sword upon poor Teigue, that never did any body harm.\u201d\n\n\u201cLet us see your face, you scoundrel,\u201d said the colonel.\n\n\u201cHo, ho, ho!\u2014look at me\u2014look at me: do you see the wind, colonel\nPratt?\u2014you\u2019ll see Teigue as soon; so go in and finish your dinner.\u201d\n\n\u201cIf you\u2019re upon the earth I\u2019ll find you, you villain!\u201d said the\ncolonel, whilst the same unearthly shout of derision seemed to come\nfrom behind an angle of the building. \u201cHe\u2019s round that corner,\u201d said\nMr. Bell\u2014\u201crun, run.\u201d\n\nThey followed the sound, which was continued at intervals along the\ngarden wall, but could discover no human being; at last both stopped\nto draw breath, and in an instant, almost at their ears, sounded the\nshout.\n\n\u201cHo, ho, ho! colonel Pratt, do you see Teigue now?\u2014do you hear\nhim?\u2014Ho, ho, ho! you\u2019re a fine colonel to follow the wind.\u201d\n\n\u201cNot that way, Mr. Bell\u2014not that way; come here,\u201d said the colonel.\n\n\u201cHo, ho, ho! what a fool you are; do you think Teigue is going to show\nhimself to you in the field, there? But colonel, follow me if you\ncan:\u2014you a soldier!\u2014ho, ho, ho!\u201d The colonel was enraged\u2014he\nfollowed the voice over hedge and ditch, alternately laughed at and\ntaunted by the unseen object of his pursuit\u2014(Mr. Bell, who was heavy,\nwas soon thrown out,) until at length, after being led a weary chase,\nhe found himself at the top of the cliff, over that part of the river\nLee, which from its great depth, and the blackness of its water, has\nreceived the name of Hell-hole. Here, on the edge of the cliff, stood\nthe colonel out of breath, and mopping his forehead with his\nhandkerchief, while the voice, which seemed close at his feet,\nexclaimed\u2014\u201cNow, colonel Pratt\u2014now, if you\u2019re a soldier, here\u2019s a\nleap for you;\u2014now look at Teigue\u2014why don\u2019t you look at him?\u2014Ho,\nho, ho! Come along: you\u2019re warm, I\u2019m sure, colonel Pratt, so come in\nand cool yourself; Teigue is going to have a swim!\u201d The voice seemed\nas descending amongst the trailing ivy and brushwood which clothes\nthis picturesque cliff nearly from top to bottom, yet it was\nimpossible that any human being could have found footing. \u201cNow,\ncolonel, have you courage to take the leap?\u2014Ho, ho, ho! what a pretty\nsoldier you are. Good-bye\u2014I\u2019ll see you again in ten minutes above, at\nthe house\u2014look at your watch, colonel:\u2014there\u2019s a dive for you!\u201d and\na heavy plunge into the water was heard. The colonel stood still, but\nno sound followed, and he walked slowly back to the house, not quite\nhalf a mile from the Crag.\n\n\u201cWell, did you see Teigue?\u201d said his brother, whilst his nephews,\nscarcely able to smother their laughter, stood by.\u2014\u201cGive me some\nwine,\u201d said the colonel. \u201cI never was led such a dance in my life: the\nfellow carried me all round and round, till he brought me to the edge\nof the cliff, and then down he went into Hell-hole, telling me he\u2019d be\nhere in ten minutes: \u2019tis more than that now, but he\u2019s not come.\u201d\n\n\u201cHo, ho, ho! colonel, isn\u2019t he here?\u2014Teigue never told a lie in his\nlife: but, Mr. Pratt, give me a drink and my dinner, and then good\nnight to you all, for I\u2019m tired; and that\u2019s the colonel\u2019s doing.\u201d A\nplate of food was ordered: it was placed by John, with fear and\ntrembling, on the lawn under the window. Every one kept on the watch,\nand the plate remained undisturbed for some time.\n\n\u201cAh! Mr. Pratt, will you starve poor Teigue? Make every one go away\nfrom the windows, and master Henry out of the tree, and master Richard\noff the garden-wall.\u201d\n\nThe eyes of the company were turned to the tree and the garden-wall;\nthe two boys\u2019 attention was occupied in getting down: the visiters\nwere looking at them; and \u201cHo, ho, ho!\u2014good luck to you, Mr.\nPratt!\u2014\u2019tis a good dinner, and there\u2019s the plate, ladies and\ngentlemen\u2014good-bye to you, colonel\u2014good-bye, Mr. Bell!\u2014good-bye to\nyou all!\u201d\u2014brought their attention back, when they saw the empty plate\nlying on the grass; and Teigue\u2019s voice was heard no more for that\nevening. Many visits were afterwards paid by Teigue; but never was he\nseen, nor was any discovery ever made of his person or character.\n\n\n\n\nNED SHEEHY\u2019S EXCUSE.\n\nXXXII.\n\n\nNed Sheehy was servant-man to Richard Gumbleton, Esquire, of\nMountbally, Gumbletonmore, in the north of the county of Cork; and a\nbetter servant than Ned was not to be found in that honest county,\nfrom Cape Clear to the Kilworth Mountains; for nobody\u2014no, not his\nworst enemy\u2014could say a word against him, only that he was rather\ngiven to drinking, idling, lying, and loitering, especially the last;\nfor send Ned of a five-minute message at nine o\u2019clock in the morning,\nand you were a lucky man if you saw him before dinner. If there\nhappened to be a public-house in the way, or even a little out of it,\nNed was sure to mark it as dead as a pointer; and, knowing every body,\nand every body liking him, it is not to be wondered at he had so much\nto say and to hear, that the time slipped away as if the sun somehow\nor other had knocked two hours into one.\n\nBut when he came home, he never was short of an excuse: he had, for\nthat matter, five hundred ready upon the tip of his tongue; so much\nso, that I doubt if even the very reverend doctor Swift, for many\nyears Dean of St. Patrick\u2019s, in Dublin, could match him in that\nparticular, though his reverence had a pretty way of his own of\nwriting things which brought him into very decent company. In fact,\nNed would fret a saint, but then he was so good-humoured a fellow, and\nreally so handy about a house,\u2014for, as he said himself, he was as\ngood as a lady\u2019s maid,\u2014that his master could not find it in his heart\nto part with him.\n\nIn your grand houses\u2014not that I am saying that Richard Gumbleton,\nesquire of Mountbally, Gumbletonmore, did not keep a good house, but a\nplain country gentleman, although he is second-cousin to the last\nhigh-sheriff of the county, cannot have all the army of servants that\nthe lord-lieutenant has in the castle of Dublin\u2014I say, in your grand\nhouses, you can have a servant for every kind of thing, but in\nMountbally, Gumbletonmore, Ned was expected to please master and\nmistress; or, as counsellor Curran said,\u2014by the same token the\ncounsellor was a little dark man\u2014one day that he dined there, on his\nway to the Clonmel assizes\u2014Ned was minister for the home and foreign\ndepartments.\n\nBut to make a long story short, Ned Sheehy was a good butler, and a\nright good one too, and as for a groom, let him alone with a horse: he\ncould dress it, or ride it, or shoe it, or physic it, or do any thing\nwith it but make it speak\u2014he was a second whisperer!\u2014there was not\nhis match in the barony, or the next one neither. A pack of hounds he\ncould manage well, ay, and ride after them with the boldest man in the\nland. It was Ned who leaped the old bounds\u2019 ditch at the turn of the\nboreen of the lands of Reenascreena, after the English captain pulled\nup on looking at it, and cried out it was \u201cNo go.\u201d Ned rode that day\nBrian Boro, Mr. Gumbleton\u2019s famous chestnut, and people call it Ned\nSheehy\u2019s Leap to this hour.\n\nSo, you see, it was hard to do without him: however, many a scolding\nhe got; and although his master often said of an evening, \u201cI\u2019ll turn\noff Ned,\u201d he always forgot to do so in the morning. These threats\nmended Ned not a bit; indeed, he was mending the other way, like bad\nfish in hot weather.\n\nOne cold winter\u2019s day, about three o\u2019clock in the afternoon, Mr.\nGumbleton said to him,\n\n\u201cNed,\u201d said he, \u201cgo take Modderaroo down to black Falvey, the\nhorse-doctor, and bid him look at her knees; for Doctor Jenkinson, who\nrode her home last night, has hurt her somehow. I suppose he thought a\nparson\u2019s horse ought to go upon its knees; but, indeed, it was I was\nthe fool to give her to him at all, for he sits twenty stone if he\nsits a pound, and knows no more of riding, particularly after his\nthird bottle, than I do of preaching. Now mind and be back in an hour\nat farthest, for I want to have the plate cleaned up properly for\ndinner, as Sir Augustus O\u2019Toole, you know, is to dine here\nto-day.\u2014Don\u2019t loiter, for your life.\u201d\n\n\u201cIs it I, sir?\u201d says Ned. \u201cWell, that beats any thing; as if I\u2019d stop\nout a minute!\u201d So, mounting Modderaroo, off he set.\n\nFour, five, six o\u2019clock came, and so did Sir Augustus and lady\nO\u2019Toole, and the four misses O\u2019Toole, and Mr. O\u2019Toole, and Mr. Edward\nO\u2019Toole, and Mr. James O\u2019Toole, which were all the young O\u2019Tooles that\nwere at home, but no Ned Sheehy appeared to clean the plate, or to lay\nthe table-cloth, or even to put dinner on. It is needless to say how\nMr. and Mrs. Dick Gumbleton fretted and fumed; but it was all to no\nuse. They did their best, however, only it was a disgrace to see long\nJem the stableboy, and Bill the gossoon that used to go of errands,\nwaiting, without any body to direct them, when there was a real\nbaronet and his lady at table; for Sir Augustus was none of your\nknights. But a good bottle of claret makes up for much, and it was not\none only they had that night. However, it is not to be concealed that\nMr. Dick Gumbleton went to bed very cross, and he awoke still crosser.\n\nHe heard that Ned had not made his appearance for the whole night; so\nhe dressed himself in a great fret, and, taking his horsewhip in his\nhand, he said,\n\n\u201cThere is no farther use in tolerating this scoundrel; I\u2019ll go look\nfor him, and if I find him, I\u2019ll cut the soul out of his vagabond\nbody! so I will.\u201d\n\n\u201cDon\u2019t say so, Dick, dear,\u201d said Mrs. Gumbleton (for she was always a\nmild woman, being daughter of fighting Tom Crofts, who shot a couple\nof gentlemen, friends of his, in the cool of the evening, after the\nMallow races, one after the other,) \u201cdon\u2019t swear, Dick, dear,\u201d said\nshe; \u201cbut do, my dear, oblige me by cutting the flesh off his bones,\nfor he richly deserves it. I was quite ashamed of Lady O\u2019Toole,\nyesterday, I was, \u2019pon honour.\u201d\n\nOut sallied Mr. Gumbleton; and he had not far to walk, for, not more\nthan two hundred yards from the house, he found Ned lying fast asleep\nunder a ditch (a hedge,) and Modderaroo standing by him, poor beast,\nshaking every limb. The loud snoring of Ned, who was lying with his\nhead upon a stone as easy and as comfortable as if it had been a bed\nof down or a hop-bag, drew him to the spot, and Mr. Gumbleton at once\nperceived, from the disarray of Ned\u2019s face and person, that he had\nbeen engaged in some perilous adventure during the night. Ned appeared\nnot to have descended in the most regular manner; for one of his shoes\nremained sticking in the stirrup, and his hat, having rolled down a\nlittle slope, was imbedded in green mud. Mr. Gumbleton, however, did\nnot give himself much trouble to make a curious survey, but with a\nvigorous application of his thong, soon banished sleep from the eyes\nof Ned Sheehy.\n\n\u201cNed!\u201d thundered his master in great indignation,\u2014and on this\noccasion it was not a word and blow, for with that one word came half\na dozen: \u201cGet up, you scoundrel,\u201d said he.\n\nNed roared lustily, and no wonder, for his master\u2019s hand was not one\nof the lightest; and he cried out, between sleeping and waking\u2014\u201cO,\nsir!\u2014don\u2019t be angry, sir!\u2014don\u2019t be angry, and I\u2019ll roast you\neasier\u2014easy as a lamb!\u201d\n\n\u201cRoast me easier, you vagabond!\u201d said Mr. Gumbleton; \u201cwhat do you\nmean?\u2014I\u2019ll roast you, my lad. Where were you all night?\u2014Modderaroo\nwill never get over it.\u2014Pack out of my service, you worthless\nvillain, this moment; and, indeed, you may be thankful that I don\u2019t\nget you transported.\u201d\n\n\u201cThank God, master dear,\u201d said Ned, who was now perfectly\nawakened\u2014\u201cit\u2019s yourself, any how. There never was a gentleman in the\nwhole country ever did so good a turn to a poor man as your honour\nhas been after doing to me: the Lord reward you for that same. Oh! but\nstrike me again, and let me feel that it is yourself, master\ndear;\u2014may whisky be my poison\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cIt will be your poison, you good-for-nothing scoundrel,\u201d said Mr.\nGumbleton.\n\n\u201cWell, then, _may_ whiskey be my poison,\u201d said Ned, \u201cif \u2019twas not I\nwas\u2014in the blackest of misfortunes, and they were before me,\nwhichever way I turned \u2019twas no matter. Your honour sent me last\nnight, sure enough, with Modderaroo to mister Falvey\u2019s\u2014I don\u2019t deny\nit\u2014why should I? for reason enough I have to remember what happened.\u201d\n\n\u201cNed, my man,\u201d said Mr. Gumbleton, \u201cI\u2019ll listen to none of your\nexcuses: just take the mare into the stable and yourself off, for I\nvow\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cBegging your honour\u2019s pardon,\u201d said Ned, earnestly, \u201cfor interrupting\nyour honour; but, master, master! make no vows\u2014they are bad things: I\nnever made but one in all my life, which was, to drink nothing at all\nfor a year and a day, and \u2019tis myself rep_i_nted of it for the clean\ntwelvemonth after. But if your honour would only listen to reason:\nI\u2019ll just take in the poor baste, and if your honour don\u2019t pardon me\nthis one time may I never see another day\u2019s luck or grace.\u201d\n\n\u201cI know you, Ned,\u201d said Mr. Gumbleton. \u201cWhatever your luck has been,\nyou never had any grace to lose: but I don\u2019t intend discussing the\nmatter with you. Take in the mare, sir.\u201d\n\nNed obeyed, and his master saw him to the stables. Here he reiterated\nhis commands to quit, and Ned Sheehy\u2019s excuse for himself began. That\nit was heard uninterruptedly is more than I can affirm; but as\ninterruptions, like explanations, spoil a story, we must let Ned tell\nit his own way.\n\n\u201cNo wonder your honour,\u201d said he, \u201cshould be a bit angry\u2014grand\ncompany coming to the house and all, and no regular serving-man to\nwait, only long Jem; so I don\u2019t blame your honour the least for being\nfretted like; but when all\u2019s heard, you will see that no poor man is\nmore to be pitied for last night than myself. Fin Mac Coul never went\nthrough more in his born days than I did, though he was a great\n_joint_ (giant,) and I only a man.\n\n\u201cI had not rode half a mile from the house, when it came on, as your\nhonour must have perceived clearly, mighty dark all of a sudden, for\nall the world as if the sun had tumbled down plump out of the fine\nclear blue sky. It was not so late, being only four o\u2019clock at the\nmost, but it was as black as your honour\u2019s hat. Well, I didn\u2019t care\nmuch, seeing I knew the road as well as I knew the way to my mouth,\nwhether I saw it or not, and I put the mare into a smart canter; but\njust as I turned down by the corner of Terence Leahy\u2019s field\u2014sure\nyour honour ought to know the place well\u2014just at the very spot the\nfox was killed when your honour came in first out of a whole field of\na hundred and fifty gentlemen, and may be more, all of them brave\nriders.\u201d\n\n(Mr. Gumbleton smiled.)\n\n\u201cJust then, there, I heard the low cry of the good people wafting upon\nthe wind. \u2018How early you are at your work, my little fellows!\u2019 says I\nto myself; and, dark as it was, having no wish for such company, I\nthought it best to get out of their way; so I turned the horse a\nlittle up to the left, thinking to get down by the boreen, that is\nthat way, and so round to Falvey\u2019s; but there I heard the voice\nplainer and plainer close behind, and I could hear these words:\u2014\n\n    \u2018Ned! Ned!\n    By my cap so red!\n    You\u2019re as good, Ned,\n    As a man that is dead.\u2019\n\n\u2018A clean pair of spurs is all that\u2019s for it now,\u2019 said I; so off I\nset, as hard as I could lick, and in my hurry knew no more where I was\ngoing than I do the road to the hill of Tarah. Away I galloped on for\nsome time, until I came to the noise of a stream, roaring away by\nitself in the darkness. \u2018What river is this?\u2019 said I to myself\u2014for\nthere was nobody else to ask\u2014\u2018I thought,\u2019 says I, \u2018I knew every inch\nof ground, and of water too, within twenty miles, and never the river\nsurely is there in this direction.\u2019 So I stopped to look about; but I\nmight have spared myself that trouble, for I could not see as much as\nmy hand. I didn\u2019t know what to do; but I thought in myself, it\u2019s a\nqueer river, surely, if somebody does not live near it; and I shouted\nout as loud as I could, Murder! murder!\u2014fire!\u2014robbery!\u2014any thing\nthat would be natural in such a place\u2014but not a sound did I hear\nexcept my own voice echoed back to me, like a hundred packs of hounds\nin full cry above and below, right and left. This didn\u2019t do at all; so\nI dismounted, and guided myself along the stream, directed by the\nnoise of the water, as cautious as if I was treading upon eggs,\nholding poor Modderaroo by the bridle, who shook, the poor brute, all\nover in a tremble, like my old grandmother, rest her soul any how! in\nthe ague. Well, sir, the heart was sinking in me, and I was giving\nmyself up, when, as good luck would have it, I saw a light. \u2018May be,\u2019\nsaid I, \u2018my good fellow, you are only a jacky lantern, and want to bog\nme and Modderaroo.\u2019 But I looked at the light hard, and I thought it\nwas too _study_ (steady) for a jacky lantern. \u2018I\u2019ll try you,\u2019 says\nI\u2014\u2018so here goes; and, walking as quick as a thief, I came towards it,\nbeing very near plumping into the river once or twice, and being stuck\nup to my middle, as your honour may perceive cleanly the marks of, two\nor three times in the _slob_.[29] At last I made the light out, and it\ncoming from a bit of a house by the road-side; so I went to the door\nand gave three kicks at it, as strong as I could.\n\n    [29] Or _slaib_; mire on the sea strand or river\u2019s\n    bank.\u2014O\u2019BRIEN.\n\n\u201c\u2018Open the door for Ned Sheehy,\u2019 said a voice inside. Now, besides\nthat I could not, for the life of me, make out how any one inside\nshould know me before I spoke a word at all, I did not like the sound\nof that voice, \u2019twas so hoarse and so hollow, just like a dead\nman\u2019s!\u2014so I said nothing immediately. The same voice spoke again, and\nsaid, \u2018Why don\u2019t you open the door to Ned Sheehy?\u2019 \u2018How pat my name is\nto you,\u2019 said I, without speaking out, \u2018on tip of your tongue, like\nbutter;\u2019 and I was between two minds about staying or going, when what\nshould the door do but open, and out came a man holding a candle in\nhis hand, and he had upon him a face as white as a sheet.\n\n\u201c\u2018Why, then, Ned Sheehy,\u2019 says he, \u2018how grand you\u2019re grown, that you\nwon\u2019t come in and see a friend, as you\u2019re passing by?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Pray, sir,\u2019 says I, looking at him\u2014though that face of his was\nenough to dumbfounder any honest man like myself\u2014\u2018Pray, sir,\u2019 says I,\n\u2018may I make so bold as to ask if you are not Jack Myers that was\ndrowned seven years ago, next Martinmas, in the ford of\nAh-na-fourish?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Suppose I was,\u2019 says he: \u2018has not a man a right to be drowned in the\nford facing his own cabin-door any day of the week that he likes, from\nSunday morning to Saturday night?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m not denying that same, Mr. Myers, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018if \u2019tis\nyourself is to the fore speaking to me.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Well,\u2019 says he, \u2018no more words about that matter now: sure you and\nI, Ned, were friends of old; come in, and take a glass; and here\u2019s a\ngood fire before you, and nobody shall hurt or harm you, and I to the\nfore, and myself able to do it.\u2019\n\n\u201cNow, your honour, though \u2019twas much to drink with a man that was\ndrowned seven years before, in the ford of Ah-na-fourish, facing his\nown door, yet the glass was hard to be withstood\u2014to say nothing of\nthe fire that was blazing within\u2014for the night was mortal cold. So\ntying Modderaroo to the hasp of the door\u2014if I don\u2019t love the creature\nas I love my own life\u2014I went in with Jack Myers.\n\n\u201cCivil enough he was\u2014I\u2019ll never say otherwise to my dying hour\u2014for\nhe handed me a stool by the fire, and bid me sit down and make myself\ncomfortable. But his face, as I said before, was as white as the snow\non the hills, and his two eyes fell dead on me, like the eyes of a cod\nwithout any life in them. Just as I was going to put the glass to my\nlips, a voice\u2014\u2019twas the same that I heard bidding the door be\nopened\u2014spoke out of a cupboard that was convenient to the left-hand\nside of the chimney, and said, \u2018Have you any news for me, Ned Sheehy?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018The never a word, sir,\u2019 says I, making answer before I tasted the\nwhisky, all out of civility; and, to speak the truth, never the least\ncould I remember at that moment of what had happened to me, or how I\ngot there; for I was quite bothered with the fright.\n\n\u201c\u2018Have you no news,\u2019 says the voice, \u2018Ned, to tell me, from Mountbally\nGumbletonmore; or from the Mill; or about Moll Trantum that was\nmarried last week to Bryan Oge, and you at the wedding?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018No, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018never the word.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018What brought you in here, Ned, then?\u2019 says the voice. I could say\nnothing; for, whatever other people might do, I never could frame an\nexcuse; and I was loath to say it was on account of the glass and the\nfire, for that would be to speak the truth.\n\n\u201c\u2018Turn the scoundrel out,\u2019 says the voice; and at the sound of it, who\nwould I see but Jack Myers making over to me with a lump of a stick in\nhis hand, and it clenched on the stick so wicked. For certain, I did\nnot stop to feel the weight of the blow; so, dropping the glass, and\nit full of the stuff too, I bolted out of the door, and never rested\nfrom running away, for as good, I believe, as twenty miles, till I\nfound myself in a big wood.\n\n\u201c\u2018The Lord preserve me! what will become of me now!\u2019 says I. \u2018Oh, Ned\nSheehy!\u2019 says I, speaking to myself, \u2018my man, you\u2019re in a pretty\nhobble; and to leave poor Modderaroo after you!\u2019 But the words were\nnot well out of my mouth, when I heard the dismallest ullagoane in the\nworld, enough to break any one\u2019s heart that was not broke before, with\nthe grief entirely; and it was not long till I could plainly see four\nmen coming towards me, with a great black coffin on their shoulders.\n\u2018I\u2019d better get up in a tree,\u2019 says I, \u2018for they say \u2019tis not lucky to\nmeet a corpse: I\u2019m in the way of misfortune to-night, if ever man\nwas.\u2019\n\n\u201cI could not help wondering how a _berrin_ (funeral) should come there\nin the lone wood at that time of night, seeing it could not be far\nfrom the dead hour. But it was little good for me thinking, for they\nsoon came under the very tree I was roosting in, and down they put the\ncoffin, and began to make a fine fire under me. I\u2019ll be smothered\nalive now, thinks I, and that will be the end of me; but I was afraid\nto stir for the life, or to speak out to bid them just make their fire\nunder some other tree, if it would be all the same thing to them.\nPresently they opened the coffin, and out they dragged as\nfine-looking a man as you\u2019d meet with in a day\u2019s walk.\n\n\u201c\u2018Where\u2019s the spit?\u2019 says one.\n\n\u201c\u2018Here \u2019tis,\u2019 says another, handing it over; and for certain they\nspitted him, and began to turn him before the fire.\n\n\u201cIf they are not going to eat him, thinks I, like the _Hannibals_\nfather Quinlan told us about in his _sarmint_ last Sunday.\n\n\u201c\u2018Who\u2019ll turn the spit while we go for the other ingredients?\u2019 says\none of them that brought the coffin, and a big ugly-looking blackguard\nhe was.\n\n\u201c\u2018Who\u2019d turn the spit but Ned Sheehy?\u2019 says another.\n\n\u201cBurn you! thinks I, how should you know that I was here so handy to\nyou up in the tree?\n\n\u201c\u2018Come down, Ned Sheehy, and turn the spit,\u2019 says he.\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m not here at all, sir,\u2019 says I, putting my hand over my face that\nhe might not see me.\n\n\u201c\u2018That won\u2019t do for you, my man,\u2019 says he; \u2018you\u2019d better come down, or\nmay be I\u2019d make you.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I\u2019m coming, sir,\u2019 says I; for \u2019tis always right to make a virtue of\nnecessity. So down I came, and there they left me turning the spit in\nthe middle of the wide wood.\n\n\u201c\u2018Don\u2019t scorch me, Ned Sheehy, you vagabond,\u2019 says the man on the\nspit.\n\n\u201c\u2018And my lord, sir, and ar\u2019n\u2019t you dead, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018and your\nhonour taken out of the coffin and all?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I ar\u2019n\u2019t,\u2019 says he.\n\n\u201c\u2018But surely you are, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018for \u2019tis to no use now for me\ndenying that I saw your honour, and I up in the tree.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I ar\u2019n\u2019t,\u2019 says he again, speaking quite short and snappish.\n\n\u201cSo I said no more, until presently he called out to me to turn him\neasy, or that may be \u2019twould be the worse turn for myself.\n\n\u201c\u2018Will that do, sir?\u2019 says I, turning him as easy as I could.\n\n\u201c\u2018That\u2019s too easy,\u2019 says he: so I turned him faster.\n\n\u201c\u2018That\u2019s too fast,\u2019 says he; so finding that, turn him which way I\nwould, I could not please him, I got into a bit of a fret at last,\nand desired him to turn himself, for a grumbling spalpeen as he was,\nif he liked it better.\n\n\u201cAway I ran, and away he came hopping, spit and all, after me, and he\nbut half-roasted. \u2018Murder!\u2019 says I, shouting out; \u2018I\u2019m done for at\nlong last\u2014now or never!\u2019\u2014when all of a sudden, and \u2019twas really\nwonderful, not knowing where I was rightly, I found myself at the door\nof the very little cabin by the road-side that I had bolted out of\nfrom Jack Myers; and there was Modderaroo standing hard by.\n\n\u201c\u2018Open the door for Ned Sheehy,\u2019 says the voice,\u2014for \u2019twas shut\nagainst me,\u2014and the door flew open in an instant. In I ran without\nstop or stay, thinking it better to be beat by Jack Myers, he being an\nold friend of mine, than to be spitted like a Michaelmas goose by a\nman that I knew nothing about, either of him or his family, one or the\nother.\n\n\u201c\u2018Have you any news for me?\u2019 says the voice, putting just the same\nquestion to me that it did before.\n\n\u201c\u2018Yes, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018and plenty.\u2019 So I mentioned all that had\nhappened to me in the big wood, and how I got up in the tree, and how\nI was made come down again, and put to turning the spit, roasting the\ngentleman, and how I could not please him, turn him fast or easy,\nalthough I tried my best, and how he ran after me at last, spit and\nall.\n\n\u201c\u2018If you had told me this before, you would not have been turned out\nin the cold,\u2019 said the voice.\n\n\u201c\u2018And how could I tell it to you, sir,\u2019 says I, \u2018before it happened?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018No matter,\u2019 says he, \u2018you may sleep now till morning on that bundle\nof hay in the corner there, and only I was your friend, you\u2019d have\nbeen _kilt_ entirely.\u2019 So down I lay, but I was dreaming, dreaming all\nthe rest of the night; and when you, master dear, woke me with that\nblessed blow, I thought \u2019twas the man on the spit had hold of me, and\ncould hardly believe my eyes, when I found myself in your honour\u2019s\npresence, and poor Modderaroo safe and sound by my side; but how I\ncame there is more than I can say, if \u2019twas not Jack Myers, although\nhe did make the offer to strike me, or some one among the good people\nthat befriended me.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is all a drunken dream, you scoundrel,\u201d said Mr. Gumbleton; \u201chave\nI not had fifty such excuses from you?\u201d\n\n\u201cBut never one, your honour, that really happened before,\u201d said Ned,\nwith unblushing front. \u201cHowsomever, since your honour fancies \u2019tis\ndrinking I was, I\u2019d rather never drink again to the world\u2019s end, than\nlose so good a master as yourself, and if I\u2019m forgiven this once, and\nget another trial\u2014\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cWell,\u201d said Mr. Gumbleton, \u201cyou may, for this once, go into\nMountbally Gumbletonmore again; let me see that you keep your promise\nas to not drinking, or mind the consequences; and, above all, let me\nhear no more of the good people, for I don\u2019t believe a single word\nabout them, whatever I may do of bad ones.\u201d\n\nSo saying, Mr. Gumbleton turned on his heel, and Ned\u2019s countenance\nrelaxed into its usual expression.\n\n\u201cNow I would not be after saying about the good people what the master\nsaid last,\u201d exclaimed Peggy, the maid, who was within hearing, and\nwho, by the way, had an eye after Ned: \u201cI would not be after saying\nsuch a thing; the good people, may be, will make him feel the _differ_\n(difference) to his cost.\u201d\n\nNor was Peggy wrong; for whether Ned Sheehy dreamt of the Fir Darrig\nor not, within a fortnight after, two of Mr. Gumbleton\u2019s cows, the\nbest milkers in the parish, ran dry, and before the week was out,\nModderaroo was lying dead in the stone quarry.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LUCKY GUEST.\n\nXXXIII.\n\n\nThe kitchen of some country houses in Ireland presents in no ways a\nbad modern translation of the ancient feudal hall. Traces of clanship\nstill linger round its hearth in the numerous dependants on \u201cthe\nmaster\u2019s\u201d bounty. Nurses, foster-brothers, and other hangers-on, are\nthere as matter of right, while the strolling piper, full of mirth and\nmusic, the benighted traveller, even the passing beggar, are received\nwith a hearty welcome, and each contributes planxty, song, or\nsuperstitious tale, towards the evening\u2019s amusement.\n\nAn assembly, such as has been described, had collected round the\nkitchen fire of Ballyrahenhouse, at the foot of the Galtee mountains,\nwhen, as is ever the case, one tale of wonder called forth another;\nand with the advance of the evening each succeeding story was received\nwith deep and deeper attention. The history of Cough na Looba\u2019s dance\nwith the black friar at Rahill, and the fearful tradition of _Coum an\n\u2018ir morriv_ (the dead man\u2019s hollow,) were listened to in breathless\nsilence. A pause followed the last relation, and all eyes rested on\nthe narrator, an old nurse who occupied the post of honour, that next\nthe fire-side. She was seated in that peculiar position which the\nIrish name \u201c_currigguib_,\u201d a position generally assumed by a veteran\nand determined story-teller. Her haunches resting upon the ground, and\nher feet bundled under the body; her arms folded across and supported\nby her knees, and the outstretched chin of her hooded head pressing on\nthe upper arm; which compact arrangement nearly reduced the whole\nfigure into a perfect triangle.\n\nUnmoved by the general gaze, Bridget Doyle made no change of attitude,\nwhile she gravely asserted the truth of the marvellous tale concerning\nthe Dead Man\u2019s Hollow; her strongly marked countenance at the time\nreceiving what painters term a fine chiaro-obscuro effect from the\nfire-light.\n\n\u201cI have told you,\u201d she said, \u201cwhat happened to my own people, the\nButlers and the Doyles, in the old times; but here is little Ellen\nConnell from the county Cork, who can speak to what happened under her\nown father and mother\u2019s roof.\u201d\n\nEllen, a young and blooming girl of about sixteen, was employed in the\ndairy at Ballyrahen. She was the picture of health and rustic beauty;\nand at this hint from nurse Doyle, a deep blush mantled over her\ncountenance; yet, although \u201cunaccustomed to public speaking,\u201d she,\nwithout farther hesitation or excuse, proceeded as follows:\u2014\n\n\u201cIt was one May-eve, about thirteen years ago, and that is, as every\nbody knows, the airiest day in all the twelve months. It is the day\nabove all other days,\u201d said Ellen, with her large dark eyes cast down\non the ground, and drawing a deep sigh, \u201cwhen the young boys and the\nyoung girls go looking after the _Drutheen_, to learn from it rightly\nthe name of their sweethearts.\n\n\u201cMy father, and my mother, and my two brothers, with two or three of\nthe neighbours, were sitting round the turf fire, and were talking of\none thing or another. My mother was hushoing my little sister,\nstriving to quieten her, for she was cutting her teeth at the time,\nand was mighty uneasy through the means of them. The day, which was\nthreatening all along, now that it was coming on to dusk, began to\nrain, and the rain increased and fell fast and faster, as if it was\npouring through a sieve out of the wide heavens; and when the rain\nstopped for a bit there was a wind which kept up such a whistling and\nracket, that you would have thought the sky and the earth were coming\ntogether. It blew and it blew, as if it had a mind to blow the roof\noff the cabin, and that would not have been very hard for it to do, as\nthe thatch was quite loose in two or three places. Then the rain began\nagain, and you could hear it spitting and hissing in the fire, as it\ncame down through the big _chimbley_.\n\n\u201c\u2018God bless us,\u2019 says my mother, \u2018but \u2019tis a dreadful night to be at\nsea,\u2019 says she, \u2018and God be praised that we have a roof, bad as it is,\nto shelter us.\u2019\n\n\u201cI don\u2019t, to be sure, recollect all this, mistress Doyle, but only as\nmy brothers told it to me, and other people, and often have I heard\nit; for I was so little then, that they say I could just go under the\ntable without tipping my head. Any way, it was in the very height of\nthe pelting and whistling that we heard something speak outside the\ndoor. My father and all of us listened, but there was no more noise at\nthat time. We waited a little longer, and then we plainly heard a\nsound like an old man\u2019s voice, asking to be let in, but mighty feeble\nand weak. Tim bounced up, without a word, to ask us whether we\u2019d like\nto let the old man, or whoever he was, in\u2014having always a heart as\nsoft as a mealy potato before the voice of sorrow. When Tim pulled\nback the bolt that did the door, in marched a little bit of a\nshrivelled, weather-beaten creature, about two feet and a half high.\n\n\u201cWe were all watching to see who\u2019d come in, for there was a wall\nbetween us and the door; but when the sound of the undoing of the bolt\nstopped, we heard Tim give a sort of a screech, and instantly he\nbolted in to us. He had hardly time to say a word, or we either, when\nthe little gentleman shuffled in after him, without a God save all\nhere, or by your leave, or any other sort of thing that any decent\nbody might say. We all, of one accord, scrambled over to the farthest\nend of the room, where we were, old and young, every one trying who\u2019d\nget nearest the wall, and farthest from him. All the eyes of our body\nwere stuck upon him, but he didn\u2019t mind us no more than that\nfrying-pan there does now. He walked over to the fire, and squatting\nhimself down like a frog, took the pipe that my father dropped from\nhis mouth in the hurry, put it into his own, and then began to smoke\nso hearty, that he soon filled the room of it.\n\n\u201cWe had plenty of time to observe him, and my brothers say that he\nwore a sugar-loaf hat that was as red as blood: he had a face as\nyellow as a kite\u2019s claw, and as long as to-day and to-morrow put\ntogether, with a mouth all screwed and puckered up like a\nwasherwoman\u2019s hand, little blue eyes, and rather a highish nose; his\nhair was quite gray and lengthy, appearing under his hat, and flowing\nover the cape of a long scarlet coat, which almost trailed the ground\nbehind him, and the ends of which he took up and planked on his knees\nto dry, as he sat facing the fire. He had smart corduroy breeches, and\nwoollen stockings drawn up over the knees, so as to hide the\nkneebuckles, if he had the pride to have them; but, at any rate, if he\nhadn\u2019t them in his knees he had buckles in his shoes, out before his\nspindle legs. When we came to ourselves a little we thought to escape\nfrom the room, but no one would go first, nor no one would stay last;\nso we huddled ourselves together and made a dart out of the room. My\nlittle gentleman never minded any thing of the scrambling, nor hardly\nstirred himself, sitting quite at his ease before the fire. The\nneighbours, the very instant minute they got to the door, although it\nstill continued pelting rain, cut gutter as if Oliver Cromwell himself\nwas at their heels; and no blame to them for that, any how. It was my\nfather, and my mother, and my brothers, and myself, a little\nhop-of-my-thumb midge as I was then, that were left to see what would\ncome out of this strange visit; so we all went quietly to the\n_labbig_,[30] scarcely daring to throw an eye at him as we passed the\ndoor. Never the wink of sleep could they sleep that live-long night,\nthough, to be sure, I slept like a top, not knowing better, while they\nwere talking and thinking of the little man.\n\n    [30] _Labbig_\u2014bed, from _Leaba_.\u2014Vide O\u2019BRIEN and O\u2019REILLY.\n\n\u201cWhen they got up in the morning, every thing was as quiet and as tidy\nabout the place as if nothing had happened, for all that the chairs\nand stools were tumbled here there, and every where, when we saw the\nlad enter. Now, indeed, I forget whether he came next night or not,\nbut any way, that was the first time we ever laid eye upon him. This I\nknow for certain, that, about a month after that he came regularly\nevery night, and used to give us a signal to be on the move, for \u2019twas\nplain he did not like to be observed. This sign was always made about\neleven o\u2019clock; and then, if we\u2019d look towards the door, there was a\nlittle hairy arm thrust in through the key-hole, which would not have\nbeen big enough, only there was a fresh hole made near the first one,\nand the bit of stick between them had been broken away, and so \u2019twas\njust fitting for the little arm.\n\n\u201cThe Fir Darrig continued his visits, never missing a night, as long\nas we attended to the signal; smoking always out of the pipe he made\nhis own of, and warming himself till day dawned before the fire, and\nthen going no one living knows where: but there was not the least mark\nof him to be found in the morning; and \u2019tis as true, nurse Doyle, and\nhonest people, as you are all here sitting before me and by the side\nof me, that the family continued thriving, and my father and brothers\nrising in the world while ever he came to us. When we observed this,\nwe used always look for the very moment to see when the arm would\ncome, and then we\u2019d instantly fly off with ourselves to our rest. But\nbefore we found the luck, we used sometimes sit still and not mind the\narm, especially when a neighbour would be with my father, or that two\nor three or four of them would have a drop among them, and then they\ndid not care for all the arms, hairy or not, that ever were seen. No\none, however, dared to speak to it or of it insolently, except,\nindeed, one night that Davy Kennane\u2014but he was drunk\u2014walked over and\nhit it a rap on the back of the wrist: the hand was snatched off like\nlightning; but every one knows that Davy did not live a month after\nthis happened, though he was only about ten days sick. The like of\nsuch tricks are ticklish things to do.\n\n\u201cAs sure as the red man would put in his arm for a sign through the\nhole in the door, and that we did not go and open it to him, so sure,\nsome mishap befell the cattle: the cows were elf-stoned, or\noverlooked, or something or another went wrong with them. One night my\nbrother Dan refused to go at the signal, and the next day, as he was\ncutting turf in Crogh-na-drimina bog, within a mile and a half of the\nhouse, a stone was thrown at him which broke fairly, with the force,\ninto two halves. Now, if that had happened to hit him he\u2019d be at this\nhour as dead as my great great grandfather. It came whack slap against\nthe spade he had in his hand, and split at once in two pieces. He took\nthem up and fitted them together, and they made a perfect heart. Some\nway or the other he lost it since, but he still has the one which was\nshot at the spotted milch cow, before the little man came near us.\nMany and many a time I saw that same; \u2019tis just the shape of the ace\nof hearts on the cards, only it is of a dark red colour, and polished\nup like the grate that is in the grand parlour within. When this did\nnot kill the cow on the spot, she swelled up; but if you took and put\nthe elf-stone under her udder, and milked her upon it to the last\nstroking, and then made her drink the milk, it would cure her, and she\nwould thrive with you ever after.\n\n\u201cBut, as I said, we were getting on well enough as long as we minded\nthe door and watched for the hairy arm, which we did sharp enough when\nwe found it was bringing luck to us, and we were now as glad to see\nthe little red gentleman, and as ready to open the door to him, as we\nused to dread his coming at first and be frightened of him. But at\nlong last we throve so well that the landlord\u2014God forgive him\u2014took\nnotice of us, and envied us, and asked my father how he came by the\npenny he had, and wanted him to take more ground at a rack-rent that\nwas more than any Christian ought to pay to another, seeing there was\nno making it. When my father\u2014and small blame to him for\nthat\u2014refused to lease the ground, he turned us off the bit of land we\nhad, and out of the house and all, and left us in a wide and wicked\nworld, where my father, for he was a soft innocent man, was not up to\nthe roguery and trickery that was practised upon him. He was taken\nthis way by one and that way by another, and he treating them that\nwere working his downfall. And he used to take bite and sup with them,\nand they with him, free enough as long as the money lasted; but when\nthat was gone, and he had not as much ground, that he could call his\nown, as would sod a lark, they soon shabbed him off. The landlord died\nnot long after; and he now knows whether he acted right or wrong in\ntaking the house from over our heads.\n\n\u201cIt is a bad thing for the heart to be cast down, so we took another\ncabin, and looked out with great desire for the Fir Darrig to come to\nus. But ten o\u2019clock came and no arm, although we cut a hole in the\ndoor just the _moral_ (model) of the other. Eleven o\u2019clock!\u2014twelve\no\u2019clock!\u2014no, not a sign of him: and every night we watched, but all\nwould not do. We then travelled to the other house, and we rooted up\nthe hearth, for the landlord asked so great a rent for it from the\npoor people that no one could take it; and we carried away the very\ndoor off the hinges, and we brought every thing with us that we\nthought the little man was in any respect partial to, but he did not\ncome, and we never saw him again.\n\n\u201cMy father and my mother, and my young sister, are since dead, and my\ntwo brothers, who could tell all about this better than myself, are\nboth of them gone out with Ingram in his last voyage to the Cape of\nGood Hope, leaving me behind without kith or kin.\u201d\n\nHere young Ellen\u2019s voice became choked with sorrow, and bursting into\ntears, she hid her face in her apron.\n\n     FIR DARRIG means the red man, and is a member of the fairy\n     community of Ireland, who bears a strong resemblance to the\n     Shakspearian Puck, or Robin Goodfellow. Like that merry goblin\n     his delight is in mischief and mockery; and this Irish spirit\n     is doubtless the same as the Scottish _Red Cap_; which a writer\n     in the Quarterly Review (No. XLIV. p. 358,) tracing national\n     analogies, asserts, is the Robin Hood of England, and the Saxon\n     spirit Hudkin or Hodekin, so called from the hoodakin or little\n     hood wherein he appeared, a spirit similar to the Spanish\n     Duende. The Fir Darrig has also some traits of resemblance in\n     common with the Scotch Brownie, the German Kobold (particularly\n     the celebrated one, Hinzelman,) the English Hobgoblin (Milton\u2019s\n     \u201cLubber Fiend\u201d) and the Follet of Gervase of Tilbury, who says\n     of the Folletos, \u201cVerba utique humano more audiunter et\n     effigies non comparent. De istis pleraque miracula memini me in\n     vita abbreviata et miraculis beatissimi Antonii\n     reperisse.\u201d\u2014_Otia Imperialia._\n\n     The red dress and strange flexibility of voice possessed by the\n     Fir Darrig form his peculiar characteristics; the latter,\n     according to Irish tale-tellers, is like the sound of the\n     waves; and again it is compared to the music of angels; the\n     warbling of birds, &c.; and the usual address to this fairy is,\n     Do not mock us. His entire dress, when he is seen, is\n     invariably described as crimson: whereas, Irish fairies\n     generally appear in a black hat, a green suit, white stockings,\n     and red shoes.\n\n\n\n\nTREASURE LEGENDS.\n\n    \u201cBell, book, and candle, shall not drive me back\n    When gold and silver becks me to come on.\u201d\n\n                                        _King John._\n\n    \u201cThis is fairy gold, boy, and \u2019twill prove so.\u201d\n\n                                    _Winter\u2019s Tale._\n\n\n\n\nDREAMING TIM JARVIS.\n\nXXXIV.\n\n\nTimothy Jarvis was a decent, honest, quiet, hard-working man, as every\nbody knows that knows Balledehob.\n\nNow Balledehob is a small place, about forty miles west of Cork. It is\nsituated on the summit of a hill, and yet it is in a deep valley; for\non all sides there are lofty mountains that rise one above another in\nbarren grandeur, and seem to look down with scorn upon the little busy\nvillage which they surround with their idle and unproductive\nmagnificence. Man and beast have alike deserted them to the dominion\nof the eagle, who soars majestically over them. On the highest of\nthose mountains there is a small, and as is commonly believed,\nunfathomable lake, the only inhabitant of which is a huge serpent,\nwho has been sometimes seen to stretch its enormous head above the\nwaters, and frequently is heard to utter a noise which shakes the very\nrocks to their foundation.\n\nBut, as I was saying, every body knew Tim Jarvis to be a decent,\nhonest, quiet, hard-working man, who was thriving enough to be able to\ngive his daughter Nelly a fortune of ten pounds; and Tim himself would\nhave been snug enough besides, but that he loved the drop sometimes.\nHowever, he was seldom backward on rent-day. His ground was never\ndistrained but twice, and both times through a small bit of a mistake;\nand his landlord had never but once to say to him\u2014\u201cTim Jarvis, you\u2019re\nall behind, Tim, like the cow\u2019s tail.\u201d Now it so happened that, being\nheavy in himself, through the drink, Tim took to sleeping, and the\nsleep set Tim dreaming, and he dreamed all night, and night after\nnight, about crocks full of gold and other precious stones; so much\nso, that Norah Jarvis his wife could get no good of him by day, and\nhave little comfort with him by night. The gray dawn of the morning\nwould see Tim digging away in a bog-hole, may be, or rooting under\nsome old stone walls like a pig. At last he dreamt that he found a\nmighty great crock of gold and silver\u2014and where do you think? Every\nstep of the way upon London-bridge, itself! Twice Tim dreamt it, and\nthree times Tim dreamt the same thing; and at last he made up his mind\nto transport himself, and go over to London, in Pat Mahoney\u2019s\ncoaster\u2014and so he did!\n\nWell, he got there, and found the bridge without much difficulty.\nEvery day he walked up and down looking for the crock of gold, but\nnever the find did he find it. One day, however, as he was looking\nover the bridge into the water, a man, or something like a man, with\ngreat black whiskers, like a Hessian, and a black cloak that reached\ndown to the ground, taps him on the shoulder, and says he\u2014\u201cTim\nJarvis, do you see me?\u201d\n\n\u201cSurely I do, sir,\u201d said Tim; wondering that any body should know him\nin that strange place.\n\n\u201cTim,\u201d says he, \u201cwhat is it brings you here in foreign parts, so far\naway from your own cabin by the mine of gray copper at Balledehob?\u201d\n\n\u201cPlease your honour,\u201d says Tim, \u201cI\u2019m come to seek my fortune.\u201d\n\n\u201cYou\u2019re a fool for your pains, Tim, if that\u2019s all,\u201d remarked the\nstranger in the black cloak; \u201cthis is a big place to seek one\u2019s\nfortune in, to be sure, but it\u2019s not so easy to find it.\u201d\n\nNow Tim, after debating a long time with himself, and considering, in\nthe first place, that it might be the stranger who was to find the\ncrock of gold for him; and in the next, that the stranger might direct\nhim where to find it, came to the resolution of telling him all.\n\n\u201cThere\u2019s many a one like me comes here seeking their fortunes,\u201d said\nTim.\n\n\u201cTrue,\u201d said the stranger.\n\n\u201cBut,\u201d continued Tim, looking up, \u201cthe body and bones of the cause for\nmyself leaving the woman, and Nelly, and the boys, and travelling so\nfar, is to look for a crock of gold that I\u2019m told is lying somewhere\nhereabouts.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who told you that, Tim?\u201d\n\n\u201cWhy then, sir, that\u2019s what I can\u2019t tell myself rightly\u2014only I dreamt\nit.\u201d\n\n\u201cHo, ho! is that all, Tim!\u201d said the stranger, laughing; \u201cI had a\ndream myself; and I dreamed that I found a crock of gold, in the Fort\nfield, on Jerry Driscoll\u2019s ground at Balledehob; and by the same\ntoken, the pit where it lay was close to a large furze bush, all full\nof yellow blossom.\u201d\n\nTim knew Jerry Driscoll\u2019s ground well; and, moreover, he knew the Fort\nfield as well as he knew his own potato garden; he was certain, too,\nof the very furze bush at the north end of it\u2014so, swearing a bitter\nbig oath, says he\u2014\n\n\u201cBy all the crosses in a yard of check, I always thought there was\nmoney in that same field!\u201d\n\nThe moment he rapped out the oath, the stranger disappeared, and Tim\nJarvis, wondering at all that had happened to him, made the best of\nhis way back to Ireland. Norah, as may well be supposed, had no very\nwarm welcome for her runaway husband\u2014the dreaming blackguard, as she\ncalled him\u2014and so soon as she set eyes upon him, all the blood of her\nbody in one minute was into her knuckles to be at him; but Tim, after\nhis long journey, looked so cheerful and so happy-like, that she could\nnot find it in her heart to give him the first blow! He managed to\npacify his wife by two or three broad hints about a new cloak and a\npair of shoes, that, to speak honestly, were much wanting for her to\ngo to chapel in; and decent clothes for Nelly to go to the patron with\nher sweetheart, and brogues for the boys, and some corduroy for\nhimself. \u201cIt wasn\u2019t for nothing,\u201d says Tim, \u201cI went to foreign parts\nall the ways; and you\u2019ll see what\u2019ll come out of it\u2014mind my words.\u201d\n\nA few days afterwards Tim sold his cabin and his garden, and bought\nthe Fort-field of Jerry Driscoll, that had nothing in it, but was full\nof thistles, and old stones, and blackberry bushes; and all the\nneighbours\u2014as well they might\u2014thought he was cracked!\n\nThe first night that Tim could summon courage to begin his work, he\nwalked off to the field with his spade upon his shoulder; and away he\ndug all night by the side of the furze bush, till he came to a big\nstone. He struck his spade against it, and he heard a hollow sound;\nbut as the morning had begun to dawn, and the neighbours would be\ngoing out to their work, Tim, not wishing to have the thing talked\nabout, went home to the little hovel, where Norah and the children\nwere huddled together under a heap of straw; for he had sold every\nthing he had in the world to purchase Driscoll\u2019s field, though it was\nsaid to be \u201cthe back-bone of the world, picked by the devil.\u201d\n\nIt is impossible to describe the epithets and reproaches bestowed by\nthe poor woman on her unlucky husband for bringing her into such a\nway. Epithets and reproaches, which Tim had but one mode of answering,\nas thus:\u2014\u201cNorah, did you see e\u2019er a cow you\u2019d like?\u201d\u2014or, \u201cNorah,\ndear, hasn\u2019t Poll Deasy a feather-bed to sell?\u201d\u2014or, \u201cNorah honey,\nwouldn\u2019t you like your silver buckles as big as Mrs. Doyle\u2019s?\u201d\n\nAs soon as night came Tim stood beside the furze bush, spade in hand.\nThe moment he jumped down into the pit he heard a strange rumbling\nnoise under him, and so, putting his ear against the great stone, he\nlistened, and overheard a discourse that made the hair on his head\nstand up like bulrushes, and every limb tremble.\n\n\u201cHow shall we bother Tim?\u201d said one voice.\n\n\u201cTake him to the mountain, to be sure, and make him a toothful for the\n_ould sarpint_; \u2019tis long since he has had a good meal,\u201d said another\nvoice.\n\nTim shook like a potato-blossom in a storm.\n\n\u201cNo,\u201d said a third voice; \u201cplunge him in the bog, neck and heels.\u201d\n\nTim was a dead man, barring the breath.[31]\n\n    [31]  \u201cI\u2019non mori, e non rimasi vivo:\n          Pensa oramai per te, s\u2019hai fior d\u2019ingegno\n          Qual io divenni d\u2019uno e d\u2019altro privo.\u201d\n\n                        Dante, _Inferno_, canto 34.\n\n\u201cStop!\u201d said a fourth; but Tim heard no more, for Tim was dead\nentirely. In about an hour, however, the life came back into him, and\nhe crept home to Norah.\n\nWhen the next night arrived, the hopes of the crock of gold got the\nbetter of his fears, and taking care to arm himself with a bottle of\npotheen, away he went to the field. Jumping into the pit, he took a\nlittle sup from the bottle to keep his heart up\u2014he then took a big\none\u2014and then, with desperate wrench, he wrenched up the stone. All at\nonce, up rushed a blast of wind, wild and fierce, and down fell\nTim\u2014down, down and down he went\u2014until he thumped upon what seemed to\nbe, for all the world, like a floor of sharp pins, which made him\nbellow out in earnest. Then he heard a whisk and a hurra, and\ninstantly voices beyond number cried out\u2014\n\n    \u201cWelcome, Tim Jarvis, dear!\n    Welcome, down here!\u201d\n\nThough Tim\u2019s teeth chattered like magpies with the fright, he\ncontinued to make answer\u2014\u201cI\u2019m he-he-har-ti-ly ob-ob-liged to-to you\nall, gen-gen-tlemen, fo-for your civility to-to a poor stranger like\nmyself.\u201d But though he had heard all the voices about him, he could\nsee nothing, the place was so dark and so lonesome in itself for want\nof the light. Then something pulled Tim by the hair of his head, and\ndragged him, he did not know how far, but he knew he was going faster\nthan the wind, for he heard it behind him, trying to keep up with him\nand it could not. On, on, on, he went, till all at once, and suddenly,\nhe was stopped, and somebody came up to him, and said, \u201cWell, Tim\nJarvis, and how do you like your ride?\u201d\n\n\u201cMighty well! I thank your honour,\u201d said Tim; \u201cand \u2019twas a good beast\nI rode, surely!\u201d\n\nThere was a great laugh at Tim\u2019s answer; and then there was a\nwhispering, and a great cugger mugger, and coshering; and at last, a\npretty little bit of a voice said, \u201cShut your eyes, and you\u2019ll see,\nTim.\u201d\n\n\u201cBy my word, then,\u201d said Tim, \u201cthat is the queer way of seeing; but\nI\u2019m not the man to gainsay you, so I\u2019ll do as you bid me, any how.\u201d\nPresently he felt a small warm hand rubbed over his eyes with an\nointment, and in the next minute he saw himself in the middle of\nthousands of little men and women, not half so high as his brogue,\nthat were pelting one another with golden guineas and lily white\nthirteens[32], as if they were so much dirt. The finest dressed and\nthe biggest of them all went up to Tim, and says he, \u201cTim Jarvis,\nbecause you are a decent, honest, quiet, civil, well-spoken man,\u201d says\nhe, \u201cand know how to behave yourself in strange company, we\u2019ve altered\nour minds about you, and will find a neighbour of yours that will do\njust as well to give to the old serpent.\u201d\n\n    [32] An English shilling was thirteen pence, Irish currency.\n\n\u201cOh, then, long life to you, sir!\u201d said Tim, \u201cand there\u2019s no doubt of\nthat.\u201d\n\n\u201cBut what will you say, Tim,\u201d inquired the little fellow, \u201cif we fill\nyour pockets with these yellow boys? What will you say, Tim, and what\nwill you do with them?\u201d\n\n\u201cYour honour\u2019s honour, and your honour\u2019s glory,\u201d answered Tim, \u201cI\u2019ll\nnot be able to say my prayers for one month with thanking you\u2014and\nindeed I\u2019ve enough to do with them. I\u2019d make a grand lady, you see, at\nonce of Norah\u2014she has been a good wife to me. We\u2019ll have a nice bit\nof pork for dinner; and, may be, I\u2019d have a glass, or may be two\nglasses; or sometimes, if \u2019twas with a friend, or acquaintance, or\ngossip, you know, three glasses every day; and I\u2019d build a new cabin;\nand I\u2019d have a fresh egg every morning, myself, for my breakfast; and\nI\u2019d snap my fingers at the \u2018squire, and beat his hounds, if they\u2019d\ncome coursing through my fields; and I\u2019d have a new plough; and Norah,\nyour honour, would have a new cloak, and the boys would have shoes and\nstockings as well as Biddy Leary\u2019s brats\u2014that\u2019s my sister that\nwas\u2014and Nelly would marry Bill Long of Affadown; and, your honour,\nI\u2019d have some corduroy for myself to make breeches, and a cow, and a\nbeautiful coat with shining buttons, and a horse to ride, or may be\ntwo. I\u2019d have every thing,\u201d said Tim, \u201cin life, good or bad, that is\nto be got for love or money\u2014hurra-whoop!\u2014and that\u2019s what I\u2019d do.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake care, Tim,\u201d said the little fellow, \u201cyour money would not go\nfaster than it came, with your hurra-whoop.\u201d\n\nBut Tim heeded not this speech: heaps of gold were around him, and he\nfilled and filled away as hard as he could, his coat and his waistcoat\nand his breeches pockets; and he thought himself very clever,\nmoreover, because he stuffed some of the guineas into his brogues.\nWhen the little people perceived this, they cried out\u2014\u201cGo home, Tim\nJarvis, go home, and think yourself a lucky man.\u201d\n\n\u201cI hope, gentlemen,\u201d said he, \u201cwe won\u2019t part for good and all; but may\nbe ye\u2019ll ask me to see you again, and to give you a fair and square\naccount of what I\u2019ve done with your money.\u201d\n\nTo this there was no answer, only another shout\u2014\u201cGo home, Tim\nJarvis\u2014go home\u2014fair play is a jewel; but shut your eyes, or ye\u2019ll\nnever see the light of day again.\u201d\n\nTim shut his eyes, knowing now that was the way to see clearly; and\naway he was whisked as before\u2014away, away he went till he again\nstopped all of a sudden.\n\nHe rubbed his eyes with his two thumbs\u2014and where was he? Where, but\nin the very pit in the field that was Jer Driscoll\u2019s, and his wife\nNorah above with a big stick ready to beat \u201cher dreaming blackguard.\u201d\nTim roared out to the woman to leave the life in him, and put his\nhands in his pockets to show her the gold; but he pulled out nothing\nonly a handful of small stones mixed with yellow furze blossoms. The\nbush was under him, and the great flag-stone that he had wrenched up,\nas he thought, was lying, as if it was never stirred, by his side: the\nwhisky bottle was drained to the last drop; and the pit was just as\nhis spade had made it.\n\nTim Jarvis, vexed, disappointed, and almost heart-broken, followed his\nwife home: and, strange to say, from that night he left off drinking,\nand dreaming, and delving in bog holes, and rooting in old caves. He\ntook again to his hard-working habits, and was soon able to buy back\nhis little cabin and former potato garden, and to get all the\nenjoyment he anticipated from the fairy gold.\n\nGive Tim one, or at most two glasses of whisky punch (and neither\nfriend, acquaintance, nor gossip can make him take more,) and he will\nrelate the story to you much better than you have it here. Indeed, it\nis worth going to Balledehob to hear him tell it. He always pledges\nhimself to the truth of every word with his fore-fingers crossed; and\nwhen he comes to speak of the loss of his guineas, he never fails to\nconsole himself by adding\u2014\u201cIf they stayed with me I wouldn\u2019t have\nluck with them, sir; and father O\u2019Shea told me \u2019twas as well for me\nthey were changed, for if they hadn\u2019t, they\u2019d have burned holes in my\npocket, and got out that way.\u201d\n\nI shall never forget his solemn countenance, and the deep tones of his\nwarning voice, when he concluded his tale, by telling me, that the\nnext day after his ride with the fairies, Mick Dowling was missing,\nand he believed him to be given to the _sarpint_ in his place, as he\nhad never been heard of since. \u201cThe blessing of the saints be between\nall good men and harm,\u201d was the concluding sentence of Tim Jarvis\u2019s\nnarrative, as he flung the remaining drops from his glass upon the\ngreen sward.\n\n\n\n\nRENT-DAY.\n\nXXXV.\n\n\n\u201cOh ullagone, ullagone! this is a wide world, but what will we do in\nit, or where will we go?\u201d muttered Bill Doody, as he sat on a rock by\nthe Lake of Killarney. \u201cWhat will we do? to-morrow\u2019s rent-day, and Tim\nthe Driver swears if we don\u2019t pay up our rent, he\u2019ll cant every\n_ha\u2019perth_ we have; and then, sure enough, there\u2019s Judy and myself,\nand the poor little _grawls_,[33] will be turned out to starve on the\nhigh road, for the never a halfpenny of rent have I!\u2014Oh hone, that\never I should live to see this day!\u201d\n\n    [33] Children.\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    \u201cHow ill the scene that offers rest,\n    And heart that cannot rest, agree!\u201d\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\u201cWhat\u2019s the matter with you, my poor man?\u201d 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\u2019s sudden appearance, and\nbegan to question whether the personage before him belonged to this\nworld or not. He, however, soon mustered courage sufficient to tell\nhim how his crops had failed, how some bad member had charmed away his\nbutter, and how Tim the Driver threatened to turn him out of the farm\nif he didn\u2019t pay up every penny of the rent by twelve o\u2019clock next\nday.\n\n\u201cA sad story indeed,\u201d said the stranger; \u201cbut surely, if you\nrepresented the case to your landlord\u2019s agent, he won\u2019t have the heart\nto turn you out.\u201d\n\n\u201cHeart, your honour! where would an agent get a heart!\u201d exclaimed\nBill. \u201cI 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.\u201d\n\n\u201cTake this, my poor fellow, take this,\u201d said the stranger, pouring a\npurse-full of gold into Bill\u2019s old hat, which in his grief he had\nflung on the ground. \u201cPay the fellow your rent, but I\u2019ll 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!\u201d\n\nThese words were lost upon Bill, who was insensible to every thing 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\u201cO\u2019Donoghue, O\u2019Donoghue!\u201d shouted Bill; \u201cthe good, the blessed\nO\u2019Donoghue!\u201d 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\u2019s; 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\u201cWhy don\u2019t you take off your hat, fellow; don\u2019t you know you are\nspeaking to a magistrate?\u201d said the agent.\n\n\u201cI know I\u2019m not speaking to the king, sir,\u201d said Bill; \u201cand I never\ntakes off my hat but to them I can respect and love. The Eye that sees\nall knows I\u2019ve no right either to respect or love an agent!\u201d\n\n\u201cYou scoundrel!\u201d retorted the man in office, biting his lips with rage\nat such an unusual and unexpected opposition, \u201cI\u2019ll teach you how to\nbe insolent again\u2014I have the power, remember.\u201d\n\n\u201cTo the cost of the country, I know you have,\u201d said Bill, who still\nremained with his head as firmly covered as if he was the lord\nKingsale himself.\n\n\u201cBut come,\u201d said the magistrate; \u201chave you got the money for me?\u2014this\nis rent-day. If there\u2019s one penny of it wanting, or the running gale\nthat\u2019s due, prepare to turn out before night, for you shall not remain\nanother hour in possession.\u201d\n\n\u201cThere is your rent,\u201d said Bill, with an unmoved expression of tone\nand countenance; \u201cyou\u2019d better count it, and give me a receipt in full\nfor the running gale and all.\u201d\n\nThe agent gave a look of amazement at the gold; for it was gold\u2014real\nguineas! and not bits of dirty ragged small notes, that are only fit\nto light one\u2019s 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 cat\nof 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\u2019s head,\nand Bill had the receipt in his pocket; so he saw there was no use in\nsaying any thing 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\u2019Donoghue, the great\nprince that lives down under the lake of Killarney.\n\nLike the butterfly, the spirit of O\u2019Donoghue closely hovers over the\nperfume of the hills and flowers it loves; while, as the reflection of\na star in the waters of a pure lake, to those who look not above,\nthat glorious spirit is believed to dwell beneath.\n\n\n\n\nLINN-NA-PAYSHTHA.\n\nXXXVI.\n\n\nTravellers go to Leinster to see Dublin and the Dargle; to Ulster, to\nsee the Giant\u2019s Causeway, and, perhaps, to do penance at Lough Dearg;\nto Munster, to see Killarney, the beautiful city of Cork, and half a\ndozen other fine things; but who ever thinks of the fourth\nprovince?\u2014who ever thinks of going\u2014\n\n    \u2014\u201cwestward, where Dick Martin _ruled_\n    The houseless wilds of Cunnemara?\u201d\n\nThe Ulster-man\u2019s ancient denunciation \u201cto hell or to Connaught,\u201d has\npossibly led to the supposition that this is a sort of infernal place\nabove ground\u2014a kind of terrestrial Pandemonium\u2014in short, that\nConnaught is little better than hell, or hell little worse than\nConnaught; but let any one only go there for a month, and, as the\nnatives say, \u201cI\u2019ll warrant he\u2019ll soon see the differ, and learn to\nunderstand that it is mighty like the rest o\u2019 green Erin, only\nsomething poorer;\u201d and yet it might be thought that in this particular\n\u201cworse would be needless;\u201d but so it is.\n\n\u201cMy gracious me,\u201d said the landlady of the Inn at Sligo, \u201cI wonder a\ngentleman of your _teeste_ and _curosity_ would think of leaving\nIreland without making a _tower_ (tour) of Connaught, if it was\nnothing more than spending a day at Hazlewood, and up the lake, and on\nto the _ould_ abbey at Friarstown, and the castle at Dromahair.\u201d\n\nPolly M\u2019Bride, my kind hostess, might not in this remonstrance have\nbeen altogether disinterested; but her advice prevailed, and the dawn\nof the following morning found me in a boat on the unruffled surface\nof Lough Gill. Arrived at the head of that splendid sheet of water,\ncovered with rich and wooded islands with their ruined buildings, and\nbounded by towering mountains, noble plantations, grassy slopes, and\nprecipitous rocks, which give beauty, and, in some places, sublimity\nto its shores, I proceeded at once up the wide river which forms its\nprincipal tributary. The \u201cold abbey\u201d is chiefly remarkable for having\nbeen built at a period nearer to the Reformation than any other\necclesiastical edifice of the same class. Full within view of it, and\nat the distance of half a mile, stands the shattered remnant of\nBreffni\u2019s princely hall. I strode forward with the enthusiasm of an\nantiquary, and the high-beating heart of a patriotic Irishman. I felt\nmyself on classic ground, immortalized by the lays of Swift and of\nMoore. I pushed my way into the hallowed precincts of the grand and\nvenerable edifice. I entered its chambers, and, oh my countrymen, I\nfound them converted into the domicile of pigs, cows, and poultry! But\nthe exterior of \u201cO\u2019Rourke\u2019s old hall,\u201d gray, frowning, and\nivy-covered, is well enough; it stands on a beetling precipice, round\nwhich a noble river wheels its course. The opposite bank is a very\nsteep ascent, thickly wooded, and rising to a height of at least\nseventy feet; and, for a quarter of a mile, this beautiful copse\nfollows the course of the river.\n\nThe first individual I encountered was an old cowherd; nor was I\nunfortunate in my cicerone, for he assured me there were plenty of old\nstories about strange things that used to be in the place; \u201cbut,\u201d\ncontinued he, \u201cfor my own share, I never met any thing worse nor\nmyself. If it bees ould stories that your honour\u2019s after, the story\nabout Linnna-Payshtha and Poul-maw-Gullyawn is the only thing about\nthis place that\u2019s worth one jack-straw. Does your honour see that\ngreat big black hole in the river yonder below?\u201d He pointed my\nattention to a part of the river about fifty yards from the old hall,\nwhere a long island occupied the centre of the wide current, the water\nat one side running shallow, and at the other assuming every\nappearance of unfathomable depth. The spacious pool, dark and still,\nwore a death-like quietude of surface. It looked as if the speckled\ntrout would shun its murky precincts\u2014as if even the daring pike would\nshrink from so gloomy a dwelling-place. \u201cThat\u2019s Linn-na-Payshtha,\nsir,\u201d resumed my guide, \u201cand Poul-maw-Gullyawn is just the very\n_moral_ of it, only that it\u2019s round, and not in a river, but standing\nout in the middle of a green field, about a short quarter of a mile\nfrom this. Well, \u2019tis as good as fourscore years\u2014I often _hard_ my\nfather, God be merciful to him! tell the story\u2014since Manus O\u2019Rourke,\na great buckeen, a cockfighting, drinking blackguard that was long\nago, went to sleep one night, and had a dream about Linn-na-Payshtha.\nThis Manus, the dirty spalpeen, there was no ho with him; he thought\nto ride rough-shod over his betters through the whole country, though\nhe was not one of the real stock of the O\u2019Rourkes. Well, this fellow\nhad a dream that if he dived in Linn-na-Payshtha at twelve o\u2019clock of\na Hollow-eve night, he\u2019d find more gold than would make a man of him\nand his wife, while grass grew or water ran. The next night he had the\nsame dream, and sure enough, if he had it the second night, it came to\nhim the third in the same form. Manus, well becomes him, never told\nmankind or womankind, but swore to himself, by all the books that were\never shut or open, that, any how, he would go to the bottom of the big\nhole. What did he care for the Payshtha-more that was lying there to\nkeep guard on the gold and silver of the old ancient family that was\nburied there in the wars, packed up in the brewing-pan? Sure he was as\ngood an O\u2019Rourke as the best of them, taking care to forget that his\ngrandmother\u2019s father was a cow-boy to the earl O\u2019Donnel. At long last\nHollow-eve comes, and sly and silent master Manus creeps to bed early,\nand just at midnight steals down to the river-side. When he came to\nthe bank his mind misgave him, and he wheeled up to Frank\nM\u2019Clure\u2019s\u2014the old Frank that was then at that time\u2014and got a bottle\nof whisky, and took it with him, and \u2019tis unknown how much of it he\ndrank. He walked across to the island, and down he went gallantly to\nthe bottom like a stone. Sure enough the Payshtha was there afore him,\nlying like a great big conger eel, seven yards long, and as thick as a\nbull in the body, with a mane upon his neck like a horse. The\nPayshtha-more reared himself up; and, looking at the poor man as if\nhe\u2019d eat him, says he, in good English,\n\n\u201c\u2018Arrah, then, Manus,\u2019 says he, \u2018what brought you here? It would have\nbeen better for you to have blown your brains out at once with a\npistol, and have made a quiet end of yourself, than to have come down\nhere for me to deal with you.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Oh, plase your honour,\u2019 says Manus, \u2018I beg my life:\u2019 and there he\nstood shaking like a dog in a wet sack.\n\n\u201c\u2018Well, as you have some blood of the O\u2019Rourkes in you, I forgive you\nthis once; but, by this and by that, if ever I see you, or any one\nbelonging to you, coming about this place again, I\u2019ll hang a quarter\nof you on every tree in the wood.\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018Go home,\u2019 says the Payshtha\u2014\u2018go home, Manus,\u2019 says he; \u2018and if you\ncan\u2019t make better use of your time, get drunk; but don\u2019t come here,\nbothering me. Yet, stop! since you are here, and have ventured to\ncome, I\u2019ll show you something that you\u2019ll remember till you go to your\ngrave, and ever after, while you live.\u2019\n\n\u201cWith that, my dear, he opens an iron door in the bed of the river,\nand never the drop of water ran into it; and there Manus sees a long\ndry cave, or under-ground cellar like, and the Payshtha drags him in,\nand shuts the door. It wasn\u2019t long before the baste began to get\nsmaller, and smaller, and smaller; and at last he grew as little as a\ntaughn of twelve years old; and there he was a brownish little man,\nabout four feet high.\n\n\u201c\u2018Plase your honour,\u2019 says Manus, \u2018if I might make so bold, may be you\nare one of the good people?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018May be I am, and may be I am not; but, any how, all you have to\nunderstand is this, that I\u2019m bound to look after the Thiernas[34] of\nBreffni, and take care of them through every generation; and that my\npresent business is to watch this cave, and what\u2019s in it, till the\nold stock is reigning over this country once more.\u2019\n\n    [34] _Tighearna_\u2014a lord. Vide O\u2019BRIEN.\n\n\u201c\u2018May be you are a sort of a banshee?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018I am not, you fool,\u2019 said the little man. \u2018The banshee is a woman.\nMy business is to live in the form you first saw me, in guarding this\nspot. And now hold your tongue, and look about you.\u2019\n\n\u201cManus rubbed his eyes and looked right and left, before and behind;\nand there were the vessels of gold and the vessels of silver, the\ndishes, and the plates, and the cups, and the punch-bowls, and the\ntankards: there was the golden mether, too, that every Thierna at his\nwedding used to drink out of to the kerne in real usquebaugh. There\nwas all the money that ever was saved in the family since they got a\ngrant of this manor, in the days of the Firbolgs, down to the time of\ntheir outer ruination. He then brought Manus on with him to where\nthere was arms for three hundred men; and the sword set with diamonds,\nand the golden helmet of the O\u2019Rourke; and he showed him the staff\nmade out of an elephant\u2019s tooth, and set with rubies and gold, that\nthe Thierna used to hold while he sat in his great hall, giving\njustice and the laws of the Brehons to all his clan. The first room in\nthe cave, ye see, had the money and the plate, the second room had the\narms, and the third had the books, papers, parchments, title-deeds,\nwills, and every thing else of the sort belonging to the family.\n\n\u201c\u2018And now, Manus,\u2019 says the little man, \u2018ye seen the whole o\u2019 this,\nand go your ways; but never come to this place any more, or allow any\none else. I must keep watch and ward till the Sassanach is druv out of\nIreland, and the Thiernas o\u2019 Breffni in their glory again.\u2019 The little\nman then stopped for awhile and looked up in Manus\u2019s face, and says to\nhim in a great passion, \u2018Arrah! bad luck to ye, Manus, why don\u2019t ye go\nabout your business?\u2019\n\n\u201c\u2018How can I?\u2014sure you must show me the way out,\u2019 says Manus, making\nanswer. The little man then pointed forward with his finger.\n\n\u201c\u2018Can\u2019t we go out the way we came?\u2019 says Manus.\n\n\u201c\u2018No, you must go out at the other end\u2014that\u2019s the rule o\u2019 this\nplace. Ye came in at Linn-na-Payshtha, and you must go out at\nPoul-maw-Gullyawn: ye came down like a stone to the bottom of one\nhole, and ye must spring up like a cork to the top of the other.\u2019 With\nthat the little man gave him one _hoise_, and all that Manus remembers\nwas the roar of the water in his ears; and sure enough he was found\nthe next morning, high and dry, fast asleep with the empty bottle\nbeside him, but far enough from the place he thought he landed, for it\nwas just below yonder on the island that his wife found him. My\nfather, God be merciful to him! heard Manus swear to every word of the\nstory.\u201d\n\n     As there are few things which excite human desire throughout\n     all nations more than wealth, the legends concerning the\n     concealment, discovery and circulation of money, are, as may be\n     expected, widely extended; yet in all the circumstances, which\n     admit of so much fanciful embellishment, there every where\n     exists a striking similarity.\n\n     Like the golden apples of the Hesperides, treasure is guarded\n     by a dragon or serpent. Vide Creuzer, Religions de l\u2019Antiquite,\n     traduction de Guigniaut, i. 248. Paris, 1825. Stories of its\n     discovery in consequence of dreams or spiritual agency are so\n     numerous, that, if collected, they would fill many volumes, yet\n     they vary little in detail beyond the actors and locality. Vide\n     Grimm\u2019s Deutsche Sagen, i. 290. Thiele\u2019s Danske Folkesagn, i.\n     112, ii. 24. Kirke\u2019s Secret Commonwealth, p. 12, &c.\n\n     The circulation of money bestowed by the fairies or\n     supernatural personages, like that of counterfeit coin, is\n     seldom extensive. See story, in the Arabian Nights, of the old\n     rogue whose fine-looking money turned to leaves. When Waldemar,\n     Holgar, and Gr\u0153n Jette in Danish tradition, bestow money upon\n     the boors whom they meet, their gift sometimes turns to fire,\n     sometimes to pebbles, and sometimes is so hot, that the\n     receiver drops it from his hand, when the gold, or what\n     appeared to be so, sinks into the ground.\n\n     In poor Ireland, the wretched peasant contents himself by\n     soliloquizing\u2014\u201cMoney is the devil, they say; and God is good\n     that He keeps it from us.\u201d\n\n\n\n\nROCKS AND STONES.\n\n    \u201cForms in silence frown\u2019d,\n    Shapeless and nameless; and to mine eye\n    Sometimes they rolled off cloudily,\n    Wedding themselves with gloom\u2014or grew\n    Gigantic to my troubled view,\n    And seem\u2019d to gather round me.\u201d\n                 BANIM\u2019S _Celt\u2019s Paradise_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LEGEND OF CAIRN THIERNA.\n\nXXXVII.\n\n\nFrom the town of Fermoy, famous for the excellence of its bottled ale,\nyou may plainly see the mountain of Cairn Thierna. It is crowned with\na great heap of stones, which, as the country people remark, never\ncame there without \u201ca crooked thought and a cross job.\u201d Strange it is,\nthat any work of the good old times should be considered one of\nlabour; for round towers then sprung up like mushrooms in one night,\nand people played marbles with pieces of rock, that can now no more be\nmoved than the hills themselves.\n\nThis great pile on the top of Cairn Thierna was caused by the words of\nan old woman, whose bed still remains\u2014_Labacally_, the hag\u2019s bed\u2014not\nfar from the village of Glanworth. She was certainly far wiser than\nany woman, either old or young, of my immediate acquaintance. Jove\ndefend me, however, from making an envious comparison between ladies;\nbut facts are stubborn things, and the legend will prove my assertion.\n\nO\u2019Keefe was lord of Fermoy before the Roches came into that part of\nthe country; and he had an only son\u2014never was there seen a finer\nchild; his young face filled with innocent joy was enough to make any\nheart glad, yet his father looked on his smiles with sorrow, for an\nold hag had foretold that this boy should be drowned before he grew up\nto manhood.\n\nNow, although the prophecies of Pastorini were a failure, it is no\nreason why prophecies should altogether be despised. The art in modern\ntimes may be lost, as well as that of making beer out of the mountain\nheath, which the Danes did to great perfection. But I take it, the\nmalt of Tom Walker is no bad substitute for the one; and if evil\nprophecies were to come to pass, like the old woman\u2019s, in my opinion\nwe are far more comfortable without such knowledge.\n\n    \u201cInfant heir of proud Fermoy,\n      Fear not fields of slaughter;\n    Storm and fire fear not, my boy,\n      But shun the fatal water.\u201d\n\nThese were the warning words which caused the chief of Fermoy so much\nunhappiness. His infant son was carefully prevented all approach to\nthe river, and anxious watch was kept over every playful movement. The\nchild grew up in strength and in beauty, and every day became more\ndear to his father, who, hoping to avert the doom, which, however, was\ninevitable, prepared to build a castle far removed from the dreaded\nelement.\n\nThe top of Cairn Thierna was the place chosen; and the lord\u2019s vassals\nwere assembled, and employed in collecting materials for the purpose.\nHither came the fated boy; with delight he viewed the laborious work\nof raising mighty stones from the base to the summit of the mountain,\nuntil the vast heap which now forms its rugged crest was accumulated.\nThe workmen were about to commence the building, and the boy, who was\nconsidered in safety when on the mountain, was allowed to rove about\nat will. In his case how true are the words of the great dramatist:\n\n    \u2014\u2014\u201cPut but a little water in a spoon,\n    And it shall be, as all the ocean,\n    Enough to stifle such a _being_ up.\u201d\n\nA vessel which contained a small supply of water, brought there for\nthe use of the workmen, attracted the attention of the child. He saw,\nwith wonder, the glitter of the sunbeams within it; he approached more\nnear to gaze, when a form resembling his own arose before him. He gave\na cry of joy and astonishment and drew back; the image drew back also,\nand vanished. Again he approached; again the form appeared, expressing\nin every feature delight corresponding with his own. Eager to welcome\nthe young stranger, he bent over the vessel to press his lips; and,\nlosing his balance, the fatal prophecy was accomplished.\n\nThe father in despair abandoned the commenced building; and the\nmaterials remain a proof of the folly of attempting to avert the\ncourse of fate.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ROCK OF THE CANDLE.\n\nXXXVIII.\n\n\nA few miles west of Limerick stands the once formidable castle of\nCarrigogunnel. Its riven tower and broken archway remain in mournful\nevidence of the sieges sustained by that city. Time, however, the\ngreat soother of all things, has destroyed the painful effect which\nthe view of recent violence produces on the mind. The ivy creeps\naround the riven tower, concealing its injuries, and upholding it by a\ntough swathing of stalks. The archway is again united by the\nlong-armed brier which grows across the rent, and the shattered\nbuttresses are decorated with wild flowers, which gaily spring from\ntheir crevices and broken places.\n\nBoldly situated on a rock, the ruined walls of Carrigogunnel now form\nonly a romantic feature in the peaceful landscape. Beneath them, on\none side, lies the flat marshy ground called Corcass land, which\nborders the noble river Shannon; on the other side is seen the neat\nparish church of Kilkeedy, with its glebe-house and surrounding\nimprovements; and at a short distance appear the irregular mud cabins\nof the little village of Ballybrown, with the venerable trees of\nTervoo.\n\nOn the rock of Carrigogunnel, before the castle was built, or Brian\nBoro born to build it, dwelt a hag named Grana, who made desolate the\nsurrounding country. She was gigantic in size, and frightful in\nappearance. Her eyebrows grew into each other with a grim curve, and\nbeneath their matted bristles, deeply sunk in her head, two small gray\neyes darted forth baneful looks of evil. From her deeply-wrinkled\nforehead issued forth a hooked beak, dividing two shrivelled cheeks.\nHer skinny lips curled with a cruel and malignant expression, and her\nprominent chin was studded with bunches of grisly hair.\n\nDeath was her sport. Like the angler with his rod, the hag Grana would\ntoil, and watch, nor think it labour, so that the death of a victim\nrewarded her vigils. Every evening did she light an enchanted candle\nupon the rock, and whoever looked upon it died before the next\nmorning\u2019s sun arose. Numberless were the victims over whom Grana\nrejoiced; one after the other had seen the light, and their death was\nthe consequence. Hence came the country round to be desolate, and\nCarrigogunnel, the Rock of the Candle, by its dreaded name.\n\nThese were fearful times to live in. But the Finnii of Erin were the\navengers of the oppressed. Their fame had gone forth to distant\nshores, and their deeds were sung by a hundred bards. To them the name\nof danger was an invitation to a rich banquet. The web of enchantment\nstopped their course as little as the swords of an enemy. Many a\nmother of a son\u2014many a wife of a husband\u2014many a sister of a brother,\nhad the valour of the Finnian heroes bereft. Dismembered limbs\nquivered, and heads bounded on the ground before their progress in\nbattle. They rushed forward with the strength of the furious wind,\ntearing up the trees of the forest by their roots. Loud was their\nwarcry as the thunder, raging was their impetuosity above that of\ncommon men, and fierce was their anger as the stormy waves of the\nocean!\n\nIt was the mighty Finn himself who lifted up his voice, and commanded\nthe fatal candle of the hag Grana to be extinguished. \u201cThine, Regan,\nbe the task,\u201d he said, and to him he gave a cap thrice charmed by the\nmagician Luno of Lochlin.\n\nWith the star of the same evening the candle of death burned on the\nrock, and Regan stood beneath it. Had he beheld the slightest glimmer\nof its blaze, he, too, would have perished, and the hag Grana, with\nthe morning\u2019s dawn, rejoiced over his corse. When Regan looked towards\nthe light, the charmed cap fell over his eyes and prevented his\nseeing. The rock was steep, but he climbed up its craggy side with\nsuch caution and dexterity, that, before the hag was aware, the\nwarrior, with averted head, had seized the candle, and flung it with\nprodigious force into the river Shannon; the hissing waters of which\nquenched its light for ever!\n\nThen flew the charmed cap from the eyes of Regan, and he beheld the\nenraged hag, with outstretched arms, prepared to seize and whirl him\nafter her candle. Regan instantly bounded westward from the rock just\ntwo miles, with a wild and wondrous spring. Grana looked for a moment\nat the leap, and then tearing up a huge fragment of the rock, flung it\nafter Regan with such tremendous force, that her crooked hands\ntrembled and her broad chest heaved with heavy puffs, like a smith\u2019s\nlabouring bellows, from the exertion.\n\nThe ponderous stone fell harmless to the ground, for the leap of Regan\nfar exceeded the strength of the furious hag. In triumph he returned\nto Fin;\n\n    \u201cThe hero valiant, renowned, and learned;\n    White-tooth\u2019d, graceful, magnanimous, and active.\u201d\n\nThe hag Grana was never heard of more; but the stone remains, and\ndeeply imprinted in it, is still to be seen the mark of the hag\u2019s\nfingers. That stone is far taller than the tallest man, and the power\nof forty men would fail to move it from the spot where it fell.\n\nThe grass may wither around it, the spade and plough destroy dull\nheaps of earth, the walls of castles fall and perish, but the fame of\nthe Finnii of Erin endures with the rocks themselves, and\n_Clough-a-Regaun_ is a monument fitting to preserve the memory of the\ndeed!\n\n\n\n\nCLOUGH NA CUDDY.\n\nXXXIX.\n\n\nAbove all the islands in the lakes of Killarney give me\nInnisfallen\u2014\u201csweet Innisfallen,\u201d as the melodious Moore calls it. It\nis, in truth, a fairy isle, although I have no fairy story to tell you\nabout it; and if I had, these are such unbelieving times, and people\nof late have grown so skeptical, that they only smile at my stories,\nand doubt them.\n\nHowever, none will doubt that a monastery once stood upon Innisfallen\nisland, for its ruins may still be seen; neither, that within its\nwalls dwelt certain pious and learned persons called Monks. A very\npleasant set of fellows they were, I make not the smallest doubt; and\nI am sure of this, that they had a very pleasant spot to enjoy\nthemselves in after dinner\u2014the proper time, believe me, and I am no\nbad judge of such matters, for the enjoyment of a fine prospect.\n\nOut of all the monks you could not pick a better fellow nor a merrier\nsoul than Father Cuddy; he sung a good song, he told a good story, and\nhad a jolly, comfortable-looking paunch of his own, that was a credit\nto any refectory table. He was distinguished above all the rest by the\nname of \u201cthe fat father.\u201d Now there are many that will take huff at a\nname; but Father Cuddy had no nonsense of that kind about him; he\nlaughed at it\u2014and well able he was to laugh, for his mouth nearly\nreached from one ear to the other: his might, in truth, be called an\nopen countenance. As his paunch was no disgrace to his food, neither\nwas his nose to his drink. \u2019Tis a doubt to me if there were not more\ncarbuncles upon it than ever were seen at the bottom of the lake,\nwhich is said to be full of them. His eyes had a right merry twinkle\nin them, like moonshine dancing on the water; and his cheeks had the\nroundness and crimson glow of ripe arbutus berries.\n\n    \u201cHe ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept.\u2014What then?\n    He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept again!\u201d\n\nSuch was the tenor of his simple life: but when he prayed a certain\ndrowsiness would come upon him, which, it must be confessed, never\noccurred when a well-filled \u201cblackjack\u201d stood before him. Hence his\nprayers were short and his draughts were long. The world loved him,\nand he saw no good reason why he should not in return love its venison\nand usquebaugh. But, as times went, he must have been a pious man, or\nelse what befell him never would have happened.\n\nSpiritual affairs\u2014for it was respecting the importation of a tun of\nwine into the island monastery\u2014demanded the presence of one of the\nbrotherhood of Innisfallen at the abbey of Irelagh, now called\nMucruss. The superintendence of this important matter was committed to\nFather Cuddy, who felt too deeply interested in the future welfare of\nany community of which he was a member, to neglect or delay such\nmission. With the morning\u2019s light he was seen guiding his shallop\nacross the crimson waters of the lake towards the peninsula of\nMucruss; and having moored his little bark in safety beneath the\nshelter of a wave-worn rock, he advanced with becoming dignity towards\nthe abbey.\n\nThe stillness of the bright and balmy hour was broken by the heavy\nfootsteps of the zealous father. At the sound the startled deer,\nshaking the dew from their sides, sprung up from their lair, and as\nthey bounded off\u2014\u201cHah!\u201d exclaimed Cuddy, \u201cwhat a noble haunch goes\nthere!\u2014how delicious it would look smoking upon a goodly platter!\u201d\n\nAs he proceeded, the mountain-bee hummed his tune of gladness around\nthe holy man, save when he buried in the foxglove bell, or revelling\nupon a fragrant bunch of thyme; and even then the little voice\nmurmured out happiness in low and broken tones of voluptuous delight.\nFather Cuddy derived no small comfort from the sound, for it presaged\na good metheglin season, and metheglin he regarded, if well\nmanufactured, to be no bad liquor, particularly when there was no\nstint of usquebaugh in the brewing.\n\nArrived within the abbey garth, he was received with due respect by\nthe brethren of Irelagh, and arrangements for the embarkation of the\nwine were completed to his entire satisfaction. \u201cWelcome, Father\nCuddy,\u201d said the prior: \u201cgrace be on you.\u201d\n\n\u201cGrace before meat, then,\u201d said Cuddy, \u201cfor a long walk always makes\nme hungry, and I am certain I have not walked less than half a mile\nthis morning, to say nothing of crossing the water.\u201d\n\nA pasty of choice flavour felt the truth of this assertion, as\nregarded Father Cuddy\u2019s appetite. After such consoling repast, it\nwould have been a reflection on monastic hospitality to depart without\npartaking of the grace-cup; moreover, Father Cuddy had a particular\nrespect for the antiquity of that custom. He liked the taste of the\ngrace-cup well:\u2014he tried another,\u2014it was no less excellent; and when\nhe had swallowed the third he found his heart expand, and put forth\nits fibres, willing to embrace all mankind. Surely, then, there is\nChristian love and charity in wine!\n\nI said he sung a good song. Now though psalms are good songs, and in\naccordance with his vocation, I did not mean to imply that he was a\nmere psalm-singer. It was well known to the brethren, that wherever\nFather Cuddy was, mirth and melody were with him; mirth in his eye and\nmelody on his tongue; and these, from experience, are equally well\nknown to be thirsty commodities; but he took good care never to let\nthem run dry. To please the brotherhood, whose excellent wine pleased\nhim, he sung, and as \u201c_in vino veritas_\u201d his song will well become\nthis veritable history.\n\n    CANTAT MONACHUS.\n\n    I.\n           Hoc erat in votis,\n         Et bene sufficerit totis\n        Si dum porto sacculum\n    Bonum esset ubique jentaculum!\n          Et si parvis\n            In arvis\n            Nullam\n            Invenero pullam,\n        Ovum gentiliter pre\u00e6bebit recens\n            Puella decens.\n        Manu nec dabis invit\u00e2\n            Flos vallium harum,\n            Decus puellarum,\n            Candida Marguerita!\n\nTHE FRIAR\u2019S SONG.\n\n    I.\n\n            My vows I can never fulfil,\n                      Until\n        I have breakfasted, one way or other;\n              And I freely protest,\n              That I never can rest\n              \u2018Till I borrow or beg\n                    An egg,\n    Unless I can come at the ould hen, its mother.\n              But Maggy, my dear,\n              While you\u2019re here,\n                  I don\u2019t fear\n    To want eggs that have just been laid newly;\n              For och! you\u2019re a pearl\n                Of a girl,\n      And you\u2019re called so in _Latin_ most truly.\n\n    II.\n\n        Me hora jucunda c\u0153n\u00e6\n        Dilectat bene,\n      Et rerum sine dubio grandium\n      Maxima est prandium:\n        Sed mihi crede,\n        In h\u00e2c \u00e6de,\n    Multo magis gaudeo,\n      Cum gallicantum audio,\n        In sinu tuo\n        Videns ova duo.\n      Oh semper me tractes ita!\n        Panibus de hordeo factis,\n        Et copi\u00e2 lactis,\n      Candida Margarita!\n\n    III.\n\n    There is most to my mind something that is still upper\n                        Than supper,\n    Though it must be admitted I feel no way thinner\n                        After dinner:\n    But soon as I hear the cock crow\n                        In the morning,\n    That eggs you are bringing full surely I know,\n                      By that warning,\n    While your buttermilk helps me to float\n                        Down my throat\n          Those sweet cakes made of oat.\n                        I don\u2019t envy an earl,\n                        Sweet girl,\n    Och, \u2019tis you are a beautiful pearl.\n\nSuch was his song. Father Cuddy smacked his lips at the recollection\nof Margery\u2019s delicious fried eggs, which always imparted a peculiar\nrelish to his liquor. The very idea provoked Cuddy to raise the cup to\nhis mouth, and with one hearty pull thereat he finished its contents.\n\nThis is, and ever was a censorious world, often construing what is\nonly a fair allowance into an excess: but I scorn to reckon up any\nman\u2019s drink, like an unrelenting host; therefore, I cannot tell how\nmany brimming draughts of wine, bedecked with _the venerable Bead_,\nFather Cuddy emptied into his \u201csoul-case,\u201d so he figuratively termed\nthe body.\n\nHis respect for the goodly company of the monks of Irelagh detained\nhim until their adjournment to vespers, when he set forward on his\nreturn to Innisfallen. Whether his mind was occupied in philosophic\ncontemplation or wrapped in pious musings, I cannot declare, but the\nhonest father wandered on in a different direction from that in which\nhis shallop lay. Far be it from me to insinuate that the good liquor,\nwhich he had so commended caused him to forget his road, or that his\ntrack was irregular and unsteady. Oh no!\u2014he carried his drink\nbravely, as became a decent man and a good Christian; yet somehow, he\nthought he could distinguish two moons. \u201cBless my eyes,\u201d said Father\nCuddy, \u201cevery thing is changing now-a-days!\u2014the very stars are not in\nthe same places they used to be; I think _Camceachta_ (the Plough) is\ndriving on at a rate I never saw it before to-night; but I suppose the\ndriver is drunk, for there are blackguards every where.\u201d\n\nCuddy had scarcely uttered these words, when he saw, or fancied he\nsaw, the form of a young woman, who, holding up a bottle, beckoned him\ntowards her. The night was extremely beautiful, and the white dress of\nthe girl floated gracefully in the moonlight, as with gay step she\ntripped on before the worthy father, archly looking back upon him over\nher shoulder.\n\n\u201cAh, Margery, merry Margery!\u201d cried Cuddy, \u201cyou tempting little rogue!\n\n    \u2018Flos vallium harum,\n    Decus puellarum,\n    Candida Margarita.\u2019\n\n\u201cI see you, I see you and the bottle! let me but catch you, Candida\nMargarita!\u201d and on he followed, panting and smiling, after this\nalluring apparition.\n\nAt length his feet grew weary, and his breath failed, which obliged\nhim to give up the chase; yet such was his piety, that unwilling to\nrest in any attitude but that of prayer, down dropped Father Cuddy on\nhis knees. Sleep, as usual, stole upon his devotions; and the morning\nwas far advanced, when he awoke from dreams, in which tables groaned\nbeneath their load of viands, and wine poured itself free and\nsparkling as the mountain spring.\n\nRubbing his eyes, he looked about him, and the more he looked the more\nhe wondered at the alteration which appeared in the face of the\ncountry. \u201cBless my soul and body!\u201d said the good father, \u201cI saw the\nstars changing last night, but here is a change!\u201d Doubting his senses,\nhe looked again. The hills bore the same majestic outline as on the\npreceding day, and the lake spread itself beneath his view in the same\ntranquil beauty, and studded with the same number of islands; but\nevery smaller feature in the landscape was strangely altered. What had\nbeen naked rocks were now clothed with holly and arbutus. Whole woods\nhad disappeared, and waste places had become cultivated fields; and,\nto complete the work of enchantment, the very season itself seemed\nchanged. In the rosy dawn of a summer\u2019s morning he had left the\nmonastery of Innisfallen, and he now felt in every sight and sound the\ndreariness of winter. The hard ground was covered with withered\nleaves; icicles depended from leafless branches; he heard the sweet\nlow note of the robin, who familiarly approached him; and he felt his\nfingers numbed from the nipping frost. Father Cuddy found it rather\ndifficult to account for such sudden transformations, and to convince\nhimself it was not the illusion of a dream, he was about to rise, when\nlo! he discovered that both his knees were buried at least six inches\nin the solid stone; for, notwithstanding all these changes, he had\nnever altered his devout position.\n\nCuddy was now wide awake, and felt, when he got up, his joints sadly\ncramped, which it was only natural they should be, considering the\nhard texture of the stone, and the depth his knees had sunk into it.\nBut the great difficulty was to explain how, in one night, summer had\nbecome winter, whole woods had been cut down, and well-grown trees had\nsprouted up. The miracle, nothing else could he conclude it to be,\nurged him to hasten his return to Innisfallen, where he might learn\nsome explanation of these marvellous events.\n\nSeeing a boat moored within reach of the shore, he delayed not, in the\nmidst of such wonders, to seek his own bark, but, seizing the oars,\npulled stoutly towards the island; and here new wonders awaited him.\n\nFather Cuddy waddled, as fast as cramped limbs could carry his rotund\ncorporation, to the gate of the monastery, where he loudly demanded\nadmittance.\n\n\u201cHolloa! whence come you, master monk, and what\u2019s your business?\u201d\ndemanded a stranger who occupied the porter\u2019s place.\n\n\u201cBusiness!\u2014my business!\u201d repeated the confounded Cuddy,\u2014\u201cwhy, do you\nnot know me? Has the wine arrived safely?\u201d\n\n\u201cHence, fellow!\u201d said the porter\u2019s representative, in a surly tone;\n\u201cnor think to impose on me with your monkish tales.\u201d\n\n\u201cFellow!\u201d exclaimed the father: \u201cmercy upon us, that I should be so\nspoken to at the gate of my own house!\u2014Scoundrel!\u201d cried Cuddy,\nraising his voice, \u201cdo you not see my garb\u2014my holy garb?\u201d\n\n\u201cAy, fellow,\u201d replied he of the keys\u2014\u201cthe garb of laziness and filthy\ndebauchery, which has been expelled from out these walls. Know you\nnot, idle knave, of the suppression of this nest of superstition, and\nthat the abbey lands and possessions were granted in August last to\nMaster Robert Collam, by our Lady Elizabeth, sovereign queen of\nEngland, and paragon of all beauty\u2014whom God preserve!\u201d\n\n\u201cQueen of England!\u201d said Cuddy; \u201cthere never was a sovereign queen of\nEngland\u2014this is but a piece with the rest. I saw how it was going\nwith the stars last night\u2014the world\u2019s turned upside down. But surely\nthis is Innisfallen island, and I am the Father Cuddy who yesterday\nmorning went over to the abbey of Irelagh, respecting the tun of wine.\nDo you not know me now?\u201d\n\n\u201cKnow you!\u2014how should I know you?\u201d said the keeper of the abbey.\n\u201cYet, true it is, that I have heard my grandmother, whose mother\nremembered the man, often speak of the fat Father Cuddy of\nInnisfallen, who made a profane and godless ballad in praise of fresh\neggs, of which he and his vile crew knew more than they did of the\nword of God; and who, being drunk, it is said, tumbled into the lake\none night, and was drowned; but that must have been a hundred, ay,\nmore than a hundred years since.\u201d\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas I who composed that song in praise of Margery\u2019s fresh eggs,\nwhich is no profane and godless ballad\u2014no other Father Cuddy than\nmyself ever belonged to Innisfallen,\u201d earnestly exclaimed the holy\nman. \u201cA hundred years!\u2014what was your great-grandmother\u2019s name?\u201d\n\n\u201cShe was a Mahony of Dunlow\u2014Margaret ni Mahony; and my grandmother\u2014\u201d\n\n\u201cWhat! merry Margery of Dunlow your great-grandmother!\u201d shouted Cuddy.\n\u201cSt. Brandon help me!\u2014the wicked wench, with that tempting\nbottle!\u2014why, \u2019twas only last night\u2014a hundred years!\u2014your\ngreat-grandmother, said you?\u2014There has, indeed, been a strange torpor\nover me; I must have slept all this time!\u201d\n\nThat Father Cuddy had done so, I think is sufficiently proved by the\nchanges which occurred during his nap. A reformation, and a serious\none it was for him, had taken place. Pretty Margery\u2019s fresh eggs were\nno longer to be had in Innisfallen; and with a heart as heavy as his\nfootsteps, the worthy man directed his course towards Dingle, where he\nembarked in a vessel on the point of sailing for Malaga. The rich wine\nof that place had of old impressed him with a high respect for its\nmonastic establishments, in one of which he quietly wore out the\nremainder of his days.\n\nThe stone impressed with the mark of Father Cuddy\u2019s knees may be seen\nto this day. Should any incredulous persons doubt my story, I request\nthem to go to Killarney, where Clough na Cuddy\u2014so is the stone\ncalled\u2014remains in Lord Kenmare\u2019s park, an indisputable evidence of\nthe fact. Spillane, the bugle-man, will be able to point it out to\nthem, as he did so to me; and here is my sketch by which they may\nidentify it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GIANT\u2019S STAIRS.\n\nXL.\n\n\nOn the road between Passage and Cork there is an old mansion called\nRonayne\u2019s 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; and it was naturally taken to be a good sign of having a\nclear head; but the subsequent rapidity of his learning was truly\namazing; for on the very first day a primer was put into his hand, 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\ncall it in that part of the world, \u201c_genus_.\u201d\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 Carigaline, 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\u2019Bradley 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 Mac Mahon, who\nhad carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of the\nrock. \u201cThe seven years\u2014my time of service,\u2014are clean out, Robin,\u201d\nsaid he, \u201cand if you release me this night, I will be the making of\nyou for ever after.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd how will I know,\u201d said Robin\u2014cunning enough, even in his\nsleep\u2014\u201cbut this is all a dream?\u201d\n\n\u201cTake that,\u201d said the boy, \u201cfor a token\u201d\u2014and 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\u2019s 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\nMac Mahon 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\u2019s\nGlen) to Monkstown. Here an old gossip of his (Tom Clancey by name)\nlived, who, on hearing Robin\u2019s dream, promised him the use of his\nskiff, and moreover offered to assist in rowing it to the Giant\u2019s\nStairs.\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\nin the dark shadow of the Giant\u2019s Stairs. Robin looked anxiously for\nthe entrance to the Giant\u2019s Palace, which, it was said, may be found\nby any one seeking it at midnight; but no such entrance could he see.\nHis 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 his\ncompanion, \u201c\u2019Tis a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancey, for coming here\nat all on the strength of a dream.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd whose doing is it,\u201d said Tom, \u201cbut your own?\u201d\n\nAt the moment he spoke they perceived a faint glimmering light to\nproceed from the cliff, which gradually increased until a porch big\nenough for a king\u2019s 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 stony expression of this crowd of faces assumed a\nsavage 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\u201cRobin, Robin,\u201d said he, \u201cif you were a fool for coming here, what in\nthe name of fortune are you now?\u201d 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. He\ntherefore proceeded towards the bit of light, and came at last into a\nspacious chamber, from the roof of which hung the solitary lamp that\nhad guided him. Emerging from such profound gloom, the single lamp\nafforded Robin abundant light to discover several gigantic figures\nseated round a massive stone table as if in serious deliberation, but\nno word disturbed the breathless silence which prevailed. At the head\nof this table sat Mahon Mac Mahon himself, whose majestic beard had\ntaken root, and in the course of ages grown into the stone slab. He\nwas the first who perceived Robin; and instantly starting up, drew his\nlong beard from out the huge lump of rock in such haste and with so\nsudden a jerk, that it was shattered into a thousand pieces.\n\n\u201cWhat seek you?\u201d he demanded in a voice of thunder.\n\n\u201cI come,\u201d answered Robin, with as much boldness as he could put\non\u2014for his heart was almost fainting within him\u2014\u201cI come,\u201d said he,\n\u201cto claim Philip Ronayne, whose time of service is out this night.\u201d\n\n\u201cAnd who sent you here?\u201d said the giant.\n\n\u201c\u2019Twas of my own accord I came,\u201d said Robin.\n\n\u201cThen you must single him out from among my pages,\u201d said the giant;\n\u201cand if you fix on the wrong one your life is the forfeit. Follow me.\u201d\nHe led Robin into a hall of vast extent and filled with lights; along\neither side of which were rows of beautiful children all apparently\nseven years old, and none beyond that age, dressed in green, and every\none exactly dressed alike.\n\n\u201cHere,\u201d said Mahon, \u201cyou are free to take Philip Ronayne, if you will;\nbut, remember, I give but one choice.\u201d\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\u2019s own sledge battering on his anvil.\n\nThey had nearly reached the end of the hall without speaking, when\nRobin, seeing that the only means he had was to make friends with the\ngiant, determined to try what effect a few soft words might have upon\nhim.\n\n\u201c\u2019Tis a fine wholesome appearance the poor children carry,\u201d remarked\nRobin, \u201calthough they have been here so long shut out from the fresh\nair and the blessed light of heaven. \u2019Tis tenderly your honour must\nhave reared them!\u201d\n\n\u201cAy,\u201d said the giant, \u201cthat is true for you; so give me your hand; for\nyou are, I believe, a very honest fellow for a blacksmith.\u201d\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\npotato-stalk; on seeing this all the children set up a shout of\nlaughter. In the midst of their mirth Robin thought he heard his name\ncalled; and, all ear and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he\nfancied had spoken, crying out at the same time, \u201cLet me live or die\nfor it, but this is young Phil Ronayne.\u201d\n\n\u201cIt is Philip Ronayne\u2014happy Philip Ronayne,\u201d 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 gray dawn of the morning at the\nhead of the Giant\u2019s Stairs, with the boy clasped in his arms.\n\nRobin had plenty of gossips to spread the story of his wonderful\nadventure\u2014Passage, Monkstown, Ringaskiddy, Seamount, Carrigaline\u2014the\nwhole barony of Kerricurrihy rung with it.\n\n\u201cAre you quite sure, Robin, it is young Phil Ronayne, you have brought\nback with you?\u201d 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\u201cAm I sure? Well, that\u2019s a queer question,\u201d was Robin\u2019s reply; \u201cseeing\nthe boy has the blue eyes of the mother, with the foxy hair of the\nfather, to say nothing of the _purly_ wart on the right side of his\nlittle nose.\u201d\n\nHowever Robin Kelly may have been questioned, the worthy couple of\nRonayne\u2019s court doubted not that he was the deliverer of their child\nfrom the power of the giant Mac Mahon; and the reward they bestowed\nupon him 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\u2019 apprenticeship to the\ngiant Mahon Mac Mahon.\n\n      And now, farewell! the fairy dream is o\u2019er;\n        The tales my infancy had loved to hear,\n        Like blissful visions fade and disappear.\n      Such tales Momonia\u2019s peasant tells no more!\n      Vanish\u2019d are MERMAIDS from the sea beat shore;\n        Check\u2019d is the HEADLESS HORSEMAN\u2019S strange career;\n        FIR DARRIG\u2019S voice no longer mocks the ear,\n      Nor ROCKS bear wondrous imprints as of yore!\n      Such is \u201cthe march of mind.\u201d But did the fays\n        (Creatures of whim\u2014the gossamers of will)\n        In Ireland work such sorrow and such ill\n      As stormier spirits of our modern days?\n    Oh land beloved! no angry voice I raise:\n    My constant prayer\u2014\u201cmay peace be with thee still!\u201d\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX.\n\n\nLETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO THE AUTHOR OF THE IRISH FAIRY LEGENDS.\n\nSir,\n\nI have been obliged by the courtesy which sent me your very\ninteresting work on Irish superstitions, and no less by the amusement\nwhich it has afforded me, both from the interest of the stories, and\nthe lively manner in which they are told. You are to consider this,\nSir, as a high compliment from one, who holds him on the subject of\nelves, ghosts, visions, &c. nearly as strong as William Churne of\nStaffordshire\u2014\n\n    \u201cWho every year can mend your cheer\n      With tales both old and new.\u201d\n\nThe extreme similarity of your fictions to ours in Scotland, is very\nstriking. The Cluricaune (which is an admirable subject for a\npantomime) is not known here. I suppose the Scottish cheer was not\nsufficient to tempt to the hearth either him, or that singular demon\ncalled by Heywood the Buttery Spirit, which diminished the profits of\nan unjust landlord by eating up all that he cribbed for his guests.\n\nThe beautiful superstition of the banshee seems in a great measure\npeculiar to Ireland, though in some Highland families there is such a\nspectre, particularly in that of Mac Lean of Lochbuy; but I think I\ncould match all your other tales with something similar.\n\nI can assure you, however, that the progress of philosophy has not\neven yet entirely \u201cpulled the old woman out of our hearts,\u201d as Addison\nexpresses it. Witches are still held in reasonable detestation,\nalthough we no longer burn or even _score above the breath_. As for\nthe water bull, they live who will take their oaths to having seen him\nemerge from a small lake on the boundary of my property here, scarce\nlarge enough to have held him, I should think. Some traits in his\ndescription seem to answer the hippopotamus, and these are always\nmentioned both in highland and lowland story: strange if we could\nconceive there existed, under a tradition so universal, some shadowy\nreference to those fossil bones of animals which are so often found in\nthe lakes and bogs.\n\nBut to leave antediluvian stories for the freshest news from fairy\nland, I cannot resist the temptation to send you an account of King\nOberon\u2019s court, which was verified before me as a magistrate, with all\nthe solemnities of a court of justice, within this fortnight past. A\nyoung shepherd, a lad of about eighteen years of age, well brought up,\nand of good capacity, and, that I may be perfectly accurate, in the\nservice of a friend, a most respectable farmer, at Oakwood, on the\nestate of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden, made oath and said, that going\nto look after some sheep which his master had directed to be put upon\nturnips, and passing in the gray of the morning a small copse-wood\nadjacent to the river Etterick, he was surprised at the sight of four\nor five little personages, about two feet or thirty inches in height,\nwho were seated under the trees, apparently in deep conversation. At\nthis singular appearance he paused till he had refreshed his noble\ncourage with a prayer and a few recollections of last Sunday\u2019s sermon,\nand then advanced to the little party. But observing that, instead of\ndisappearing, they seemed to become yet more magnificently distinct\nthan before, and now doubting nothing, from their foreign dresses and\nsplendid decorations, that they were the choice ornaments of the fairy\ncourt, he fairly turned tail and went \u201cto raise the water,\u201d as if the\nSouth\u2019ron had made a raid. Others came to the rescue, and yet the\nfairy _cortege_ awaited their arrival in still and silent dignity. I\nwish I could stop here, for the devil take all explanations, they stop\nduels and destroy the credit of apparitions, neither allow ghosts to\nbe made in an honourable way, or to be believed in (poor souls!) when\nthey revisit the glimpses of the moon.\n\nI must however explain, like other honourable gentlemen, elsewhere.\nYou must know, that, like our neighbours, we have a school of arts for\nour mechanics at G\u2014\u2014, a small manufacturing town in this country,\nand that the tree of knowledge there as elsewhere produces its usual\ncrop of good and evil. The day before this avatar of Oberon was a\nfair day at Selkirk, and amongst other popular divertisements, was one\nwhich, in former days, I would have called a puppet-show, and its\nmaster a puppet-showman. He has put me right, however, by informing\nme, that he writes himself _artist from Vauxhall_, and that he\nexhibits _fantoccini_; call them what you will, it seems they gave\ngreat delight to the unwashed artificers of G\u2014\u2014. Formerly they would\nhave been contented to wonder and applaud, but not so were they\nsatisfied in our modern days of investigation, for they broke into\nPunch\u2019s sanctuary forcibly, after he had been laid aside for the\nevening, made violent seizure of his person, and carried off him, his\nspouse, and heaven knows what captives besides, in their plaid nooks,\nto be examined at leisure. All this they literally did (forcing a\ndoor to accomplish their purpose) in the spirit of science alone, or\nbut slightly stimulated by that of malt whisky, with which last we\nhave been of late deluged. Cool reflection came as they retreated by\nthe banks of the Etterick; they made the discovery that they could no\nmore make Punch move than Lord \u2014\u2014 could make him speak; and\nrecollecting, I believe, that there was such a person as the Sheriff\nin the world, they abandoned their prisoners, in hopes, as they\npretended, that they would be found and restored in safety to their\nproper owner.\n\nIt is only necessary to add that the artist had his losses made good\nby a subscription, and the scientific inquirers escaped with a small\nfine, as a warning not to indulge such an irregular spirit of research\nin future.\n\nAs this somewhat tedious story contains the very last news from fairy\nland, I hope you will give it acceptance, and beg you to believe me\nvery much\n\n                               Your obliged and thankful servant,\n                                                        WALTER SCOTT.\n\n27th April, 1825.\n\n    ABBOTSFORD, MELROSE.\n\nTHE END.","title":"Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland","tradition":"myth-cosmogony","translated_text":null,"word_count":83223}