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Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland

by Thomas Crofton Croker · English · Gutenberg #39752 · 478,698 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland

Author: Thomas Crofton Croker


        
Release date: May 21, 2012 [eBook #39752]
                Most recently updated: August 17, 2022

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FAIRY LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND ***




    FAIRY LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND.


    BY

    T. CROFTON CROCKER.


    A New Edition.

    WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS,
    AFTER DESIGNS OF THE AUTHOR AND OTHERS.


    “Come l’araba Fenice
    Che ci sia, ognun lo dice;
    Dove sia, nessun lo sa.”—METASTASIO.


    Philadelphia:
    LEA AND BLANCHARD.
    1844.




PREFACE.


The erudite Lessing styles a preface “the history of a book.” Now,
though there can be no necessity for a preface in that sense of the
word to the reprint of a work of mere whim, which has been nearly ten
years before the public, yet a few words are requisite to prevent the
present condensed and revised edition from being considered an
abridgment.

However compact may be the mode of printing adopted, the act of
compressing into one volume the three in which the “Fairy Legends”
originally appeared, involved to a certain extent the necessity of
selection, perhaps the most difficult of all tasks judiciously to
perform; but the following statement will show the system proceeded
on.

Forty tales descriptive of Irish superstitions now appear instead of
fifty. All superfluous annotations have been struck out, and a brief
summary at the end of each section substituted, explanatory of the
classification adopted, and in which a few additional notes have been
introduced, as well as upon the text. It is therefore hoped that this
curtailment will be regarded as an essential improvement; some useless
repetition in the tales being thereby avoided, and much irrelevant
matter in the notes dispensed with, although nothing which illustrates
in the slightest degree the popular Fairy Creed of Ireland has been
sacrificed. At the same time, the omission of a portion of the ten
immaterial tales will sufficiently answer doubts idly raised as to the
question of authorship.




            CONTENTS.


            THE SHEFRO.

          I. The Legend of Knocksheogowna,
         II. The Legend of Knockfierna,
        III. The Legend of Knockgrafton,
         IV. The Priest’s Supper,
          V. The Brewery of Egg-shells,
         VI. Legend of Bottle Hill,
        VII. The Confessions of Tom Bourke,
       VIII. Fairies or no Fairies,
            _Note on the Section._

            THE CLURICAUNE.

         IX. The Haunted Cellar,
          X. Master and Man,
         XI. The Little Shoe,
            _Note on the Section._

            THE BANSHEE.

        XII. The Bunworth Banshee,
       XIII. The MᶜCarthy Banshee,
            _Note on the Section._

            THE PHOOKA.

        XIV. The Spirit Horse,
         XV. Daniel O’Rourke,
        XVI. The Crookened Back,
            _Note on the Section._

            THIERNA NA OGE.

       XVII. Fior Usga,
      XVIII. Cormac and Mary (_Ballad_,)
        XIX. The Legend of Lough Gur,
         XX. The Enchanted Lake,
        XXI. The Legend of O’Donoghue,
            _Note on the Section._

            THE MERROW.

       XXII. The Lady of Gollerus,
      XXIII. Flory Cantillon’s Funeral,
       XXIV. The Lord of Dunkerron (_Ballad_,)
        XXV. The Wonderful Tune,
            _Note on the Section._

            THE DULLAHAN.

       XXVI. The Good Woman,
      XXVII. Hanlon’s Mill,
     XXVIII. The Death Coach (_Ballad_,)
       XXIX. The Headless Horseman,
            _Note on the Section._

            THE FIR DARRIG.

        XXX. Diarmid Bawn, the Piper,
       XXXI. Teigue of the Lee,
      XXXII. Ned Sheehy’s Excuse,
     XXXIII. The Lucky Guest,
            _Note on the Section._

            TREASURE LEGENDS.

      XXXIV. Dreaming Tim Jarvis,
       XXXV. Rent-Day,
      XXXVI. Linn-na-Payshtha,
            _Note on the Section._

            ROCKS AND STONES.

     XXXVII. The Legend of Cairn Thierna,
    XXXVIII. The Rock of the Candle,
      XXXIX. Clough na Cuddy,
         XL. The Giant’s Stairs.

            APPENDIX—Letter from Sir Walter Scott.




TO THE DOWAGER LADY CHATTERTON.

CASTLE MAHON.


    THEE, Lady, would I lead through Fairy-land
      (Whence cold and doubting reasoners are exiled,)
      A land of dreams, with air-built castles piled;
    The moonlight SHEFROS there, in merry band
    With artful CLURICAUNE, should ready stand
      To welcome thee—Imagination’s child!
      Till on thy ear would burst so sadly wild
    The BANSHEE’S shriek, who points with wither’d hand.
    In the dim twilight should the PHOOKA come,
      Whose dusky form fades in the sunny light,
      That opens clear calm LAKES upon thy sight,
    Where blessed spirits dwell in endless bloom.
    I know thee, Lady—thou wilt not deride
    Such Fairy Scenes.—Then onward with thy Guide.

                                  T. Crofton Croker. [signature]

[Illustration: The Wood Engravings after Designs by
               Mr. BROOKE, R. H. A.,
               Mr. MᶜCLISE,
               and the AUTHOR.]




Irish FAIRY LEGENDS.


[Illustration: “Look there! look there, mammy!”]




FAIRY LEGENDS.




THE SHEFRO.

    ————————“Fairy Elves
    Whose midnight revels, by a forest side
    Or fountain some belated peasant sees,
    Or dreams he sees, while over-head the Moon
    Sits arbitress, and nearer to the earth
    Wheels her pale course.”—
                                       MILTON.




LEGENDS OF THE SHEFRO.




THE LEGEND OF KNOCKSHEOGOWNA.

I.


In Tipperary is one of the most singularly shaped hills in the world.
It has got a peak at the top like a conical nightcap thrown carelessly
over your head as you awake in the morning. On the very point is built
a sort of lodge, where in the summer the lady who built it and her
friends used to go on parties of pleasure; but that was long after the
days of the fairies, and it is, I believe, now deserted.

But before lodge was built, or acre sown, there was close to the head
of this hill a large pasturage, where a herdsman spent his days and
nights among the herd. The spot had been an old fairy ground, and the
good people were angry that the scene of their light and airy gambols
should be trampled by the rude hoofs of bulls and cows. The lowing of
the cattle sounded sad in their ears, and the chief of the fairies of
the hill determined in person to drive away the new comers; and the
way she thought of was this. When the harvest nights came on, and the
moon shone bright and brilliant over the hill, and the cattle were
lying down hushed and quiet, and the herdsman, wrapt in his mantle,
was musing with his heart gladdened by the glorious company of the
stars twinkling above him, she would come and dance before him,—now
in one shape—now in another,—but all ugly and frightful to behold.
One time she would be a great horse, with the wings of an eagle, and a
tail like a dragon, hissing loud and spitting fire. Then in a moment
she would change into a little man lame of a leg, with a bull’s head,
and a lambent flame playing round it. Then into a great ape, with
duck’s feet, and a turkey cock’s tail. But I should be all day about
it were I to tell you all the shapes she took. And then she would
roar, or neigh, or hiss, or bellow, or howl, or hoot, as never yet was
roaring, neighing, hissing, bellowing, howling, or hooting, heard in
this world before or since. The poor herdsman would cover his face,
and call on all the saints for help, but it was no use. With one puff
of her breath she would blow away the fold of his great coat, let him
hold it never so tightly over his eyes, and not a saint in heaven paid
him the slightest attention. And to make matters worse, he never could
stir; no, nor even shut his eyes, but there was obliged to stay, held
by what power he knew not, gazing at these terrible sights until the
hair of his head would lift his hat half a foot over his crown, and
his teeth would be ready to fall out from chattering. But the cattle
would scamper about mad, as if they were bitten by the fly; and this
would last until the sun rose over the hill.

The poor cattle from want of rest were pining away, and food did them
no good; besides, they met with accidents without end. Never a night
passed that some of them did not fall into a pit, and get maimed, or,
may be, killed. Some would tumble into a river and be drowned; in a
word, there seemed never to be an end of the accidents. But what made
the matter worse, there could not be a herdsman got to tend the cattle
by night. One visit from the fairy drove the stoutest hearted almost
mad. The owner of the ground did not know what to do. He offered
double, treble, quadruple wages, but not a man could be found for the
sake of money to go through the horror of facing the fairy. She
rejoiced at the successful issue of her project, and continued her
pranks. The herd gradually thinning, and no man daring to remain on
the ground, the fairies came back in numbers, and gambolled as merrily
as before, quaffing dew-drops from acorns, and spreading their feast
on the heads of capacious mushrooms.

What was to be done? the puzzled farmer thought in vain. He found that
his substance was daily diminishing, his people terrified, and his
rent-day coming round. It is no wonder that he looked gloomy, and
walked mournfully down the road. Now in that part of the world dwelt
a man of the name of Larry Hoolahan, who played on the pipes better
than any other player within fifteen parishes. A roving, dashing blade
was Larry, and feared nothing. Give him plenty of liquor, and he would
defy the devil. He would face a mad bull, or fight single-handed
against a fair. In one of his gloomy walks the farmer met him, and on
Larry’s asking the cause of his down looks, he told him all his
misfortunes. “If that is all ails you,” said Larry, “make your mind
easy. Were there as many fairies on Knocksheogowna as there are potato
blossoms in Eliogurty, I would face them. It would be a queer thing,
indeed, if I, who never was afraid of a proper man, should turn my
back upon a brat of a fairy not the bigness of one’s thumb.” “Larry,”
said the farmer, “do not talk so bold, for you know not who is hearing
you; but if you make your words good, and watch my herds for a week on
the top of the mountain, your hand shall be free of my dish till the
sun has burnt itself down to the bigness of a farthing rushlight.”

The bargain was struck, and Larry went to the hill-top, when the moon
began to peep over the brow. He had been regaled at the farmer’s
house, and was bold with the extract of barley-corn. So he took his
seat on a big stone under a hollow of the hill, with his back to the
wind, and pulled out his pipes. He had not played long when the voice
of the fairies was heard upon the blast, like a slow stream of music.
Presently they burst out into a loud laugh, and Larry could plainly
hear one say, “What! another man upon the fairies’ ring? Go to him,
queen, and make him repent his rashness;” and they flew away. Larry
felt them pass by his face as they flew, like a swarm of midges; and,
looking up hastily, he saw between the moon and him a great black cat,
standing on the very tip of its claws, with its back up, and mewing
with the voice of a water-mill. Presently it swelled up towards the
sky, and turning round on its left hind-leg, whirled till it fell to
the ground, from which it started up in the shape of a salmon, with a
cravat round its neck, and a pair of new topboots. “Go on, jewel,”
said Larry; “if you dance, I’ll pipe;” and he struck up. So she turned
into this, and that, and the other, but still Larry played on, as he
well knew how. At last she lost patience, as ladies will do when you
do not mind their scolding, and changed herself into a calf,
milk-white as the cream of Cork, and with eyes as mild as those of the
girl I love. She came up gentle and fawning, in hopes to throw him off
his guard by quietness, and then to work him some wrong. But Larry was
not so deceived; for when she came up, he, dropping his pipes, leaped
upon her back.

Now from the top of Knocksheogowna, as you look westward to the broad
Atlantic, you will see the Shannon, queen of rivers; “spreading like a
sea,” and running on in gentle course to mingle with the ocean through
the fair city of Limerick. It on this night shone under the moon, and
looked beautiful from the distant hill. Fifty boats were gliding up
and down on the sweet current, and the song of the fishermen rose
gaily from the shore. Larry, as I said before, leaped upon the back of
the fairy, and she, rejoiced at the opportunity, sprung from the
hill-top, and bounded clear, at one jump, over the Shannon, flowing as
it was just ten miles from the mountain’s base. It was done in a
second, and when she alighted on the distant bank, kicking up her
heels, she flung Larry on the soft turf. No sooner was he thus
planted, than he looked her straight in the face, and scratching his
head, cried out, “By my word, well done! that was not a bad leap _for
a calf_!”

She looked at him for a moment, and then assumed her own shape.
“Laurence,” said she, “you are a bold fellow; will you come back the
way you went?” “And that’s what I will,” said he, “if you let me.” So
changing to a calf again, again Larry got on her back, and at another
bound they were again upon the top of Knocksheogowna. The fairy, once
more resuming her figure, addressed him: “You have shown so much
courage, Laurence,” said she, “that while you keep herds on this hill
you never shall be molested by me or mine. The day dawns, go down to
the farmer, and tell him this; and if any thing I can do may be of
service to you, ask, and you shall have it.” She vanished accordingly;
and kept her word in never visiting the hill during Larry’s life: but
he never troubled her with requests. He piped and drank at the
farmer’s expense, and roosted in his chimney corner, occasionally
casting an eye to the flock. He died at last, and is buried in a green
valley of pleasant Tipperary: but whether the fairies returned to the
hill of Knocksheogowna[1] after his death, is more than I can say.

    [1] Knocksheogowna signifies “_The Hill of the Fairy Calf._”




THE LEGEND OF KNOCKFIERNA.[2]

II.


    [2] “Called by the people of the country ‘_Knock Dhoinn
    Firinne_,’ the mountain of Donn of Truth. This mountain is very
    high, and may be seen for several miles round; and when people
    are desirous to know whether or not any day will rain, they look
    at the top of Knock Firinne, and if they see a vapour or mist
    there, they immediately conclude that rain will soon follow,
    believing that Donn (the lord or chief) of that mountain and his
    aërial assistants are collecting the clouds, and that he holds
    them there for some short time, to warn the people of the
    approaching rain. As the appearance of mist on that mountain in
    the morning is considered an infallible sign that that day will
    be rainy, Donn is called ‘_Donn Firinne_,’ Donn of Truth.”—MR.
    EDWARD O’REILLY.

It is a very good thing not to be any way in dread of the fairies, for
without doubt they have then less power over a person; but to make too
free with them, or to disbelieve in them altogether, is as foolish a
thing as man, woman, or child can do.

It has been truly said, that “good manners are no burden,” and that
“civility costs nothing;” but there are some people fool-hardy enough
to disregard doing a civil thing, which, whatever they may think, can
never harm themselves or any one else, and who at the same time will
go out of their way for a bit of mischief, which never can serve them;
but sooner or later they will come to know better, as you shall hear
of Carroll O’Daly, a strapping young fellow up out of Connaught, whom
they used to call, in his own country, “Devil Daly.”

Carroll O’Daly used to go roving about from one place to another, and
the fear of nothing stopped him; he would as soon pass an old
churchyard or a regular fairy ground, at any hour of the night as go
from one room into another, without ever making the sign of the cross,
or saying, “Good luck attend you, gentlemen.”

It so happened that he was once journeying, in the county of Limerick,
towards “the Balbec of Ireland,” the venerable town of Kilmallock; and
just at the foot of Knockfierna he overtook a respectable-looking man
jogging along upon a white pony. The night was coming on, and they
rode side by side for some time, without much conversation passing
between them, further than saluting each other very kindly; at last,
Carroll O’Daly asked his companion how far he was going?

“Not far your way,” said the farmer, for such his appearance bespoke
him; “I’m only going to the top of this hill here.”

“And what might take you there,” said O’Daly, “at this time of the
night?”

“Why then,” replied the farmer, “if you want to know; ’tis the _good
people_.”

“The fairies you mean,” said O’Daly.

“Whist! whist!” said his fellow-traveller, “or you may be sorry for
it;” and he turned his pony off the road they were going, towards a
little path which led up the side of the mountain, wishing Carroll
O’Daly good night and a safe journey.

“That fellow,” thought Carroll, “is about no good this blessed night,
and I would have no fear of swearing wrong if I took my Bible oath
that it is something else beside the fairies, or the good people, as
he calls them, that is taking him up the mountain at this hour. The
fairies!” he repeated, “is it for a well-shaped man like him to be
going after little chaps like the fairies! To be sure some say there
are such things, and more say not; but I know this, that never afraid
would I be of a dozen of them, ay, of two dozen, for that matter, if
they are no bigger than what I hear tell of.”

Carroll O’Daly, whilst these thoughts were passing in his mind, had
fixed his eyes steadfastly on the mountain, behind which the full moon
was rising majestically. Upon an elevated point that appeared darkly
against the moon’s disk, he beheld the figure of a man leading a pony,
and he had no doubt it was that of the farmer with whom he had just
parted company.

A sudden resolve to follow flashed across the mind of O’Daly with the
speed of lightning: both his courage and curiosity had been worked up
by his cogitations to a pitch of chivalry; and, muttering, “Here’s
after you, old boy!” he dismounted from his horse, bound him to an old
thorntree, and then commenced vigorously ascending the mountain.

Following as well as he could the direction taken by the figures of
the man and pony, he pursued his way, occasionally guided by their
partial appearance: and after toiling nearly three hours over a rugged
and sometimes swampy path, came to a green spot on the top of the
mountain, where he saw the white pony at full liberty grazing as
quietly as may be. O’Daly looked around for the rider, but he was
nowhere to be seen; he, however, soon discovered, close to where the
pony stood, an opening in the mountain like the mouth of a pit, and he
remembered having heard, when a child, many a tale about the
“Poul-duve,” or Black Hole of Knockfierna; how it was the entrance to
the fairy castle which was within the mountain; and how a man whose
name was Ahern, a land surveyor in that part of the country, had once
attempted to fathom it with a line, and had been drawn down into it,
and was never again heard of; with many other tales of the like
nature.

“But,” thought O’Daly, “these are old woman’s stories: and since I’ve
come up so far, I’ll just knock at the castle door and see if the
fairies are at home.”

No sooner said than done; for, seizing a large stone, as big, ay,
bigger than his two hands, he flung it with all his strength down
into the Poul-duve of Knockfierna. He heard it bounding and tumbling
about from one rock to another with a terrible noise, and he leaned
his head over to try and hear when it would reach the bottom,—and
what should the very stone he had thrown in do but come up again with
as much force as it had gone down, and gave him such a blow full in
the face, that it sent him rolling down the side of Knockfierna, head
over heels, tumbling from one crag to another, much faster than he
came up. And in the morning Carroll O’Daly was found lying beside his
horse; the bridge of his nose broken, which disfigured him for life;
his head all cut and bruised, and both his eyes closed up, and as
black as if Sir Daniel Donnelly had painted them for him.

Carroll O’Daly was never bold again in riding along near the haunts of
the fairies after dusk; but small blame to him for that; and if ever
he happened to be benighted in a lonesome place, he would make the
best of his way to his journey’s end, without asking questions, or
turning to the right or to the left, to seek after the good people, or
any who kept company with them.




THE LEGEND OF KNOCKGRAFTON.

III.


There was once a poor man who lived in the fertile glen of Aherlow, at
the foot of the gloomy Galtee mountains, and he had a great hump on
his back: he looked just as if his body had been rolled up and placed
upon his shoulders; and his head was pressed down with the weight so
much, that his chin, when he was sitting, used to rest upon his knees
for support. The country people were rather shy of meeting him in any
lonesome place, for though, poor creature, he was as harmless and as
inoffensive as a new-born infant, yet his deformity was so great, that
he scarcely appeared to be a human being. And some ill-minded persons
had set strange stories about him afloat. He was said to have a great
knowledge of herbs and charms; but certain it was that he had a mighty
skilful hand in platting straw and rushes into hats and baskets, which
was the way he made his livelihood.

Lusmore, for that was the nickname put upon him by reason of his
always wearing a sprig of the fairy cap, or lusmore,[3] in his little
straw hat, would ever get a higher penny for his plaited work than any
one else, and perhaps that was the reason why some one, out of envy,
had circulated the strange stories about him. Be that as it may, it
happened that he was returning one evening from the pretty town of
Cahir towards Cappagh, and as little Lusmore walked very slowly, on
account of the great hump upon his back, it was quite dark when he
came to the old moat of Knockgrafton, which stood on the right hand
side of his road. Tired and weary was he, and noways comfortable in
his own mind at thinking how much farther he had to travel, and that
he should be walking all the night; so he sat down under the moat to
rest himself, and began looking mournfully enough upon the moon,
which,

    “Rising in clouded majesty, at length,
    Apparent Queen, unveil’d her peerless light,
    And o’er the dark her silver mantle threw.”

    [3] Literally, the great herb—_Digitalis purpurea_.

Presently there rose a wild strain of unearthly melody upon the ear of
little Lusmore; he listened, and he thought that he had never heard
such ravishing music before. It was like the sound of many voices,
each mingling and blending with the other so strangely, that they
seemed to be one, though all singing different strains, and the words
of the song were these:—

_Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, when
there would be a moment’s pause, and then the round of melody went on
again.

Lusmore listened attentively, scarcely drawing his breath, lest he
might lose the slightest note. He now plainly perceived that the
singing was within the moat, and, though at first it had charmed him
so much, he began to get tired of hearing the same round sung over and
over so often without any change; so, availing himself of the pause
when the _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, had been sung three times, he took up
the tune and raised it with the words _augus Da Cadine_, and then went
on singing with the voices inside of the moat, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_,
finishing the melody when the pause again came, with _augus Da
Cadine_.[4]

    [4] Correctly written, _Dia Luain_, _Dia Mairt_, _agus Dia
    Ceadaoine_, i. e. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.

The fairies within Knockgrafton, for the song was a fairy melody, when
they heard this addition to their tune, were so much delighted, that
with instant resolve it was determined to bring the mortal among them,
whose musical skill so far exceeded theirs, and little Lusmore was
conveyed into their company with the eddying speed of a whirlwind.

Glorious to behold was the sight that burst upon him as he came down
through the moat, twirling round and round with the lightness of a
straw, to the sweetest music that kept time to his motion. The
greatest honour was then paid him, for he was put up above all the
musicians, and he had servants tending upon him, and every thing to
his heart’s content, and a hearty welcome to all; and, in short, he
was made as much of as if he had been the first man in the land.

Presently Lusmore saw a great consultation going forward among the
fairies, and, notwithstanding all their civility, he felt very much
frightened, until one, stepping out from the rest, came up to him, and
said,—

    “Lusmore! Lusmore!
    Doubt not, nor deplore,
    For the hump which you bore
    On your back is no more!—
    Look down on the floor,
    And view it, Lusmore!”

When these words were said, poor little Lusmore felt himself so light,
and so happy, that he thought he could have bounded at one jump over
the moon, like the cow in the history of the cat and the fiddle; and
he saw, with inexpressible pleasure, his hump tumble down upon the
ground from his shoulders. He then tried to lift up his head, and he
did so with becoming caution, fearing that he might knock it against
the ceiling of the grand hall, where he was; he looked round and round
again with the greatest wonder and delight upon every thing, which
appeared more and more beautiful; and, overpowered at beholding such a
resplendent scene, his head grew dizzy, and his eyesight became dim.
At last he fell into a sound sleep, and when he awoke, he found that
it was broad daylight, the sun shining brightly, the birds singing
sweet; and that he was lying just at the foot of the moat of
Knockgrafton, with the cows and sheep grazing peaceably round about
him. The first thing Lusmore did, after saying his prayers, was to put
his hand behind to feel for his hump, but no sign of one was there on
his back, and he looked at himself with great pride, for he had now
become a well-shaped dapper little fellow; and more than that, he
found himself in a full suit of new clothes, which he concluded the
fairies had made for him.

Towards Cappagh he went, stepping out as lightly, and springing up at
every step, as if he had been all his life a dancing-master. Not a
creature who met Lusmore knew him without his hump, and he had great
work to persuade every one that he was the same man—in truth he was
not, so far as outward appearance went.

Of course it was not long before the story of Lusmore’s hump got
about, and a great wonder was made of it. Through the country, for
miles round, it was the talk of every one, high and low.

One morning as Lusmore was sitting contented enough at his cabin-door,
up came an old woman to him, and asked if he could direct her to
Cappagh.

“I need give you no directions, my good woman,” said Lusmore, “for
this is Cappagh; and who do you want here?”

“I have come,” said the woman, “out of Decie’s country, in the county
of Waterford, looking after one Lusmore, who, I have heard tell, had
his hump taken off by the fairies: for there is a son of a gossip of
mine has got a hump on him that will be his death; and may be, if he
could use the same charm as Lusmore, the hump may be taken off him.
And now I have told you the reason of my coming so far: ’tis to find
out about this charm, if I can.”

Lusmore, who was ever a good-natured little fellow, told the woman all
the particulars; how he had raised the tune for the fairies at
Knockgrafton, how his hump had been removed from his shoulders, and
how he had got a new suit of clothes into the bargain.

The woman thanked him very much, and then went away quite happy and
easy in her own mind. When she came back to her gossip’s house, in the
county Waterford, she told her every thing that Lusmore had said, and
they put the little hump-backed man, who was a peevish and cunning
creature from his birth, upon a car, and took him all the way across
the country. It was a long journey, but they did not care for that, so
the hump was taken from off him; and they brought him, just at
nightfall, and left him under the old moat of Knockgrafton.

Jack Madden for that was the humpy man’s name, had not been sitting
there long when he heard the tune going on within the moat much
sweeter than before; for the fairies were singing it the way Lusmore
had settled their music for them, and the song was going on: _Da
Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _Da Luan_, _Da Mort_, _augus
Da Cadine_, without ever stopping. Jack Madden, who was in a great
hurry to get quit of his hump, never thought of waiting until the
fairies had done, or watching for a fit opportunity to raise the tune
higher again than Lusmore had: so having heard them sing it over seven
times without stopping, out he bawls, never minding the time, or the
humour of the tune, or how he could bring his words in properly,
_augus da Cadine augus Da Hena_,[5] thinking that if one day was good,
two were better; and that, if Lusmore had one new suit of clothes
given to him, he should have two.

    [5] And Wednesday and Thursday.

No sooner had the words passed his lips than he was taken up and
whisked into the moat with prodigious force; and the fairies came
crowding round about him with great anger, screeching and screaming,
and roaring out, “Who spoiled our tune? who spoiled our tune?” and one
stepped up to him above all the rest and said—

    “Jack Madden! Jack Madden!
    Your words came so bad in
    The tune we feel glad in;—
    This castle you’re had in,
    That your life we may sadden;—
    Here’s two humps for Jack Madden!”

And twenty of the strongest fairies brought Lusmore’s hump, and put it
down upon poor Jack’s back, over his own, where it became fixed as
firmly, as if it was nailed on with twelvepenny nails, by the best
carpenter that ever drove one. Out of their castle they then kicked
him; and in the morning, when Jack Madden’s mother and her gossip came
to look after their little man, they found him half dead, lying at the
foot of the moat, with the other hump upon his back. Well, to be sure
how they did look at each other! but they were afraid to say any
thing, lest a hump might be put upon their own shoulders: home they
brought the unlucky Jack Madden with them, as downcast in their hearts
and their looks as ever two gossips were; and what through the weight
of his other hump and the long journey, he died soon after, leaving,
they say, his heavy curse to any one who would go to listen to fairy
tunes again.




THE PRIEST’S SUPPER.

IV.


It is said by those who ought to understand such things, that the good
people, or the fairies, are some of the angels who were turned out of
heaven, and who landed on their feet in this world, while the rest of
their companions, who had more sin to sink them, went down further to
a worse place. Be this as it may, there was a merry troop of the
fairies, dancing and playing all manner of wild pranks on a bright
moonlight evening towards the end of September. The scene of their
merriment was not far distant from Inchegeela, in the west of the
county Cork—a poor village, although it had a barrack for soldiers;
but great mountains and barren rocks, like those round about it, are
enough to strike poverty into any place: however, as the fairies can
have every thing they want for wishing, poverty does not trouble them
much, and all their care is to seek out unfrequented nooks and places
where it is not likely any one will come to spoil their sport.

On a nice green sod by the river’s side were the little fellows
dancing in a ring as gaily as may be, with their red caps wagging
about at every bound in the moonshine; and so light were these bounds,
that the lobes of dew, although they trembled under their feet, were
not disturbed by their capering. Thus did they carry on their gambols,
spinning round and round, and twirling and bobbing, and diving and
going through all manner of figures, until one of them chirped out—

    “Cease, cease with your drumming,
    Here’s an end to our mumming;
        By my smell
        I can tell
    A priest this way is coming!”

And away every one of the fairies scampered off as hard as they could,
concealing themselves under the green leaves of the lusmore, where, if
their little red caps should happen to peep out, they would only look
like its crimson bells; and more hid themselves in the hollow of
stones; or at the shady side of brambles, and others under the bank of
the river, and in holes and crannies of one kind or another.

The fairy speaker was not mistaken; for along the road, which was
within view of the river, came Father Horrigan on his pony, thinking
to himself that as it was so late he would make an end of his journey
at the first cabin he came to. According to this determination, he
stopped at the dwelling of Dermod Leary, lifted the latch, and entered
with “My blessing on all here.”

I need not say that Father Horrigan was a welcome guest wherever he
went, for no man was more pious or better beloved in the country. Now
it was a great trouble to Dermod that he had nothing to offer his
reverence for supper as a relish to the potatoes which “the old
woman,” for so Dermod called his wife, though she was not much past
twenty, had down boiling in the pot over the fire: he thought of the
net which he had set in the river, but as it had been there only a
short time, the chances were against his finding a fish in it. “No
matter,” thought Dermod, “there can be no harm in stepping down to
try, and may be as I want the fish for the priest’s supper, that one
will be there before me.”

Down to the river-side went Dermod, and he found in the net as fine a
salmon as ever jumped in the bright waters of “the spreading Lee;” but
as he was going to take it out, the net was pulled from him, he could
not tell how or by whom, and away got the salmon, and went swimming
along with the current as gaily as if nothing had happened.

Dermod looked sorrowfully at the wake which the fish had left upon the
water, shining like a line of silver in the moonlight, and then, with
an angry motion of his right hand, and a stamp of his foot, gave vent
to his feelings by muttering, “May bitter bad luck attend you night
and day for a blackguard schemer of a salmon, wherever you go! You
ought to be ashamed of yourself, if there’s any shame in you to give
me the slip after this fashion! And I’m clear in my own mind you’ll
come to no good, for some kind of evil thing or other helped you—did
I not feel it pull the net against me as strong as the devil himself?”

“That’s not true for you,” said one of the little fairies, who had
scampered off at the approach of the priest, coming up to Dermod
Leary, with a whole throng of companions at his heels; “there was only
a dozen and a half of us pulling against you.”

Dermod gazed on the tiny speaker with wonder, who continued: “Make
yourself noways uneasy about the priest’s supper; for if you will go
back and ask him one question from us, there will be as fine a supper
as ever was put on a table spread out before him in less than no
time.”

“I’ll have nothing at all to do with you,” replied Dermod, in a tone
of determination; and after a pause he added, “I’m much obliged to you
for your offer, sir, but I know better than to sell myself to you or
the like of you for a supper; and more than that, I know Father
Horrigan has more regard for my soul than to wish me to pledge it for
ever, out of regard to any thing you could put before him—so there’s
an end of the matter.”

The little speaker, with a pertinacity not to be repulsed by Dermod’s
manner, continued, “Will you ask the priest one civil question for
us?”

Dermod considered for some time, and he was right in doing so, but he
thought that no one could come to harm out of asking a civil question.
“I see no objection to do that same, gentlemen,” said Dermod; “But I
will have nothing in life to do with your supper,—mind that.”

“Then,” said the little speaking fairy, whilst the rest came crowding
after him from all parts, “go and ask Father Horrigan to tell us
whether our souls will be saved at the last day, like the souls of
good Christians; and if you wish us well, bring back word what he says
without delay.”

Away went Dermod to his cabin, where he found the potatoes thrown out
on the table, and his good wife handing the biggest of them all, a
beautiful laughing red apple, smoking like a hard-ridden horse on a
frosty night, over to Father Horrigan.

“Please your reverence,” said Dermod, after some hesitation, “may I
make bold to ask your honour one question?”

“What may that be?” said Father Horrigan.

“Why, then, begging your reverence’s pardon for my freedom, it is, if
the souls of the good people are to be saved at the last day?”

“Who bid you ask me that question, Leary?” said the priest, fixing his
eyes upon him very sternly, which Dermod could not stand before at
all.

“I’ll tell no lies about the matter, and nothing in life but the
truth,” said Dermod. “It was the good people themselves who sent me to
ask the question, and there they are in thousands down on the bank of
the river waiting for me to go back with the answer.”

“Go back by all means,” said the priest, “and tell them, if they want
to know, to come here to me themselves, and I’ll answer that or any
other question they are pleased to ask, with the greatest pleasure in
life.”

Dermod accordingly returned to the fairies, who came swarming round
about him to hear what the priest had said in reply; and Dermod spoke
out among them like a bold man as he was: but when they heard that
they must go to the priest, away they fled, some here and more there;
and some this way and more that, whisking by poor Dermod so fast and
in such numbers, that he was quite bewildered.

When he came to himself, which was not for a long time, back he went
to his cabin and ate his dry potatoes along with Father Horrigan, who
made quite light of the thing; but Dermod could not help thinking it
a mighty hard case that his reverence, whose words had the power to
banish the fairies at such a rate, should have no sort of relish to
his supper, and that the fine salmon he had in the net should have
been got away from him in such a manner.




THE BREWERY OF EGG-SHELLS.

V.


It may be considered impertinent, were I to explain what is meant by a
changeling; both Shakspeare and Spenser have already done so, and who
is there unacquainted with the Midsummer Night’s Dream[6] and the
Fairy Queen?[7]

    [6] Act ii. sc. 1.

    [7] Book i. canto 10.

Now Mrs. Sullivan fancied that her youngest child had been changed by
“fairies’ theft,” to use Spenser’s words, and certainly appearances
warranted such a conclusion; for in one night her healthy, blue-eyed
boy had become shrivelled up into almost nothing, and never ceased
squalling and crying. This naturally made poor Mrs. Sullivan very
unhappy; and all the neighbours, by way of comforting her, said, that
her own child was, beyond any kind of doubt, with the good people,
and that one of themselves had been put in his place.

Mrs. Sullivan, of course, could not disbelieve what every one told
her, but she did not wish to hurt the thing; for although its face was
so withered, and its body wasted away to a mere skeleton, it had still
a strong resemblance to her own boy; she, therefore, could not find it
in her heart to roast it alive on the griddle, or to burn its nose off
with the red-hot tongs, or to throw it out in the snow on the
road-side, notwithstanding these, and several like proceedings, were
strongly recommended to her for the recovery of her child.

One day who should Mrs. Sullivan meet but a cunning woman, well known
about the country by the name of Ellen Leah (or Gray Ellen). She had
the gift, however she got it, of telling where the dead were, and what
was good for the rest of their souls; and could charm away warts and
wens, and do a great many wonderful things of the same nature.

“You’re in grief this morning, Mrs. Sullivan,” were the first words of
Ellen Leah to her.

“You may say that, Ellen,” said Mrs. Sullivan, “and good cause I have
to be in grief, for there was my own fine child whipped off from me
out of his cradle, without as much as by your leave, or ask your
pardon, and an ugly dony bit of a shrivelled-up fairy put in his
place: no wonder then that you see me in grief, Ellen.”

“Small blame to you, Mrs. Sullivan,” said Ellen Leah; “but are you
sure ’tis a fairy?”

“Sure!” echoed Mrs. Sullivan, “sure enough am I to my sorrow, and can
I doubt my own two eyes? Every mother’s soul must feel for me!”

“Will you take an old woman’s advice?” said Ellen Leah, fixing her
wild and mysterious gaze upon the unhappy mother; and, after a pause,
she added, “but may be you’ll call it foolish?”

“Can you get me back my child,—my own child, Ellen?” said Mrs.
Sullivan with great energy.

“If you do as I bid you,” returned Ellen Leah, “you’ll know.” Mrs.
Sullivan was silent in expectation, and Ellen continued. “Put down the
big pot, full of water, on the fire, and make it boil like mad; then
get a dozen new-laid eggs, break them, and keep the shells, but throw
away the rest; when that is done, put the shells in the pot of boiling
water, and you will soon know whether it is your own boy or a fairy.
If you find that it is a fairy in the cradle, take the red-hot poker
and cram it down his ugly throat, and you will not have much trouble
with him after that, I promise you.”

Home went Mrs. Sullivan, and did as Ellen Leah desired. She put the
pot in the fire, and plenty of turf under it, and set the water
boiling at such a rate that if ever water was red hot—it surely was.

The child was lying for a wonder quite easy and quiet in the cradle,
every now and then cocking his eye, that would twinkle as keen as a
star in a frosty night, over at the great fire, and the big pot upon
it; and he looked on with great attention at Mrs. Sullivan breaking
the eggs, and putting down the egg-shells to boil. At last he asked,
with the voice of a very old man, “What are you doing, mammy?”

Mrs. Sullivan’s heart, as she said herself, was up in her mouth ready
to choke her, at hearing the child speak. But she contrived to put the
poker in the fire, and to answer, without making any wonder at the
words, “I’m brewing, _a vick_” (my son).

“And what are you brewing, mammy?” said the little imp, whose
supernatural gift of speech now proved beyond question that he was a
fairy substitute.

“I wish the poker was red,” thought Mrs. Sullivan; but it was a large
one, and took a long time heating: so she determined to keep him in
talk until the poker was in a proper state to thrust down his throat,
and therefore repeated the question.

“Is it what I’m brewing, _a vick_,” said she, “you want to know?”

“Yes, mammy: what are you brewing?” returned the fairy.

“Egg-shells, _a vick_,” said Mrs. Sullivan.

“Oh!” shrieked the imp, starting up in the cradle, and clapping his
hands together, “I’m fifteen hundred years in the world, and I never
saw a brewery of egg-shells before!” The poker was by this time quite
red, and Mrs. Sullivan seizing it, ran furiously towards the cradle;
but somehow or other her foot slipped, and she fell flat on the floor,
and the poker flew out of her hand to the other end of the house.
However, she got up, without much loss of time, and went to the cradle
intending to pitch the wicked thing that was in it into the pot of
boiling water, when there she saw her own child in a sweet sleep, one
of his soft round arms rested upon the pillow—his features were as
placid as if their repose had never been disturbed, save the rosy
mouth which moved with a gentle and regular breathing.

Who can tell the feelings of a mother when she looks upon her sleeping
child? Why should I, therefore, endeavour to describe those of Mrs.
Sullivan at again beholding her long-lost boy? The fountain of her
heart overflowed with the excess of joy—and she wept!—tears trickled
silently down her cheeks, nor did she strive to check them—they were
tears not of sorrow, but of happiness.




LEGEND OF BOTTLE HILL.

VI.


    “Come listen to a tale of times of old,
    Come listen to me—”

It was in the good days, when the little people, most impudently
called fairies, were more frequently seen than they are in these
unbelieving times, that a farmer, named Mick Purcell, rented a few
acres of barren ground in the neighbourhood of the once celebrated
preceptory of Mourne, situated about three miles from Mallow, and
thirteen from “the beautiful city called Cork.” Mick had a wife and
family: they all did what they could, and that was but little, for the
poor man had no child grown up big enough to help him in his work: and
all the poor woman could do was to mind the children, and to milk the
one cow, and to boil the potatoes, and to carry the eggs to market to
Mallow; but with all they could do, ’twas hard enough on them to pay
the rent. Well, they did manage it for a good while; but at last came
a bad year, and the little grain of oats was all spoiled, and the
chickens died of the pip, and the pig got the measles,—_she_ was sold
in Mallow, and brought almost nothing; and poor Mick found that he
hadn’t enough to half pay his rent, and two gales were due.

“Why then, Molly,” says he, “what’ll we do?”

“Wisha, then, mavourneen, what would you do but take the cow to the
fair of Cork and sell her?” says she; “and Monday is fair day, and so
you must go to-morrow, that the poor beast may be rested _again_ the
fair.”

“And what’ll we do when she’s gone?” says Mick, sorrowfully.

“Never a know I know, Mick; but sure God won’t leave us without Him,
Mick; and you know how good He was to us when poor little Billy was
sick, and we had nothing at all for him to take, that good doctor
gentleman at Ballydahin come riding and asking for a drink of milk;
and how he gave us two shillings; and how he sent the things and
bottles for the child, and gave me my breakfast when I went over to
ask a question, so he did: and how he came to see Billy, and never
left off his goodness till he was quite well?”

“Oh! you are always that way, Molly, and I believe you are right after
all, so I won’t be sorry for selling the cow; but I’ll go to-morrow,
and you must put a needle and thread through my coat, for you know
’tis ripped under the arm.”

Molly told him he should have every thing right; and about twelve
o’clock next day he left her, getting a charge not to sell his cow
except for the highest penny. Mick promised to mind it, and went his
way along the road. He drove his cow slowly through the little stream
which crosses it and runs by the old walls of Mourne. As he passed he
glanced his eye upon the towers and one of the old elder trees which
were only then little bits of switches.

“Oh, then, if I only had half the money that’s buried in you, ’tisn’t
driving this poor cow I’d be now! Why, then, isn’t it too bad that it
should be there covered over with earth, and many a one besides me
wanting? Well, if it is God’s will, I’ll have some money myself coming
back.”

So saying, he moved on after his beast; ’twas a fine day, and the sun
shone brightly on the walls of the old abbey as he passed under them;
he then crossed an extensive mountain tract, and after six long miles
he came to the top of that hill—Bottle Hill ’tis called now, but that
was not the name of it then, and just there a man overtook him.

“Good morrow,” says he. “Good morrow,” kindly, says Mick, looking at
the stranger, who was a little man, you’d almost call him a dwarf,
only he wasn’t quite so little neither: he had a bit of an old,
wrinkled, yellow face, for all the world like a dried cauliflower,
only he had a sharp little nose, and red eyes, and white hair, and his
lips were not red, but all his face was one colour, and his eyes never
were quiet, but looking at every thing, and although they were red,
they made Mick feel quite cold when he looked at them. In truth he did
not much like the little man’s company; and he couldn’t see one bit of
his legs, nor his body; for, though the day was warm, he was all
wrapped up in a big great coat. Mick drove his cow something faster,
but the little man kept up with him. Mick didn’t know how he walked,
for he was almost afraid to look at him, and to cross himself, for
fear the old man would be angry. Yet he thought his fellow-traveller
did not seem to walk like other men, nor to put one foot before the
other, but to glide over the rough road, and rough enough it was, like
a shadow, without noise and without effort. Mick’s heart trembled
within him, and he said a prayer to himself, wishing he hadn’t come
out that day, or that he was on fair hill, or that he hadn’t the cow
to mind, that he might run away from the bad thing—when, in the midst
of his fears, he was again addressed by his companion.

“Where are you going with the cow, honest man?”

“To the fair of Cork then,” says Mick, trembling at the shrill and
piercing tones of the voice.

“Are you going to sell her?” said the stranger.

“Why, then, what else am I going for but to sell her?”

“Will you sell her to me?”

Mick started—he was afraid to have any thing to do with the little
man, and he was more afraid to say no.

“What’ll you give for her?” at last says he.

“I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you this bottle,” said the little one,
pulling a bottle from under his coat.

Mick looked at him and the bottle, and, in spite of his terror, he
could not help bursting into a loud fit of laughter.

“Laugh if you will,” said the little man, “but I tell you this bottle
is better for you than all the money you will get for the cow in
Cork—ay, than ten thousand times as much.”

Mick laughed again. “Why then,” says he, “do you think I am such a
fool as to give my good cow for a bottle—and an empty one, too?
indeed, then, I won’t.”

“You had better give me the cow, and take the bottle—you’ll not be
sorry for it.”

“Why, then, and what would Molly say? I’d never hear the end of it;
and how would I pay the rent? and what would we all do without a penny
of money?

“I tell you this bottle is better to you than money; take it, and give
me the cow. I ask you for the last time, Mick Purcell.”

Mick started.

“How does he know my name?” thought he.

The stranger proceeded: “Mick Purcell, I know you, and I have regard
for you; therefore do as I warn you, or you may be sorry for it. How
do you know but your cow will die before you get to Cork?”

Mick was going to say “God forbid!” but the little man went on (and he
was too attentive to say any thing to stop him; for Mick was a very
civil man, and he knew better than to interrupt a gentleman, and
that’s what many people, that hold their heads higher, don’t mind
now).

“And how do you know but there will be much cattle at the fair, and
you will get a bad price, or may be you might be robbed when you are
coming home? but what need I talk more to you when you are determined
to throw away your luck, Mick Purcell?

“Oh! no, I would not throw away my luck, sir,” said Mick; “and if I
was sure the bottle was as good as you say, though I never liked an
empty bottle, although I had drank what was in it, I’d give you the
cow in the name——”

“Never mind names,” said the stranger, “but give me the cow; I would
not tell you a lie. Here, take the bottle, and when you go home do
what I direct exactly.”

Mick hesitated.

“Well then, good by, I can stay no longer: once more, take it, and be
rich; refuse it, and beg for your life, and see your children in
poverty, and your wife dying for want: that will happen to you, Mick
Purcell!” said the little man with a malicious grin, which made him
look ten times more ugly than ever.

“May be ’tis true,” said Mick, still hesitating: he did not know what
to do—he could hardly help believing the old man, and at length in a
fit of desperation he seized the bottle—“Take the cow,” said he, “and
if you are telling a lie, the curse of the poor will be on you.”

“I care neither for your curses nor your blessings, but I have spoken
truth, Mick Purcell, and that you will find to-night, if you do what I
tell you.”

“And what’s that?” says Mick.

“When you go home, never mind if your wife is angry, but be quiet
yourself, and make her sweep the room clean, set the table out right,
and spread a clean cloth over it; then put the bottle on the ground,
saying these words: ‘Bottle, do your duty,’ and you will see the end
of it.”

“And is this all?” says Mick.

“No more,” said the stranger. “Good by, Mick Purcell—you are a rich
man.”

“God grant it!” said Mick, as the old man moved after the cow, and
Mick retraced the road towards his cabin; but he could not help
turning back his head, to look after the purchaser of his cow, who was
nowhere to be seen.

“Lord between us and harm!” said Mick: “_He_ can’t belong to this
earth; but where is the cow?” She too was gone, and Mick went homeward
muttering prayers, and holding fast the bottle.

“And what would I do if it broke?” thought he. “Oh! but I’ll take care
of that;” so he put it into his bosom, and went on anxious to prove
his bottle, and doubting of the reception he should meet from his
wife; balancing his anxieties with his expectations, his fears with
his hopes, he reached home in the evening, and surprised his wife,
sitting over the turf fire in the big chimney.

“Oh! Mick, are you come back! Sure you wer’n’t at Cork all the way!
What has happened to you? Where is the cow? Did you sell her? How much
money did you get for her? What news have you? Tell us every thing
about it.”

“Why then, Molly, if you’ll give me time, I’ll tell you all about it.
If you want to know where the cow is, ’tisn’t Mick can tell you, for
the never a know does he know where she is now.”

“Oh! then, you sold her; and where’s the money?”

“Arrah! stop awhile, Molly, and I’ll tell you all about it.”

“But what is that bottle under your waistcoat?” said Molly, spying its
neck sticking out.

“Why, then, be easy now, can’t you,” says Mick, “till I tell it to
you?” and putting the bottle on the table, “That’s all I got for the
cow.”

His poor wife was thunderstruck. “All you got! and what good is that,
Mick? Oh! I never thought you were such a fool; and what’ll we do for
the rent, and what——”

“Now, Molly,” says Mick, “can’t you hearken to reason? Didn’t I tell
you how the old man, or whatsomever he was, met me,—no, he did not
meet me neither, but he was there with me—on the big hill, and how he
made me sell him the cow, and told me the bottle was the only thing
for me?”

“Yes, indeed, the only thing for you, you fool!” said Molly, seizing
the bottle to hurl it at her poor husband’s head; but Mick caught it,
and quietly (for he minded the old man’s advice) loosened his wife’s
grasp, and placed the bottle again in his bosom. Poor Molly sat down
crying, while Mick told his story, with many a crossing and blessing
between him and harm. His wife could not help believing him,
particularly as she had as much faith in fairies as she had in the
priest, who indeed never discouraged her belief in the fairies; may
be, he didn’t know she believed in them, and may be, he believed in
them himself. She got up, however, without saying one word, and began
to sweep the earthen floor with a bunch of heath; then she tidied up
every thing, and put out the long table, and spread the clean cloth,
for she had only one, upon it, and Mick, placing the bottle on the
ground, looked at it and said, “Bottle, do your duty.”

“Look there! look there, mammy!” said his chubby eldest son, a boy
about five years old—“look there! look there!” and he sprang to his
mother’s side, as two tiny little fellows rose like light from the
bottle, and in an instant covered the table with dishes and plates of
gold and silver, full of the finest victuals that ever were seen, and
when all was done went into the bottle again. Mick and his wife looked
at every thing with astonishment; they had never seen such plates and
dishes before, and didn’t think they could ever admire them enough;
the very sight almost took away their appetites; but at length Molly
said, “Come and sit down, Mick, and try and eat a bit: sure you ought
to be hungry after such a good day’s work.”

“Why, then, the man told no lie about the bottle.”

Mick sat down, after putting the children to the table; and they made
a hearty meal, though they couldn’t taste half the dishes.

“Now,” says Molly, “I wonder will those two good little gentlemen
carry away these fine things again?” They waited, but no one came; so
Molly put up the dishes and plates very carefully, saying, “Why, then,
Mick, that was no lie sure enough; but you’ll be a rich man yet, Mick
Purcell.”

Mick and his wife and children went to their bed, not to sleep, but to
settle about selling the fine things they did not want, and to take
more land. Mick went to Cork and sold his plate, and bought a horse
and cart, and began to show that he was making money; and they did all
they could to keep the bottle a secret; but for all that, their
landlord found it out, for he came to Mick one day and asked him where
he got all his money—sure it was not by the farm; and he bothered him
so much, that at last Mick told him of the bottle. His landlord
offered him a deal of money for it; but Mick would not give it, till
at last he offered to give him all his farm for ever: so Mick, who was
very rich, thought he’d never want any more money, and gave him the
bottle: but Mick was mistaken—he and his family spent money as if
there was no end of it; and, to make the story short, they became
poorer and poorer, till at last they had nothing left but one cow; and
Mick once more drove his cow before him to sell her at Cork fair,
hoping to meet the old man and get another bottle. It was hardly
day-break when he left home, and he walked on at a good pace till he
reached the big hill: the mists were sleeping in the valleys and
curling like smoke-wreaths upon the brown heath around him. The sun
rose on his left, and just at his feet a lark sprang from its grassy
couch and poured forth its joyous matin song, ascending into the clear
blue sky,

    “Till its form like a speck in the airiness blending
    And thrilling with music, was melting in light.”

Mick crossed himself, listening as he advanced to the sweet song of
the lark, but thinking, notwithstanding, all the time of the little
old man; when, just as he reached the summit of the hill, and cast his
eyes over the extensive prospect before and around him, he was
startled and rejoiced by the same well-known voice:—“Well, Mick
Purcell, I told you, you would be a rich man.”

“Indeed, then, sure enough I was, that’s no lie for you, sir. Good
morning to you, but it is not rich I am now—but have you another
bottle, for I want it now as much as I did long ago; so if you have
it, sir, here is the cow for it.”

“And here is the bottle,” said the old man, smiling; “you know what to
do with it.”

“Oh! then, sure I do, as good right I have.”

“Well, farewell for ever, Mick Purcell: I told you, you would be a
rich man.”

“And good-bye to you, sir,” said Mick, as he turned back; “and good
luck to you, and good luck to the big hill—it wants a name—Bottle
Hill.—Good-bye, sir, good-bye;” so Mick walked back as fast as he
could, never looking after the white-faced little gentleman and the
cow, so anxious was he to bring home the bottle. Well, he arrived with
it safely enough, and called out, as soon as he saw Molly,—“Oh! sure,
I’ve another bottle!”

“Arrah! then have you? why, then, you’re a lucky man, Mick Purcell,
that’s what you are.”

In an instant she put every thing right; and Mick, looking at his
bottle, exultingly cried out, “Bottle, do your duty.” In a twinkling,
two great stout men with big cudgels issued from the bottle (I do not
know how they got room in it), and belaboured poor Mick and his wife
and all his family, till they lay on the floor, when in they went
again. Mick, as soon as he recovered, got up and looked about him; he
thought and thought, and at last he took up his wife and his children;
and, leaving them to recover as well as they could, he took the bottle
under his coat, and went to his landlord, who had a great company: he
got a servant to tell him he wanted to speak to him, and at last he
came out to Mick.

“Well, what do you want now?”

“Nothing, sir, only I have another bottle.”

“Oh! ho! is it as good as the first?”

“Yes, sir, and better; if you like, I will show it to you before all
the ladies and gentlemen.”

“Come along, then.” So saying, Mick was brought into the great hall,
where he saw his old bottle standing high up on a shelf: “Ah! ha!”
says he to himself, “may be I won’t have you by and by.”

“Now,” says his landlord, “show us your bottle.” Mick set it on the
floor, and uttered the words; in a moment the landlord was tumbled on
the floor; ladies and gentlemen, servants and all, were running and
roaring, and sprawling, and kicking and shrieking. Wine cups and
salvers were knocked about in every direction, until the landlord
called out, “Stop those two devils, Mick Purcell, or I’ll have you
hanged!”

“They never shall stop,” said Mick, “till I get my own bottle that I
see up there at top of that shelf.”

“Give it down to him, give it down to him, before we are all killed!”
says the landlord.

Mick put the bottle in his bosom; in jumped the two men into the new
bottle, and he carried the bottles home. I need not lengthen my story
by telling how he got richer than ever, how his son married his
landlord’s only daughter, how he and his wife died when they were very
old, and how some of the servants, fighting at their wake, broke the
bottles; but still the hill has the name upon it; ay, and so ’twill be
always Bottle Hill to the end of the world, and so it ought, for it is
a strange story.




THE CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE.

VII.


Tom Bourke lives in a low long farm-house, resembling in outward
appearance a large barn, placed at the bottom of the hill, just where
the new road strikes off from the old one, leading from the town of
Kilworth to that of Lismore. He is of a class of persons who are a
sort of black swans in Ireland; he is a wealthy farmer. Tom’s father
had, in the good old times, when a hundred pounds were no
inconsiderable treasure, either to lend or spend, accommodated his
landlord with that sum at interest; and obtained, as a return for the
civility, a long lease, about half-a-dozen times more valuable than
the loan which procured it. The old man died worth several hundred
pounds, the greater part of which, with his farm, he bequeathed to his
son Tom. But, besides all this, Tom received from his father, upon his
death-bed, another gift, far more valuable than worldly riches,
greatly as he prized, and is still known to prize them. He was
invested with the privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of
communicating with those mysterious beings called “the good people.”

Tom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about fifty-five
years of age. His hair is perfectly white, short and bushy behind, but
rising in front erect and thick above his forehead, like a new
clothes-brush. His eyes are of that kind which I have often observed
with persons of a quick but limited intellect—they are small, gray,
and lively. The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather
within, which they twinkle, give them an expression of shrewdness and
intelligence, if not of cunning. And this is very much the character
of the man. If you want to make a bargain with Tom Bourke, you must
act as if you were a general besieging a town, and make your advances
a long time before you can hope to obtain possession; if you march up
boldly, and tell him at once your object, you are for the most part
sure to have the gates closed in your teeth. Tom does not wish to part
with what you wish to obtain, or another person has been speaking to
him for the whole of the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems
to meet the most favourable reception. “Very well, sir;” “That’s true,
sir;” “I’m very thankful to your honour,” and other expressions of
kindness and confidence, greet you in reply to every sentence; and you
part from him wondering how he can have obtained the character which
he universally bears, of being a man whom no one can make any thing of
in a bargain. But when you next meet him, the flattering illusion is
dissolved: you find you are a great deal farther from your object than
you were when you thought you had almost succeeded: his eye and his
tongue express a total forgetfulness of what the mind within never
lost sight of for an instant; and you have to begin operations afresh,
with the disadvantage of having put your adversary completely upon his
guard.

Yet, although Tom Bourke is, whether from supernatural revealings, or
(as many will think more probable) from the tell-truth, experience, so
distrustful of mankind, and so close in his dealings with them, he is
no misanthrope. No man loves better the pleasures of the genial board.
The love of money, indeed, which is with him (and who will blame him?)
a very ruling propensity, and the gratification which it has received
from habits of industry, sustained throughout a pretty long and
successful life, have taught him the value of sobriety, during those
seasons, at least, when a man’s business requires him to keep
possession of his senses. He has therefore a general rule, never to
get drunk but on Sundays. But, in order that it should be a general
one to all intents and purposes, he takes a method which, according to
better logicians than he is, always proves the rule. He has many
exceptions: among these, of course, are the evenings of all the fair
and market days that happen in his neighbourhood; so also all the days
on which funerals, marriages, and christenings, take place among his
friends within many miles of him. As to this last class of exceptions,
it may appear at first very singular, that he is much more punctual
in his attendance at the funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of
his friends. This may be construed as an instance of disinterested
affection for departed worth, very uncommon in this selfish world. But
I am afraid that the motives which lead Tom Bourke to pay more court
to the dead than the living are precisely those which lead to the
opposite conduct in the generality of mankind—a hope of future
benefit and a fear of future evil. For the good people, who are a race
as powerful as they are capricious, have their favourites among those
who inhabit the world; often show their affection, by easing the
objects of it from the load of this burdensome life; and frequently
reward or punish the living, according to the degree of reverence paid
to the obsequies and the memory of the elected dead.

It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of those good people, with
whom he is said to hold frequent and intimate communications. To the
faithful, who believe in their power, and their occasional delegation
of it to him, he seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his
high prerogative, when any unfortunate being is _struck_[8] in his
neighbourhood. Still, he will not be won unsued: he is at first
difficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by a little gentle
violence. On these occasions he is unusually solemn and mysterious,
and if one word of reward be mentioned, he at once abandons the
unhappy patient, such a proposition being a direct insult to his
supernatural superiors. It is true, that as the labourer is worthy of
his hire, most persons, gifted as he is, do not scruple to receive a
token of gratitude from the patients or their friends, _after_ their
recovery.

    [8] The term “fairy struck” is applied to paralytic affections,
    which are supposed to proceed from a blow given by the invisible
    hand of an offended fairy; this belief, of course, creates fairy
    doctors, who by means of charms and mysterious journeys profess
    to cure the afflicted. It is only fair to add, that the term has
    also a convivial acceptation, the fairies being not unfrequently
    made to bear the blame of the effects arising from too copious a
    sacrifice to Bacchus.

    The importance attached to the manner and place of burial by the
    peasantry is almost incredible; it is always a matter of
    consideration and often of dispute whether the deceased shall be
    buried with his or her “own people.”

To do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these occasions, as I have heard
from many competent authorities, perfectly disinterested. Not many
months since, he recovered a young woman (the sister of a tradesman
living near him,) who had been struck speechless after returning from
a funeral, and had continued so for several days. He steadfastly
refused receiving any compensation; saying, that even if he had not as
much as would buy him his supper, he could take nothing in this case,
because the girl had offended at the funeral one of the _good people_
belonging to his own family, and though he would do her a kindness, he
could take none from her.

About the time this last remarkable affair took place, my friend Mr.
Martin, who is a neighbour of Tom’s, had some business to transact
with him, which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a conclusion.
At last Mr. Martin, having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a
legal process, which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was
arranged to their mutual satisfaction, and with perfect good-humour
between the parties. The accommodation took place after dinner at Mr.
Martin’s house, and he invited Tom to walk into the parlour and take a
glass of punch, made of some excellent _potteen_, which was on the
table: he had long wished to draw out his highly endowed neighbour on
the subject of his supernatural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who was in
the room, was rather a favourite of Tom’s, this seemed a good
opportunity.

“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “that was a curious business of Molly
Dwyer’s, who recovered her speech so suddenly the other day.”

“You may say that, sir,” replied Tom Bourke; “but I had to travel far
for it: no matter for that, now. Your health, ma’am,” said he, turning
to Mrs. Martin.

“Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once in that way
in your own family,” said Mrs. Martin.

“So I had, ma’am; trouble enough; but you were only a child at that
time.”

“Come, Tom,” said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupting him, “take
another tumbler;” and he then added, “I wish you would tell us
something of the manner in which so many of your children died. I am
told they dropped off, one after another, by the same disorder, and
that your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way, when the
physicians had given over.”

“’Tis true for you, sir,” returned Tom; “your father, the doctor (God
be good to him, I won’t belie him in his grave) told me, when my
fourth little boy was a week sick, that himself and Doctor Barry did
all that man could do for him; but they could not keep him from going
after the rest. No more they could, if the people that took away the
rest wished to take him too. But they left him; and sorry to the heart
I am I did not know before why they were taking my boys from me; if I
did, I would not be left trusting to two of ’em now.”

“And how did you find it out, Tom?” inquired Mr. Martin.

“Why, then, I’ll tell you, sir,” said Bourke: “When your father said
what I told you, I did not know very well what to do. I walked down
the little _bohereen_, you know, sir, that goes to the river-side near
Dick Heafy’s ground; for ’twas a lonesome place, and I wanted to think
of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me, when I
thought I was to lose my little boy; and I did not know well how to
face his mother with the news, for she doted down upon him. Beside,
she never got the better of all she cried at her brother’s berrin
(burying) the week before. As I was going down the bohereen, I met an
old bocough,[9] that used to come about the place once or twice a
year, and used always to sleep in our barn while he staid in the
neighbourhood. So he asked me how I was. ‘Bad enough, Shamous
(James),’ says I. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble,’ says he; ‘but you’re a
foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be well enough if you would
only do what you ought with him.’ ‘What more can I do with him,
Shamous?’ says I: ‘the doctors give him over.’ ‘The doctors know no
more what ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her
milk,’ says Shamous: ‘but go to such a one,’ says he, telling me his
name, ‘and try what he’ll say to you.’”

    [9] A peculiar class of beggars resembling the Gaberlunzie man
    of Scotland.

“And who was that, Tom?” asked Mr. Martin.

“I could not tell you that, sir,” said Bourke, with a mysterious look:
“howsoever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this. But
I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first, may be I’d
have now some of them that’s gone, and so Shamous often told me. Well,
sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By course,
I did every thing as he bid me. According to his order, I took the
little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and
made a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay down
by his side, in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell asleep.
He got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was drawn
through the river, and breathed hard, with a great _impression_
(oppression) on his chest, and was very bad—very bad entirely through
the night. I thought about twelve o’clock he was going at last, and I
was just getting up to go call the man I told you of; but there was no
occasion. My friends were getting the better of them that wanted to
take him away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house but the child
and myself. There was only one halfpenny candle lighting, and that
was stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough
of light where we were laying to see a person walking or standing near
us: and there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except
the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls. Just as I was thinking of
getting up, as I told you—I wont belie my father, sir—he was a good
father to me—I saw him standing at the bed-side, holding out his
right hand to me, and leaning his other hand on the stick he used to
carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all
as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would not lose the
child. ‘Is that you, father?’ says I. He said nothing. ‘If that’s
you,’ says I again, ‘for the love of them that’s gone, let me catch
your hand.’ And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a child’s.
He stayed about as long as you’d be going from this to the gate below
at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the
child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn’t
to-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the
town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains.”

“But I think, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “it appears as if you are more
indebted to your father than to the man recommended to you by Shamous;
or do you suppose it was he who made favour with your enemies among
the good people, and that then your father——”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Bourke, interrupting him; “but don’t
call them my enemies. ’Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to
sit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir.—Here’s
wishing you a good health and long life.”

“I assure you,” returned Mr. Martin, “I meant no offence, Tom; but was
it not as I say?”

“I can’t tell you that, sir,” said Bourke; “I’m bound down, sir.
Howsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of, and my father, and
those they know, settled it between them.”

There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage to inquire of
Tom, whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and a
pair of pigeons, at the time of his son’s illness—circumstances often
mysteriously hinted at by Tom.

“See that now,” said he, returning to Mr. Martin, “how well she
remembers it! True for you, ma’am. The goat I gave the mistress your
mother, when the doctors ordered her goats’ whey.”

Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued—“Why, then, I’ll
tell you how that was. The goat was as well as e’er a goat ever was,
for a month after she was sent to Killaan to your father’s. The
morning after the night I just told you of, before the child woke, his
mother was standing at the gap leading out of the barn-yard into the
road, and she saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth, off
the church, down towards her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till
they came to the house on the hill at the other side of the river,
facing our farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and
after looking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight
across the river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where the
child and I were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing,
sir?”

“Certainly not, Tom,” returned Mr. Martin.

“Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to
cry.—‘Whisht, you fool!’ says I: ‘’tis all for the better.’ ’Twas
true for me. What do you think, ma’am; the goat that I gave your
mother, that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin,
as merry as a bee, dropped down dead, without any body knowing why,
before Jack’s face; and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly
from the top of the house out of the town, towards the Lismore road.
’Twas at the same time my woman saw them, as I just told you.”

“’Twas very strange, indeed, Tom,” said Mr. Martin; “I wish you could
give us some explanation of it.”

“I wish I could, sir,” was Tom Bourke’s answer; “but I’m bound down. I
can’t tell but what I’m allowed to tell, any more than a sentry is let
walk more than his rounds.”

“I think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the
man that assisted in the cure of your son,” said Mr. Martin.

“So I had, sir,” returned Bourke. “I had a trial of that man. But
that’s neither here nor there. I can’t tell you any thing about that,
sir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?”

“Oh! very much indeed,” said Mr. Martin.

“But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him the
better through the story,” added Mrs. Martin. Tom Bourke paused for a
minute to consider this proposition.

“Well, I believe I may tell you that, any how; his name is Patrick. He
was always a smart, active, ’cute boy, and would be a great clerk if
he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother’s
wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to bury her.
Her people and my father’s people—I mean their friends, sir, among
the _good people_, had the greatest battle that was known for many a
year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she’d be taken.
They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to
settle it. The neighbours wondered how long I was before I buried my
mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that
time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth
morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried
her in Kilcrumper churchyard with my father’s people.”

“He was a valuable friend, Tom,” said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty
suppressing a smile. “But you were about to tell how he became so
skilful.”

“So I will, and welcome,” replied Bourke. “Your health, ma’am. I am
drinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never
tasted the like of it: it goes down one’s throat like sweet oil. But
what was I going to say?—Yes—well—Patrick, many a long year ago,
was coming home from a _berrin_ late in the evening, and walking by
the side of the river opposite the big inch,[10] near Ballyhefaan
ford.[11] He had taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a little
merry, as you may say, and knew very well what he was doing. The moon
was shining, for it was in the month of August, and the river was as
smooth and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long
time but the fall of the water at the mill wier about a mile down the
river, and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of
the river. All at once, there was a noise of a great number of people,
laughing as if they’d break their hearts, and of a piper playing among
them. It came from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw,
through the mist that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people
dancing on the inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance as he was of a
glass, and that’s saying enough for him; so he whipped[12] off his
shoes and stockings, and away with him across the ford. After putting
on his shoes and stockings at the other side of the river, he walked
over to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being
minded. He thought, sir, that he’d show them better dancing than any
of themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and good right he
had, for there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or
treble with him. But pwah!—his dancing was no more to theirs than
mine would be to the mistress there. They did not seem as if they had
a bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire
them. Patrick was ’shamed within himself, for he thought he had not
his fellow in all the country round; and was going away when a little
old man, that was looking at the company for some time bitterly as if
he did not like what was going on, came up to him. ‘Patrick,’ says he.
Patrick started, for he did not think any body there knew him.
‘Patrick,’ says he, ‘you’re discouraged, and no wonder for you. But
you have a friend near you. I’m your friend, and your father’s friend,
and I think worse (more) of your little finger than I do of all that
are here, though they think no one is as good as themselves. Go into
the ring and call for a lilt. Don’t be afeard. I tell you the best of
them did not do as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.’
Patrick felt something within him as if he ought not to gainsay the
old man. He went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the
best double he had. And, sure enough, all that the others were able
for was nothing to him! He bounded like an eel, now here and now
there, as light as a feather, although the people could hear the music
answered by his steps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the
left foot of the piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then
they got a table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts
from the whole company. At last he called for a trencher; and when
they saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not
know what to make of him. Some praised him for the best dancer that
ever entered a ring; others hated him because he was better than
themselves; although they had good right to think themselves better
than him or any other man that never went the long journey.”

    [10] Inch—low meadow ground near a river.

    [11] A ford of the river Funcheon (the Fanchin of Spenser,) on
    the road leading from Fermoy to Araglin.

    [12] _i. e._ “In the time of a crack of a whip,” he took off his
    shoes and stockings.

“And what was the cause of his great success?” inquired Mr. Martin.

“He could not help it, sir,” replied Tom Bourke. “They that could make
him do more than that made him do it. Howsomever, when he had done,
they wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not
persuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your
presence, that he would not dance a step more; and the word was hardly
out of his mouth, when he found himself all alone, with nothing but a
white cow grazing by his side.”

“Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these extraordinary
powers in the dance, Tom?” said Mr. Martin.

“I’ll tell you that too, sir,” answered Bourke, “when I come to it.
When he went home, sir, he was taken with a shivering, and went to
bed; and the next day they found he got the fever, or something like
it, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn’t make out
what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors gave
him over. But it’s little they know what ailed him. When he was, as
you may say, about ten days sick, and every body thought he was going,
one of the neighbours came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from
Ballinlacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I can’t tell
you his name either, only it was Darby. The minute Darby saw Patrick,
he took a little bottle, with the juice of herbs in it, out of his
pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same every day for
three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as
hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time before he
came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day sometimes by the
ditch side, talking to himself, like as if there was some one along
with him. And so there was surely, or he wouldn’t be the man he is
to-day.

“I suppose it was from some such companion he learned his skill,” said
Mr. Martin.

“You have it all now, sir,” replied Bourke. “Darby told him his
friends were satisfied with what he did the night of the dance; and
though they couldn’t hinder the fever, they’d bring him over it, and
teach him more than many knew beside him. And so they did. For you see
all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a
different faction; only the old man that spoke to him; he was a friend
of Patrick’s family, and it went again’ his heart, you see, that the
others were so light, and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear
’em boasting how they’d dance with any set in the whole country round.
So he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave him the
skill that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to be sure
it was only learning he was that time when he was wandering in his
mind after the fever.”

“I have heard many strange stories about that inch near Ballyhefaan
ford,” said Mr. Martin. “’Tis a great place for the good people, isn’t
it, Tom?”

“You may say that, sir,” returned Bourke. “I could tell you a great
deal about it. Many a time I sat for as good as two hours by
moonlight, at th’ other side of the river, looking at ’em playing goal
as if they’d break their hearts over it; with their coats and
waistcoats off, and white handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and
red ones on th’ other, just as you’d see on a Sunday in Mr. Simming’s
big field. I saw ’em one night play till the moon set, without one
party being able to take the ball from th’ other. I’m sure they were
going to fight, only, ’twas near morning. I’m told your grandfather,
ma’am, used to see ’em, there, too,” said Bourke, turning to Mrs.
Martin.

“So I have been told, Tom,” replied Mrs. Martin. “But don’t they say
that the churchyard of Kilcrumper[13] is just as favourite a place
with the good people as Ballyhefaan inch.”

    [13] About two hundred yards off the Dublin mail-coach road,
    nearly mid-way between Kilworth and Fermoy.

“Why, then, may be, you never heard, ma’am, what happened to Davy
Roche in that same churchyard,” said Bourke; and turning to Mr.
Martin, added, “’twas a long time before he went into your service,
sir. He was walking home of an evening, from the fair of Kilcummer, a
little merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin.
So he walked along with it, and thought it very queer, that he did not
know a mother’s soul in the crowd, but one man, and he was sure that
man was dead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin,
till they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and then he went in and staid
with the rest, to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was
covered, what should they do but gather about a piper, that come along
with ’em, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy longed to
be among ’em (for he hadn’t a bad foot of his own, that time, whatever
he may now;) but he was loath to begin, because they all seemed
strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was dead.
Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him.
‘Davy,’ says he, ‘take out a partner, and show what you can do, but
take care and don’t offer to kiss her.’ ‘That I won’t,’ says Davy,
‘although her lips were made of honey.’ And with that he made his bow
to the _purtiest_ girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance.
’Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th’ admiration, do you
see, of all that were there. ’Twas all very well till the jig was
over; but just as they had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was
warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner,
according to custom. The smack was no sooner off his lips, you see,
than he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him,
and all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy said they seemed as
if they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that
happened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it
was a great many hours later than he thought it; ’twas near morning
when he came home; but they couldn’t get a word out of him till the
next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o’clock.”

When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and the berrin, it
became quite evident that spirits of some sort were working too strong
within him to admit of his telling many more tales of the good people.
Tom seemed conscious of this.—He muttered for a few minutes broken
sentences concerning churchyards, river-sides, leprechauns, and _dina
magh_, which were quite unintelligible, perhaps to himself, certainly
to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length he made a slight motion of the
head upwards, as if he would say, “I can talk no more;” stretched his
arm on the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly, and
with the most knowing and cautious air; and rising from his chair,
walked, or rather rolled, to the parlour door. Here he turned round to
face his host and hostess; but after various ineffectual attempts to
bid them good night, the words, as they rose, being always choked by a
violent hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung to
and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he was obliged to
depart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by Tom’s wife, who knew well what
sort of allurement detained him, when he remained out after a certain
hour, was in attendance to conduct his master home. I have no doubt
that he returned without meeting any material injury, as I know that
within the last month, he was, to use his own words, “As stout and
hearty a man as any of his age in the county Cork.”




FAIRIES OR NO FAIRIES.

VIII.


John Mulligan was as fine an old fellow as ever threw a Carlow spur
into the sides of a horse. He was, besides, as jolly a boon companion
over a jug of punch as you would meet from Carnsore Point to Bloody
Farland. And a good horse he used to ride; and a stiffer jug of punch
than his was not in nineteen baronies. May be he stuck more to it than
he ought to have done—but that is nothing whatever to the story I am
going to tell.

John believed devoutly in fairies; and an angry man was he if you
doubted them. He had more fairy stories than would make, if properly
printed in a rivulet of print running down a meadow of margin, two
thick quartos for Mr. Murray, of Albemarle street; all of which he
used to tell on all occasions that he could find listeners. Many
believed his stories—many more did not believe them—but nobody, in
process of time, used to contradict the old gentleman, for it was a
pity to vex him. But he had a couple of young neighbours who were just
come down from their first vacation in Trinity College to spend the
summer months with an uncle of theirs, Mr. Whaley, an old Cromwellian,
who lived at Ballybegmullinahone, and they were too full of logic to
let the old man have his own way undisputed.

Every story he told they laughed at, and said that it was
impossible—that it was merely old woman’s gabble, and other such
things. When he would insist that all his stories were derived from
the most credible sources—nay, that some of them had been told him by
his own grandmother, a very respectable old lady, but slightly
affected in her faculties, as things that came under her own
knowledge—they cut the matter short by declaring that she was in her
dotage, and at the best of times had a strong propensity to pulling a
long bow.

“But,” said they, “Jack Mulligan did you ever see a fairy yourself?”

“Never,” was the reply.—“Never, as I am a man of honour and credit.”

“Well, then,” they answered, “until you do, do not be bothering us
with any more tales of my grandmother.”

Jack was particularly nettled at this, and took up the cudgels for his
grandmother; but the younkers were too sharp for him, and finally he
got into a passion, as people generally do who have the worst of an
argument. This evening it was at their uncle’s, an old crony of his,
with whom he had dined—he had taken a large portion of his usual
beverage, and was quite riotous. He at last got up in a passion,
ordered his horse, and, in spite of his host’s entreaties, galloped
off, although he had intended to have slept there; declaring that he
would not have any thing more to do with a pair of jackanapes puppies,
who, because they had learned how to read good-for-nothing books in
cramp writing, and were taught by a parcel of wiggy, red-snouted,
prating prigs, (“not,” added he, “however, that I say a man may not be
a good man and have a red nose,”) they imagined they knew more than a
man who had held buckle and tongue together facing the wind of the
world for five dozen years.

He rode off in a fret, and galloped as hard as his horse Shaunbuie
could powder away over the limestone. “Yes, indeed!” muttered he, “the
brats had me in one thing—I never did see a fairy; and I would give
up five as good acres as ever grew apple-potatoes to get a glimpse of
one—and by the powers! what is that?”

He looked, and saw a gallant spectacle. His road lay by a noble
demesne, gracefully sprinkled with trees, not thickly planted as in a
dark forest, but disposed, now in clumps of five or six, now standing
singly, towering over the plain of verdure around them as a beautiful
promontory arising out of the sea. He had come right opposite the
glory of the wood. It was an oak, which in the oldest title-deeds of
the county, and they were at least five hundred years old, was called
the old oak of Ballinghassig. Age had hollowed its centre, but its
massy boughs still waved with their dark serrated foliage. The moon
was shining on it bright. If I were a poet, like Mr. Wordsworth, I
should tell you how the beautiful light was broken into a thousand
different fragments—and how it filled the entire tree with a glorious
flood, bathing every particular leaf, and showing forth every
particular bough; but, as I am not a poet, I shall go on with my
story. By this light Jack saw a brilliant company of lovely little
forms dancing under the oak with an unsteady and rolling motion. The
company was large. Some spread out far beyond the farthest boundary of
the shadow of the oak’s branches—some were seen glancing through the
flashes of light shining through its leaves—some were barely visible,
nestling under the trunk—some, no doubt, were entirely concealed from
his eyes. Never did man see any thing more beautiful. They were not
three inches in height, but they were white as the driven snow, and
beyond number numberless. Jack threw the bridle over his horse’s neck,
and drew up to the low wall which bounded the demesne, and leaning
over it, surveyed with infinite delight, their diversified gambols. By
looking long at them, he soon saw objects which had not struck him at
first; in particular that in the middle was a chief of superior
stature, round whom the group appeared to move. He gazed so long that
he was quite overcome with joy, and could not help shouting out:
“Bravo! little fellow,” said he, “well kicked and strong.” But the
instant he uttered the words the night was darkened, and the fairies
vanished with the speed of lightning.

“I wish,” said Jack, “I had held my tongue; but no matter now. I shall
just turn bridle about and go back to Ballybegmullinahone Castle, and
beat the young Master Whaleys, fine reasoners as they think
themselves, out of the field clean.”

No sooner said than done: and Jack was back again as if upon the wings
of the wind. He rapped fiercely at the door, and called aloud for the
two collegians.

“Halloo!” said he, “young Flatcaps, come down, if you dare. Come down,
if you dare, and I shall give you _oc-oc-_ocular demonstration of the
truth of what I was saying.”

Old Whaley put his head out of the window, and said, “Jack Mulligan,
what brings you back so soon?”

“The fairies,” shouted Jack; “the fairies!”

“I am afraid,” muttered the Lord of Ballybegmullinahone, “the last
glass you took was too little watered; but, no matter—come in and
cool yourself over a tumbler of punch.”

He came in and sat down again at table. In great spirits he told his
story;—how he had seen thousands and tens of thousands of fairies
dancing about the old oak of Ballinghassig; he described their
beautiful dresses of shining silver; their flat-crowned hats,
glittering in the moonbeams; and the princely stature and demeanour of
the central figure. He added, that he heard them singing and playing
the most enchanting music; but this was merely imagination. The young
men laughed, but Jack held his ground. “Suppose,” said one of the
lads, “we join company with you on the road, and ride along to the
place, where you saw that fine company of fairies?”

“Done!” cried Jack; “but I will not promise that you will find them
there, for I saw them scudding up in the sky like a flight of bees,
and heard their wings whizzing through the air.” This, you know, was a
bounce, for Jack had heard no such thing.

Off rode the three, and came to the demesne of Oakwood. They arrived
at the wall flanking the field where stood the great oak; and the
moon, by this time, having again emerged from the clouds, shone bright
as when Jack had passed. “Look there,” he cried, exultingly: for the
same spectacle again caught his eyes, and he pointed to it with his
horsewhip; “look, and deny if you can.”

“Why,” said one of the lads, pausing, “true it is that we do see a
company of white creatures; but were they fairies ten times over, I
shall go among them;” and he dismounted to climb over the wall.

“Ah, Tom! Tom,” cried Jack, “stop, man, stop! what are you doing? The
fairies—the good people, I mean—hate to be meddled with. You will be
pinched or blinded; or your horse will cast its shoe; or—look! a
wilful man will have his way. Oh! oh! he is almost at the oak—God
help him! for he is past the help of man.”

By this time Tom was under the tree, and burst out laughing. “Jack,”
said he, “keep your prayers to yourself. Your fairies are not bad at
all. I believe they will make tolerably good catsup.”

“Catsup,” said Jack, who, when he found that the two lads (for the
second had followed his brother) were both laughing in the middle of
the fairies, had dismounted and advanced slowly—“What do you mean by
catsup?”

“Nothing,” replied Tom, “but that they are mushrooms (as indeed they
were:) and your Oberon is merely this overgrown puff-ball.”

Poor Mulligan gave a long whistle of amazement, staggered back to his
horse without saying a word, and rode home in a hard gallop, never
looking behind him. Many a long day was it before he ventured to face
the laughers at Ballybegmullinahone; and to the day of his death the
people of the parish, ay, and five parishes round called him nothing
but musharoon Jack, such being their pronunciation of mushroom.

I should be sorry if all my fairy stories ended with so little
dignity: but—

              “These our actors,
    As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
    Are melted into air—into thin air.”

     The name SHEFRO, by which the foregoing section is
     distinguished, literally signifies a fairy house or mansion,
     and is adopted as a general name for the Elves who are supposed
     to live in troops or communities, and were popularly supposed
     to have castles or mansions of their own.—See _Stewart’s
     Popular Superstitions of the Highlands_, 1823, pp. 90, 91, &c.

     _Sia_, _sigh_, _sighe_, _sigheann_, _siabhra_, _siachaire_,
     _siogidh_, are Irish words, evidently springing from a common
     Celtic root, used to express a fairy or goblin, and even a hag
     or witch. Thus we have the compounds _Leannan-sighe_, a
     familiar, from _Leannan_, a pet, and _Sioghdhraoidheachd_,
     enchantment with or by spirits.

     _Sigh gàoithe_ or _siaheann-gàoithe_, a whirlwind, is so termed
     because it is said to be raised by the fairies. The close of
     day called _Sia_, because twilight,

        “That sweet hour, when day is almost closing,”

     is the time when the fairies are most frequently seen. Again,
     _Sigh_ is a hill or hillock, because the fairies are believed
     to dwell within. _Sidhe_, _sidheadh_, and _sigh_, are names for
     a blast or blight, because it is supposed to proceed from the
     fairies.

     The term _Shoges_, i.e. _Sigh oges_ (young or little spirits,)
     Fairies, is used in a curious poem printed under the name of
     “The Irish Hudibras,” 1689, pp. 23, and 81; a copy of which,
     entitled “The Fingallian Travesty,” is among the Sloane MSS.
     No. 900. In the Third Part of O’Flaherty’s Ogygia, it is
     related that St. Patrick and some of his followers, who were
     chanting matins beside a fountain, were taken for “_Sidhe_, or
     fairies,” by some pagan ladies.

     “The Irish,” according to the Rev. James Hely’s translation of
     O’Flaherty, “call these _Sidhe_, aërial spirits or phantoms,
     because they are seen to come out of pleasant hills, where the
     common people imagine they reside, which fictitious habitations
     are called by us _Sidhe_ or _Siodha_.”

     For a similar extended use of the German word _Alp_, _Elf_, &c.
     see Introductory Essay to the Grimms’ _Irische Elfenmärchen_,
     pp. 55–62.




LEGENDS OF THE CLURICAUNE.

    “————————— That sottish elf
    Who quaffs with swollen lips the ruby wine,
    Draining the cellar with as free a hand
    As if it were his purse which ne’er lacked coin;—
    And then, with feign’d contrition ruminates
    Upon his wasteful pranks, and revelry,
    In some secluded dell or lonely grove
    Tinsel’d by Twilight.”—
                                               Δ.




THE HAUNTED CELLAR.

IX.


There are few people who have not heard of the Mac Carthies—one of
the real old Irish families, with the true Milesian blood running in
their veins, as thick as buttermilk. Many were the clans of this
family in the south; as the Mac Carthy-more—and the Mac
Carthy-reagh—and the Mac Carthy of Muskerry; and all of them were
noted for their hospitality to strangers, gentle and simple.

But not one of that name, or of any other, exceeded Justin Mac Carthy,
of Ballinacarthy, at putting plenty to eat and drink upon his table;
and there was a right hearty welcome for every one who would share it
with him. Many a wine-cellar would be ashamed of the name if that at
Ballinacarthy was the proper pattern for one; large as that cellar
was, it was crowded with bins of wine, and long rows of pipes, and
hogsheads, and casks, that it would take more time to count than any
sober man could spare in such a place, with plenty to drink about him,
and a hearty welcome to do so.

There are many, no doubt, who will think that the butler would have
little to complain of in such a house; and the whole country round
would have agreed with them, if a man could be found to remain as Mr.
Mac Carthy’s butler for any length of time worth speaking of; yet not
one who had been in his service gave him a bad word.

“We have no fault,” they would say, “to find with the master; and if
he could but get any one to fetch his wine from the cellar, we might
every one of us have grown gray in the house, and have lived quiet and
contented enough in his service until the end of our days.”

“’Tis a queer thing that, surely,” thought young Jack Leary, a lad who
had been brought up from a mere child in the stables of Ballinacarthy
to assist in taking care of the horses, and had occasionally lent a
hand in the butler’s pantry:—“’tis a mighty queer thing, surely, that
one man after another cannot content himself with the best place in
the house of a good master, but that every one of them must quit, all
through the means, as they say, of the wine-cellar. If the master,
long life to him! would but make me his butler, I warrant never the
word more would be heard of grumbling at his bidding to go to the
wine-cellar.”

Young Leary accordingly watched for what he conceived to be a
favourable opportunity of presenting himself to the notice of his
master.

A few mornings after, Mr. Mac Carthy went into his stable-yard rather
earlier than usual, and called loudly for the groom to saddle his
horse, as he intended going out with the hounds. But there was no
groom to answer, and young Jack Leary led Rainbow out of the stable.

“Where is William?” inquired Mr. Mac Carthy.

“Sir?” said Jack; and Mr. Mac Carthy repeated the question.

“Is it William, please your honour?” returned Jack; “why, then, to
tell the truth, he had just _one_ drop too much last night.”

“Where did he get it?” said Mr. Mac Carthy; “for since Thomas went
away, the key of the wine-cellar has been in my pocket, and I have
been obliged to fetch what was drank myself.”

“Sorrow a know I know,” said Leary, “unless the cook might have given
him the _least taste_ in life of whiskey. But,” continued he,
performing a low bow by seizing with his right hand a lock of hair,
and pulling down his head by it, whilst his left leg which had been
put forward, was scraped back against the ground, “may I make so bold
as just to ask your honour one question?”

“Speak out, Jack,” said Mr. Mac Carthy.

“Why, then, does your honour want a butler?”

“Can you recommend me one,” returned his master, with a smile of good
humour upon his countenance, “and one who will not be afraid of going
to my wine-cellar?”

“Is the wine-cellar all the matter?” said young Leary: “not a doubt
have I of myself then for that.”

“So you mean to offer me your services in the capacity of butler?”
said Mr. Mac Carthy, with some surprise.

“Exactly so,” answered Leary, now for the first time looking up from
the ground.

“Well, I believe you to be a good lad, and have no objection to give
you a trial.”

“Long may your honour reign over us, and the Lord spare you to us!”
ejaculated Leary, with another national bow, as his master rode off;
and he continued for some time to gaze after him with a vacant stare,
which slowly and gradually assumed a look of importance.

“Jack Leary,” said he at length, “Jack—is it Jack?” in a tone of
wonder; “faith, ’tis not Jack now, but Mr. John, the butler;” and with
an air of becoming consequence he strided out of the stable-yard
towards the kitchen.

It is of little purport to my story, although it may afford an
instructive lesson to the reader, to depict the sudden transition of
nobody into somebody. Jack’s former stable companion, a poor
superannuated hound named Bran, who had been accustomed to receive
many an affectionate tap on the head, was spurned from him with a kick
and an “Out of the way, sirrah.” Indeed, poor Jack’s memory seemed
sadly affected by this sudden change of situation. What established
the point beyond all doubt was his almost forgetting the pretty face
of Peggy, the kitchen wench, whose heart he had assailed but the
preceding week by the offer of purchasing a gold ring for the fourth
finger of her right hand, and a lusty imprint of good-will upon her
lips.

When Mr. Mac Carthy returned from hunting, he sent for Jack Leary—so
he still continued to call his new butler. “Jack,” said he, “I believe
you are a trustworthy lad, and here are the keys of my cellar. I have
asked the gentlemen with whom I hunted to-day to dine with me, and I
hope they may be satisfied at the way in which you will wait on them
at table; but, above all, let there be no want of wine after dinner.”

Mr. John having a tolerably quick eye for such things, and being
naturally a handy lad, spread his cloth accordingly, laid his plates
and knives and forks in the same manner he had seen his predecessors
in office perform these mysteries, and really, for the first time, got
through attendance on dinner very well.

It must not be forgotten, however, that it was at the house of an
Irish country squire, who was entertaining a company of booted and
spurred fox-hunters, not very particular about what are considered
matters of infinite importance under other circumstances and in other
societies.

For instance, few of Mr. Mac Carthy’s guests, (though all excellent
and worthy men in their way,) cared much whether the punch produced
after soup was made of Jamaica or Antigua rum; some even would not
have been inclined to question the correctness of good old Irish
whiskey; and, with the exception of their liberal host himself, every
one in company preferred the port which Mr. Mac Carthy put on his
table to the less ardent flavour of claret,—a choice rather at
variance with modern sentiment.

It was waxing near midnight, when Mr. Mac Carthy rang the bell three
times. This was a signal for more wine; and Jack proceeded to the
cellar to procure a fresh supply, but it must be confessed not without
some little hesitation.

The luxury of ice was then unknown in the south of Ireland; but the
superiority of cool wine had been acknowledged by all men of sound
judgment and true taste.

The grandfather of Mr. Mac Carthy, who had built the mansion of
Ballinacarthy upon the site of an old castle which had belonged to his
ancestors, was fully aware of this important fact; and in the
construction of his magnificent wine-cellar had availed himself of a
deep vault, excavated out of the solid rock in former times as a place
of retreat and security. The descent to this vault was by a flight of
steep stone stairs, and here and there in the wall were narrow
passages—I ought rather to call them crevices; and also certain
projections which cast deep shadows, and looked very frightful when
any one went down the cellar stairs with a single light: indeed, two
lights did not much improve the matter, for though the breadth of the
shadows became less, the narrow crevices remained as dark and darker
than ever.

Summoning up all his resolution, down went the new butler, bearing in
his right hand a lantern and the key of the cellar, and in his left a
basket, which he considered sufficiently capacious to contain an
adequate stock for the remainder of the evening; he arrived at the
door without any interruption whatever; but when he put the key, which
was of an ancient and clumsy kind—for it was before the days of
Bramah’s patent,—and turned it in the lock, he thought he heard a
strange kind of laughing within the cellar, to which some empty
bottles that stood upon the floor outside vibrated so violently, that
they struck against each other: in this he could not be mistaken,
although he may have been deceived in the laugh; for the bottles were
just at his feet, and he saw them in motion.

Leary paused for a moment, and looked about him with becoming caution.
He then boldly seized the handle of the key, and turned it with all
his strength in the lock, as if he doubted his own power of doing so;
and the door flew open with a most tremendous crash, that, if the
house had not been built upon the solid rock, would have shook it from
the foundation.

To recount what the poor fellow saw would be impossible, for he seems
not to know very clearly himself: but what he told the cook the next
morning was, that he heard a roaring and bellowing like a mad bull,
and that all the pipes and hogsheads and casks in the cellar went
rocking backwards and forwards with so much force, that he thought
every one would have been staved in, and that he should have been
drowned or smothered in wine.

When Leary recovered, he made his way back as well as he could to the
dining-room, where he found his master and the company very impatient
for his return.

“What kept-you?” said Mr. Mac Carthy in an angry voice; “and where is
the wine? I rung for it half an hour since.”

“The wine is in the cellar, I hope, sir,” said Jack, trembling
violently; “I hope ’tis not all lost.”

“What do you mean, fool?” exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy in a still more
angry tone: “why did you not fetch some with you?”

Jack looked wildly about him, and only uttered a deep groan.

“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Mac Carthy to his guests, “this is too much.
When I next see you to dinner, I hope it will be in another house, for
it is impossible I can remain longer in this, where a man has no
command over his own wine-cellar, and cannot get a butler to do his
duty. I have long thought of moving from Ballinacarthy; and I am now
determined, with the blessing of God, to leave it to-morrow. But wine
shall you have, were I to go myself to the cellar for it.” So saying,
he rose from the table, took the key and lantern from his half
stupified servant, who regarded him with a look of vacancy, and
descended the narrow stairs, already described, which led to his
cellar.

When he arrived at the door, which he found open, he thought he heard
a noise, as if of rats or mice scrambling over the casks, and on
advancing perceived a little figure, about six inches in height,
seated astride upon the pipe of the oldest port in the place, and
bearing the spigot upon his shoulder. Raising the lantern, Mr. Mac
Carthy contemplated the little fellow with wonder: he wore a red
nightcap on his head; before him was a short leather apron, which now,
from his attitude, fell rather on one side; and he had stockings of a
light blue colour, so long as nearly to cover the entire of his legs;
with shoes, having huge silver buckles in them, and with high heels
(perhaps out of vanity to make him appear taller). His face was like a
withered winter apple; and his nose, which was of a bright crimson
colour, about the tip wore a delicate purple bloom, like that of a
plum: yet his eyes twinkled

                “like those mites
    Of candied dew in moony nights—

and his mouth twitched up at one side with an arch grin.

“Ha, scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy, “have I found you at last?
disturber of my cellar—what are you doing there?”

“Sure, and master,” returned the little fellow, looking up at him with
one eye, and with the other throwing a sly glance towards the spigot
on his shoulder, “a’n’t we going to move to-morrow? and sure you would
not leave your own little Cluricaune Naggeneen behind you?”

“Oh!” thought Mr. Mac Carthy, “if you are to follow me, Master
Naggeneen, I don’t see much use in quitting Ballinacarthy.” So filling
with wine the basket which young Leary in his fright had left behind
him, and locking the cellar door, he rejoined his guests.

For some years after, Mr. Mac Carthy had always to fetch the wine for
his table himself, as the little Cluricaune Naggeneen seemed to feel a
personal respect towards him. Notwithstanding the labour of these
journeys, the worthy lord of Ballinacarthy lived in his paternal
mansion to a good round age, and was famous to the last for the
excellence of his wine, and the conviviality of his company; but at
the time of his death, that same conviviality had nearly emptied his
wine-cellar; and as it was never so well filled again, nor so often
visited, the revels of Master Naggeneen became less celebrated, and
are now only spoken of amongst the legendary lore of the country. It
is even said that the poor little fellow took the declension of the
cellar so to heart, that he became negligent and careless of himself,
and that he has been sometimes seen going about with hardly a skreed
to cover him.

Some, however, believe that he turned brogue-maker, and assert that
they have seen him at his work, and heard him whistling as merry as a
blackbird on a May morning, under the shadow of a brown jug of foaming
ale, bigger—ay bigger than himself; decently dressed enough, they
say;—only looking mighty old. But still ’tis clear he has his wits
about him, since no one ever had the luck to catch him, or to get hold
of the purse he has with him, which they call _spré-na-skillinagh_,
and ’tis said is never without a shilling in it.




MASTER AND MAN.

X.


Billy Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his
brogue at a patron, emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh: fearing
for nothing but the want of drink; caring for nothing but who should
pay for it; and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it: drunk
or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy Mac Daniel;
and a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or ending a
dispute. More is the pity, that through the means of his drinking, and
fearing and caring for nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into
bad company; for surely the good people are the worst of all company
any one could come across.

It so happened that Billy was going home one clear frosty night not
long after Christmas; the moon was round and bright; but although it
was as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt pinched with the
cold. “By my word,” chattered Billy, “a drop of good liquor would be
no bad thing to keep a man’s soul from freezing in him; and I wish I
had a full measure of the best.”

“Never wish it twice, Billy,” said a little man in a three-cornered
hat, bound all about with gold lace, and with great silver buckles in
his shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them, and he
held out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever
eye looked on or lip tasted.

“Success, my little fellow,” said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted,
though well he knew the little man to belong to the _good people_;
“here’s your health, any way, and thank you kindly; no matter who pays
for the drink;” and he took the glass and drained it to the very
bottom, without ever taking a second breath to it.

“Success,” said the little man; “and you’re heartily welcome, Billy;
but don’t think to cheat me as you have done others,—out with your
purse and pay me like a gentleman.”

“Is it I pay you?” said Billy: “could I not just take you up and put
you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?”

“Billy Mac Daniel,” said the little man, getting very angry, “you
shall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way I
will be paid; so make ready to follow me.”

When Billy heard this, he began to be very sorry for having used such
bold words towards the little man; and he felt himself, yet could not
tell how, obliged to follow the little man the live-long night about
the country, up and down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog
and brake, without any rest.

When morning began to dawn, the little man turned round to him and
said, “You may now go home, Billy, but on your peril don’t fail to
meet me in the Fort-field to-night; or if you do, it may be the worse
for you in the long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find
me an indulgent master.”

Home went Billy Mac Daniel; and though he was tired and weary enough,
never a wink of sleep could he get for thinking of the little man;
but he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening,
and away he went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the
little man came towards him and said, “Billy, I want to go a long
journey to-night; so saddle one of my horses, and you may saddle
another for yourself, as you are to go along with me, and may be tired
after your walk last night.”

Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him
accordingly: “But,” said he, “if I may be so bold, sir, I would ask
which is the way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but the
fort here, and the old thorn tree in the corner of the field, and the
stream running at the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over
against us.”

“Ask no questions, Billy,” said the little man, “but go over to that
bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.”

Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at; and
he picked out two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with a little
bunch of brown blossom stuck at the side of each, and brought them
back to his master. “Get up, Billy,” said the little man, taking one
of the rushes from him and striding across it.

“Where will I get up, please your honour?” said Billy.

“Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure,” said the little man.

“Is it after making a fool of me you’d be,” said Billy, “bidding me
get a horseback upon that bit of a rush? May be you want to persuade
me that the rush I pulled but awhile ago out of the bog over there is
a horse?”

“Up! up! and no words,” said the little man, looking very vexed; “the
best horse you ever rode was but a fool to it.” So Billy, thinking all
this was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, straddled across the
rush: “Borram! Borram! Borram!” cried the little man three times
(which in English, means to become great), and Billy did the same
after him: presently the rushes swelled up into fine horses, and away
they went full speed; but Billy, who had put the rush between his
legs, without much minding how he did it, found himself sitting on
horseback the wrong way, which was rather awkward, with his face to
the horse’s tail; and so quickly had his steed started off with him,
that he had no power to turn round, and there was therefore nothing
for it but to hold on by the tail.

At last they came to their journey’s end, and stopped at the gate of a
fine house: “Now, Billy,” said the little man, “do as you see me do,
and follow me close; but as you did not know your horse’s head from
his tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until you can’t
tell whether you are standing on it or on your heels: for remember
that old liquor, though able to make a cat speak, can make a man
dumb.”

The little man then said some queer kind of words, out of which Billy
could make no meaning; but he contrived to say them after him for all
that; and in they both went through the key-hole of the door, and
through one key-hole after another, until they got into the
wine-cellar, which was well stored with all kinds of wine.

The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and Billy, noway
disliking the example, did the same. “The best of masters are you
surely,” said Billy to him; “no matter who is the next; and well
pleased will I be with your service if you continue to give me plenty
to drink.”

“I have made no bargain with you,” said the little man, “and will make
none; but up and follow me.” Away they went, through key-hole after
key-hole; and each mounting upon the rush which he had left at the
hall door, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like
snowballs, as soon as the words, “Borram, Borram, Borram,” had passed
their lips.

When they came back to the Fort-field, the little man dismissed Billy,
bidding him to be there the next night at the same hour. Thus did they
go on, night after night, shaping their course one night here, and
another night there—sometimes north, and sometimes east, and
sometimes south, until there was not a gentleman’s wine-cellar in all
Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the flavour of every wine
in it as well—ay, better than the butler himself.

One night, when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as usual in the
Fort-field, and was going to the bog to fetch the horses for their
journey, his master said to him, “Billy, I shall want another horse
to-night, for may be we may bring back more company with us than we
take.” So Billy, who now knew better than to question any order given
to him by his master, brought a third rush, much wondering who it
might be that should travel back in their company, and whether he was
about to have a fellow-servant. “If I have,” thought Billy, “he shall
go and fetch the horses from the bog every night; for I don’t see why
I am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my master.”

Well, away they went, Billy leading the third horse, and never stopped
until they came to a snug farmer’s house in the county Limerick, close
under the old castle of Carrigogunnel, that was built, they say, by
the great Brian Boru. Within the house there was great carousing going
forward, and the little man stopped outside for some time to listen;
then turning round all of a sudden, said, “Billy, I will be a thousand
years old to-morrow!”

“God bless us, sir,” said Billy, “will you?”

“Don’t say these words again, Billy,” said the little man, “or you
will be my ruin for ever. Now, Billy, as I will be a thousand years in
the world to-morrow, I think it is full time for me to get married.”

“I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all,” said Billy, “if
ever you mean to marry.”

“And to that purpose,” said the little man, “have I come all the way
to Carrigogunnel; for in this house, this very night, is young Darby
Riley going to be married to Bridget Rooney; and as she is a tall and
comely girl, and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her
myself, and taking her off with me.”

“And what will Darby Riley say to that?” said Billy.

“Silence!” said the little man, putting on a mighty severe look: “I
did not bring you here with me to ask questions;” and without holding
further argument, he began saying the queer words, which had the power
of passing him through the key-hole as free as air, and which Billy
thought himself mighty clever to be able to say after him.

In they both went; and for the better viewing the company, the little
man perched himself up as nimbly as a cock-sparrow upon one of the big
beams which went across the house over all their heads, and Billy did
the same upon another facing him; but not being much accustomed to
roosting in such a place, his legs hung down as untidy as may be, and
it was quite clear he had not taken pattern after the way in which the
little man had bundled himself up together. If the little man had been
a tailor all his life, he could not have sat more contentedly upon his
haunches.

There they were, both master and man, looking down upon the fun that
was going forward—and under them were the priest and piper—and the
father of Darby Riley, with Darby’s two brothers and his uncle’s
son—and there were both the father and the mother of Bridget Rooney,
and proud enough the old couple were that night of their daughter, as
good right they had—and her four sisters with bran new ribands in
their caps, and her three brothers all looking as clean and as clever
as any three boys in Munster—and there were uncles and aunts, and
gossips and cousins enough besides to make a full house of it—and
plenty was there to eat and drink on the table for every one of them,
if they had been double the number.

Now it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had helped his reverence to the
first cut of the pig’s head which was placed before her, beautifully
bolstered up with white savoys, that the bride gave a sneeze which
made every one at table start, but not a soul said “God bless us.” All
thinking that the priest would have done so, as he ought if he had
done his duty, no one wished to take the word out of his mouth, which
unfortunately was pre-occupied with pig’s head and greens. And after a
moment’s pause, the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on
without the pious benediction.

Of this circumstance both Billy and his master were no inattentive
spectators from their exalted stations. “Ha!” exclaimed the little
man, throwing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, and his
eye twinkled with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated
into the curvature of Gothic arches—“Ha!” said he, leering down at
the bride, and then up at Billy, “I have half of her now, surely. Let
her sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of priest,
mass-book, and Darby Riley.”

Again the fair Bridget sneezed; but it was so gently, and she blushed
so much, that few except the little man took or seemed to take any
notice: and no one thought of saying “God bless us.”

Billy all this time regarded the poor girl with a most rueful
expression of countenance; for he could not help thinking what a
terrible thing it was for a nice young girl of nineteen, with large
blue eyes, transparent skin, and dimpled cheeks, suffused with health
and joy, to be obliged to marry an ugly little bit of a man who was a
thousand years old, barring a day.

At this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and Billy
roared out with all his might, “God save us!” Whether this exclamation
resulted from his soliloquy, or from the mere force of habit, he never
could tell exactly himself; but no sooner was it uttered, than the
little man, his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung from
the beam on which he had perched himself, and shrieking out in the
shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, “I discharge you my service, Billy
Mac Daniel—take _that_ for your wages,” gave poor Billy a most
furious kick in the back, which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling
upon his face and hands right in the middle of the supper table.

If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one of the company
into which he was thrown with so little ceremony; but when they heard
his story, Father Cooney laid down his knife and fork, and married the
young couple out of hand with all speed; and Billy Mac Daniel danced
the Rinka at their wedding, and plenty did he drink at it too, which
was what he thought more of than dancing.




THE LITTLE SHOE.

XI.


“Now tell me, Molly,” said Mr. Coote to Molly Cogan, as he met her on
the road one day, close to one of the old gateways of Kilmallock,[14]
“did you ever hear of the Cluricaune?”

    [14] “Kilmallock seemed to me like the court of the Queen of
    Silence.”—_O’Keefe’s Recollections._

“Is it the Cluricaune? why, then, sure I did, often and often; many’s
the time I heard my father, rest his soul! tell about ’em.”

“But did you ever see one, Molly, yourself?”

“Och! no, I never _see_ one in my life; but my grandfather, that’s my
father’s father, you know, he _see_ one, one time, and caught him
too.”

“Caught him! Oh! Molly, tell me how?”

“Why, then, I’ll tell you. My grandfather, you see, was out there
above in the bog, drawing home turf, and the poor old mare was tired
after her day’s work, and the old man went out to the stable to look
after her, and to see if she was eating her hay; and when he came to
the stable door there, my dear, he heard something hammering,
hammering, hammering, just for all the world like a shoemaker making a
shoe, and whistling all the time the prettiest tune he ever heard in
his whole life before. Well, my grandfather, he thought it was the
Cluricaune, and he said to himself, says he, ‘I’ll catch you, if I
can, and then, I’ll have money enough always.’ So he opened the door
very quietly, and didn’t make a bit of noise in the world that ever
was heard; and looked all about, but the never a bit of the little man
he could see anywhere, but he heard him hammering and whistling, and
so he looked and looked, till at last he _see_ the little fellow; and
where was he, do you think, but in the girth under the mare; and there
he was with his little bit of an apron on him, and hammer in his
hand, and a little red nightcap on his head, and he making a shoe; and
he was so busy with his work, and he was hammering and whistling so
loud, that he never minded my grandfather till he caught him fast in
his hand. ‘Faith I have you now,’ says he, ‘and I’ll never let you go
till I get your purse—that’s what I won’t; so give it here to me at
once, now.’—‘Stop, stop,’ says the Cluricaune, ‘stop, stop,’ says he,
’till I get it for you.’ So my grandfather, like a fool, you see,
opened his hand a little, and the little fellow jumped away laughing,
and he never saw him any more, and the never the bit of the purse did
he get, only the Cluricaune left his little shoe that he was making;
and my grandfather was mad enough angry with himself for letting him
go; but he had the shoe all his life, and my own mother told me she
often _see_ it, and had it in her hand, and ’twas the prettiest little
shoe she ever saw.”

“And did you see it yourself, Molly?”

“Oh! no, my dear, it was lost long afore I was born; but my mother
told me about it often and often enough.”

     The main point of distinction between the Cluricaune and the
     Shefro, arises from the sottish and solitary habits of the
     former, who are rarely found in troops or communities.

     The Cluricaune of the county of Cork, the Luricaune of Kerry,
     and the Lurigadaune of Tipperary, appear to be the same as the
     Leprechan or Leprochaune of Leinster, and the Logherry-man of
     Ulster; and these words are probably all provincialisms of the
     Irish for a pigmy.

     It is possible, and is in some measure borne out by the text of
     one of the preceding stories [IX.], that the word _luacharman_
     is merely an Anglo-Irish induction, compounded of (a rush,) and
     the English word, _man_.—A rushy man,—that may be, a man of
     the height of a rush, or a being who dwelt among rushes, that
     is, unfrequented or boggy places.

     The following dialogue is said to have taken place in an Irish
     court of justice, upon the witness having used the word
     Leprochaune:—

     _Court._—Pray what is a leprochaune? the law knows no such
     character or designation.

     _Witness._—My lord, it is a little counsellor man in the
     fairies, or an attorney that robs them all, and he always
     carries a purse that is full of money, and if you see him and
     keep your eyes on him, and that you never turn them aside, he
     cannot get away, and if you catch him he gives you the purse to
     let him go, and then you’re as rich as a Jew.

     _Court._—Did you ever know of any one that caught a
     Leprochaune? I wish I could catch one.

     _Witness._—Yes, my lord, there was one—

     _Court._—That will do.

     With respect to “money matters,” there appears to be a strong
     resemblance between the ancient Roman Incubus and the Irish
     Cluricaune.—“Sed quomodo dicunt, ego nihil scio, sed audivi,
     quomodo incuboni pileum rapuisset et thesaurum invenit,” are
     the words of Petronius.—See, for farther arguments in support
     of identity of the two spirits, the Brothers Grimm’s Essay on
     the Nature of the Elves, prefixed to their translation of this
     work, under the head of “Ancient Testimonies.”

     “Old German and Northern poems contain numerous accounts of the
     skill of the dwarfs in curious smith’s-work.”—“The Irish
     Cluricaune is heard hammering; he is particularly fond of
     making shoes, but these were in ancient times made of metal (in
     the old Northern language a shoemaker is called a
     _shoe-smith_;) and, singularly enough, the wights in a German
     tradition manifest the same propensity; for, whatever work the
     shoemaker has been able to cut out in the day, they finish
     with incredible quickness during the night.”
                                                 THE BROTHERS GRIMM.




LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE.

    “Who sits upon the heath forlorn,
    With robe so free and tresses torn?
    Anon she pours a harrowing strain,
    And then—she sits all mute again!
    Now peals the wild funereal cry—
    And now—it sinks into a sigh.”
                              OURAWNS.




THE BANSHEE.

XII.


The Reverend Charles Bunworth was rector of Buttevant, in the county
of Cork, about the middle of the last century. He was a man of
unaffected piety, and of sound learning; pure in heart, and benevolent
in intention. By the rich he was respected, and by the poor beloved;
nor did a difference of creed prevent their looking up to “_the
minister_” (so was Mr. Bunworth called by them) in matters of
difficulty and in seasons of distress, confident of receiving from him
the advice and assistance that a father would afford to his children.
He was the friend and the benefactor of the surrounding country—to
him, from the neighbouring town of Newmarket, came both Curran and
Yelverton for advice and instruction, previous to their entrance at
Dublin College. Young, indigent and inexperienced, these afterwards
eminent men received from him, in addition to the advice they sought,
pecuniary aid; and the brilliant career which was theirs, justified
the discrimination of the giver.

But what extended the fame of Mr. Bunworth, far beyond the limits of
the parishes adjacent to his own, was his performance on the Irish
harp, and his hospitable reception and entertainment of the poor
harpers who travelled from house to house about the country. Grateful
to their patron, these itinerant minstrels sang his praises to the
tingling accompaniment of their harps, invoking in return for his
bounty abundant blessings on his white head, and celebrating in their
rude verses the blooming charms of his daughters, Elizabeth and Mary.
It was all these poor fellows could do; but who can doubt that their
gratitude was sincere, when, at the time of Mr. Bunworth’s death, no
less than fifteen harps were deposited in the loft of his granary,
bequeathed to him by the last members of a race which has now ceased
to exist. Trifling, no doubt, in intrinsic value were these relics,
yet there is something in gifts of the heart that merits preservation;
and it is to be regretted that, when he died, these harps were broken
up one after the other, and used as fire-wood by an ignorant follower
of the family, who, on a removal to Cork for a temporary change of
scene, was left in charge of the house.

The circumstances attending the death of Mr. Bunworth may be doubted
by some; but there are still living credible witnesses who declare
their authenticity, and who can be produced to attest most, if not all
of the following particulars.

About a week previous to his dissolution, and early in the evening a
noise was heard at the hall door resembling the shearing of sheep; but
at the time no particular attention was paid to it. It was nearly
eleven o’clock the same night, when Kavanagh, the herdsman, returned
from Mallow, whither he had been sent in the afternoon for some
medicine, and was observed by Miss Bunworth, to whom he delivered the
parcel, to be much agitated. At this time, it must be observed, her
father was by no means considered in danger.

“What is the matter, Kavanagh?” asked Miss Bunworth: but the poor
fellow, with a bewildered look, only uttered, “The master, Miss—the
master—he is going from us;” and, overcome with real grief, he burst
into a flood of tears.

Miss Bunworth, who was a woman of strong nerve, inquired if any thing
he had learned in Mallow induced him to suppose that her father was
worse. “No, Miss,” said Kavanagh; “it was not in Mallow——”

“Kavanagh,” said Miss Bunworth, with that stateliness of manner for
which she is said to have been remarkable, “I fear you have been
drinking, which, I must say, I did not expect at such a time as the
present, when it was your duty to have kept yourself sober;—I thought
you might have been trusted:—what should we have done if you had
broken the medicine bottle, or lost it? for the doctor said it was of
the greatest consequence that your master should take the medicine
to-night. But I will speak to you in the morning, when you are in a
fitter state to understand what I say.”

Kavanagh looked up with a stupidity of aspect which did not serve to
remove the impression of his being drunk, as his eyes appeared heavy
and dull after the flood of tears;—but his voice was not that of an
intoxicated person.

“Miss,” said he, “as I hope to receive mercy hereafter, neither bit
nor sup has passed my lips since I left this house; but the
master——”

“Speak softly,” said Miss Bunworth; “he sleeps, and is going on as
well as we could expect.”

“Praise be to God for that, any way,” replied Kavanagh; “but oh! Miss,
he is going from us surely—we will lose him—the master—we will lose
him, we will lose him!” and he wrung his hands together.

“What is it you mean, Kavanagh?” asked Miss Bunworth.

“Is it mean?” said Kavanagh: “the Banshee has come for him, Miss, and
’tis not I alone who have heard her.”

“’Tis an idle superstition,” said Miss Bunworth.

“May be so,” replied Kavanagh, as if the words ‘idle superstition’
only sounded upon his ear without reaching his mind—“May be so,” he
continued; “but as I came through the glen of Ballybeg, she was along
with me, keening, and screeching, and clapping her hands, by my side,
every step of the way, with her long white hair falling about her
shoulders, and I could hear her repeat the master’s name every now and
then, as plain as ever I heard it. When I came to the old abbey, she
parted from me there, and turned into the pigeon-field next the
_berrin_ ground, and folding her cloak about her, down she sat under
the tree that was struck by the lightning, and began keening so
bitterly, that it went through one’s heart to hear it.”

“Kavanagh,” said Miss Bunworth, who had, however, listened attentively
to this remarkable relation, “my father is, I believe, better; and I
hope will himself soon be up and able to convince you that all this is
but your own fancy; nevertheless, I charge you not to mention what you
have told me, for there is no occasion to frighten your
fellow-servants with the story.”

Mr. Bunworth gradually declined; but nothing particular occurred until
the night previous to his death: that night both his daughters,
exhausted with continued attendance and watching, were prevailed upon
to seek some repose; and an elderly lady, a near relative and friend
of the family, remained by the bed-side of their father. The old
gentleman then lay in the parlour, where he had been in the morning
removed at his own request, fancying the change would afford him
relief; and the head of his bed was placed close to the window. In a
room adjoining sat some male friends, and, as usual on like occasions
of illness, in the kitchen many of the followers of the family had
assembled.

The night was serene and moonlit—the sick man slept—and nothing
broke the stillness of their melancholy watch, when the little party
in the room adjoining the parlour, the door of which stood open, was
suddenly roused by a sound at the window near the bed: a rose tree
grew outside the window, so close as to touch the glass; this was
forced aside with some noise, and a low moaning was heard, accompanied
by clapping of hands, as if of a female in deep affliction. It seemed
as if the sound proceeded from a person holding her mouth close to the
window. The lady who sat by the bed-side of Mr. Bunworth went into the
adjoining room, and in a tone of alarm, inquired of the gentlemen
there, if they had heard the Banshee? Skeptical of supernatural
appearances, two of them rose hastily and went out to discover the
cause of these sounds, which they also had distinctly heard. They
walked all around the house, examining every spot of ground,
particularly near the window from whence the voice had proceeded; the
bed of earth beneath, in which the rose tree was planted, had been
recently dug, and the print of a footstep—if the tree had been forced
aside by mortal hand—would have inevitably remained; but they could
perceive no such impression; and an unbroken stillness reigned
without. Hoping to dispel the mystery, they continued their search
anxiously along the road, from the straightness of which and the
lightness of the night, they were enabled to see some distance around
them; but all was silent and deserted, and they returned surprised and
disappointed. How much more then were they astonished at learning that
the whole time of their absence, those who remained within the house
had heard the moaning and clapping of hands even louder and more
distinct than before they had gone out; and no sooner was the door of
the room closed on them, than they again heard the same mournful
sounds! Every succeeding hour the sick man became worse, and as the
first glimpse of the morning appeared, Mr. Bunworth expired.




LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE.

XIII.


The family of Mac Carthy have for some generations possessed a small
estate in the county of Tipperary. They are the descendants of a race,
once numerous and powerful in the south of Ireland; and though it is
probable that the property they at present hold is no part of the
large possessions of their ancestors, yet the district in which they
live is so connected with the name of Mac Carthy by those associations
which are never forgotten in Ireland, that they have preserved with
all ranks a sort of influence much greater than that which their
fortune or connexions could otherwise give them. They are, like most
of this class, of the Roman Catholic persuasion, to which they adhere
with somewhat of the pride of ancestry, blended with a something, call
it what you will, whether bigotry, or a sense of wrong, arising out of
repeated diminutions of their family possessions, during the more
rigorous periods of the penal laws. Being an old family, and
especially being an old Catholic family, they have of course their
Banshee; and the circumstances under which the appearance, which I
shall relate, of this mysterious harbinger of death, took place, were
told me by an old lady, a near connexion of theirs, who knew many of
the parties concerned, and who, though not deficient in understanding
or education, cannot to this day be brought to give a decisive opinion
as to the truth or authenticity of the story. The plain inference to
be drawn from this is, that she believes it, though she does not own
it; and as she was a contemporary of the persons concerned—as she
heard the account from many persons about the same period, all
concurring in the important particulars—as some of her authorities
were themselves actors in the scene—and as none of the parties were
interested in speaking what was false; I think we have about as good
evidence that the whole is undeniably true as we have of many
narratives of modern history, which I could name, and which many grave
and sober-minded people would deem it very great pyrrhonism to
question. This, however, is a point which it is not my province to
determine. People who deal out stories of this sort must be content to
act like certain young politicians, who tell very freely to their
friends what they hear at a great man’s table; not guilty of the
impertinence of weighing the doctrines, and leaving it to their
hearers to understand them in any sense, or in no sense, just as they
may please.

Charles Mac Carthy was, in the year 1749, the only surviving son of a
very numerous family. His father died when he was little more than
twenty, leaving him the Mac Carthy estate, not much encumbered,
considering that it was an Irish one. Charles was gay, handsome,
unfettered either by poverty, a father, or guardians, and therefore
was not at the age of one-and-twenty, a pattern of regularity and
virtue. In plain terms, he was an exceedingly dissipated—I fear I may
say debauched young man. His companions were, as may be supposed, of
the higher classes of the youth in his neighbourhood, and, in general,
of those whose fortunes were larger than his own, whose dispositions
to pleasure were therefore under still less restrictions, and in whose
example he found at once an incentive and an apology for his
irregularities. Besides, Ireland, a place to this day not very
remarkable for the coolness and steadiness of its youth, was then one
of the cheapest countries in the world in most of those articles which
money supplies for the indulgence of the passions. The odious
exciseman, with his portentous book in one hand, his unrelenting pen
held in the other, or stuck beneath his hat-band, and the
ink-bottle (‘black emblem of the informer’) dangling from his
waist-coat-button—went not then from ale-house to ale-house,
denouncing all those patriotic dealers in spirit, who preferred
selling whisky, which had nothing to do with English laws (but to
elude them,) to retailing that poisonous liquor, which derived its
name from the British “parliament,” that compelled its circulation
among a reluctant people. Or if the gauger—recording angel of the
law—wrote down the peccadillo of a publican, he dropped a tear upon
the word, and blotted it out for ever! For, welcome to the tables of
their hospitable neighbours, the guardians of the excise, where they
existed at all, scrupled to abridge those luxuries which they freely
shared; and thus the competition in the market between the smuggler,
who incurred little hazard, and the personage ycleped fair trader, who
enjoyed little protection, made Ireland a land flowing, not merely
with milk and honey, but with whisky and wine. In the enjoyments
supplied by these, and in the many kindred pleasures to which frail
youth is but too prone, Charles Mac Carthy indulged to such a degree,
that just about the time when he had completed his four-and-twentieth
year, after a week of great excesses, he was seized with a violent
fever, which, from its malignity, and the weakness of his frame, left
scarcely a hope of his recovery. His mother, who had at first made
many efforts to check his vices, and at last had been obliged to look
on at his rapid progress to ruin in silent despair, watched day and
night at his pillow. The anguish of parental feeling was blended with
that still deeper misery which those only know who have striven hard
to rear in virtue and piety a beloved and favourite child; have found
him grow up all that their hearts could desire, until he reached
manhood; and then, when their pride was highest, and their hopes
almost ended in the fulfilment of their fondest expectations, have
seen this idol of their affections plunge headlong into a course of
reckless profligacy, and, after a rapid career of vice, hang upon the
verge of eternity, without the leisure for, or the power of,
repentance. Fervently she prayed that, if his life could not be
spared, at least the delirium, which continued with increasing
violence from the first few hours of his disorder, might vanish before
death, and leave enough of light and of calm for making his peace with
offended Heaven. After several days, however, nature seemed quite
exhausted, and he sunk into a state to like death to be mistaken for
the repose of sleep. His face had that pale, glossy, marble look,
which is in general so sure a symptom that life has left its tenement
of clay. His eyes were closed and sunk; the lids having that
compressed and stiffened appearance which seemed to indicate that some
friendly hand had done its last office. The lips, half-closed and
perfectly ashy, discovered just so much of the teeth as to give to the
features of death their most ghastly, but most impressive look. He lay
upon his back, with his hands stretched beside, quite motionless; and
his distracted mother, after repeated trials, could discover not the
least symptom of animation. The medical man who attended, having tried
the usual modes for ascertaining the presence of life, declared at
last his opinion that it was flown, and prepared to depart from the
house of mourning. His horse was seen to come to the door. A crowd of
people who were collected before the windows, or scattered in groups
on the lawn in front, gathered round when the door opened. These were
tenants, fosterers, and poor relations of the family, with others
attracted by affection, or by that interest which partakes of
curiosity, but is something more, and which collects the lower ranks
round a house where a human being is in his passage to another world.
They saw the professional man come out from the hall door and approach
his horse, and while slowly, and with a melancholy air, he prepared to
mount, they clustered round him with inquiring and wishful looks. Not
a word was spoken; but their meaning could not be misunderstood; and
the physician, when he had got into his saddle, and while the servant
was still holding the bridle, as if to delay him, and was looking
anxiously at his face, as if expecting that he would relieve the
general suspense, shook his head, and said in a low voice, “It’s all
over, James;” and moved slowly away. The moment he had spoken, the
women present, who were very numerous, uttered a shrill cry, which,
having been sustained for about half a minute, fell suddenly into a
full, loud, continued and discordant but plaintive wailing, above
which occasionally were heard the deep sounds of a man’s voice,
sometimes in broken sobs, sometimes in more distinct exclamations of
sorrow. This was Charles’s foster-brother, who moved about in the
crowd, now clapping his hands, now rubbing them together in an agony
of grief. The poor fellow had been Charles’s playmate and companion
when a boy, and afterwards his servant; had always been distinguished
by his peculiar regard, and loved his young master, as much, at least,
as he did his own life.

When Mrs. Mac Carthy became convinced that the blow was indeed struck,
and that her beloved son was sent to his last account, even in the
blossoms of his sin, she remained for some time gazing with fixedness
upon his cold features; then, as if something had suddenly touched the
string of her tenderest affections, tear after tear trickled down her
cheeks, pale with anxiety and watching. Still she continued looking at
her son, apparently unconscious that she was weeping, without once
lifting her handkerchief to her eyes, until reminded of the sad duties
which the custom of the country imposed upon her, by the crowd of
females belonging to the better class of the peasantry, who now,
crying audibly, nearly filled the apartment. She then withdrew, to
give directions for the ceremony of waking, and for supplying the
numerous visiters of all ranks with the refreshments usual on these
melancholy occasions. Though her voice was scarcely heard, and though
no one saw her but the servants and one or two old followers of the
family, who assisted her in the necessary arrangements, every thing
was conducted with the greatest regularity; and though she made no
effort to check her sorrows, they never once suspended her attention,
now more than ever required to preserve order in her household, which,
in this season of calamity, but for her would have been all confusion.

The night was pretty far advanced; the boisterous lamentations which
had prevailed during part of the day in and about the house had given
place to a solemn and mournful stillness; and Mrs. Mac Carthy, whose
heart, notwithstanding her long fatigue and watching, was yet too sore
for sleep, was kneeling in fervent prayer in a chamber adjoining that
of her son:—suddenly her devotions were disturbed by an unusual
noise, proceeding from the persons who were watching round the body.
First, there was a low murmur—then all was silent, as if the
movements of those in the chamber were checked by a sudden panic—and
then a loud cry of terror burst from all within:—the door of the
chamber was thrown open, and all who were not overturned in the press
rushed wildly into the passage which led to the stairs, and into which
Mrs. Mac Carthy’s room opened. Mrs. Mac Carthy made her way through
the crowd into her son’s chamber, where she found him sitting up in
the bed, and looking vacantly around like one risen from the grave.
The glare thrown upon his sunk features and thin lathy frame gave an
unearthly horror to his whole aspect. Mrs. Mac Carthy was a woman of
some firmness; but she was a woman, and not quite free from the
superstitions of her country. She dropped on her knees, and, clasping
her hands, began to pray aloud. The form before her moved only its
lips and barely uttered, “Mother;”—but though the pale lips moved, as
if there was a design to finish the sentence, the tongue refused its
office. Mrs. Mac Carthy sprung forward, and catching the arm of her
son, exclaimed, “Speak! in the name of God and his saints, speak! are
you alive?”

He turned to her slowly, and said, speaking still with apparent
difficulty, “Yes, my mother, alive, and—— But sit down and collect
yourself; I have that to tell, which will astonish you still more than
what you have seen.” He leaned back on his pillow, and while his
mother remained kneeling by the bed-side, holding one of his hands
clasped in hers, and gazing on him with the look of one who
distrusted all her senses, he proceeded:—“do not interrupt me until
I have done. I wish to speak while the excitement of returning life is
upon me, as I know I shall soon need much repose. Of the commencement
of my illness I have only a confused recollection; but within the last
twelve hours, I have been before the judgment-seat of God. Do not
stare incredulously on me—’tis as true as have been my crimes, and,
as I trust, shall be my repentance. I saw the awful Judge arrayed in
all the terrors which invest him when mercy gives place to justice.
The dreadful pomp of offended omnipotence, I saw,—I remember. It is
fixed here; printed on my brain in characters indelible; but it
passeth human language. What I _can_ describe I _will_—I may speak it
briefly. It is enough to say, I was weighed in the balance and found
wanting. The irrevocable sentence was upon the point of being
pronounced; the eye of my Almighty Judge, which had already glanced
upon me, half spoke my doom; when I observed the guardian saint, to
whom you so often directed my prayers when I was a child, looking at
me with an expression of benevolence and compassion. I stretched forth
my hands to him, and besought his intercession; I implored that one
year, one month might be given to me on earth, to do penance and
atonement for my transgressions. He threw himself at the feet of my
Judge, and supplicated for mercy. Oh! never—not if I should pass
through ten thousand successive states of being—never, for eternity,
shall I forget the horrors of that moment, when my fate hung
suspended—when an instant was to decide whether torments unutterable
were to be my portion for endless ages? But Justice suspended its
decree, and Mercy spoke in accents of firmness, but mildness, ‘Return
to that world in which thou hast lived but to outrage the laws of Him
who made that world and thee. Three years are given thee for
repentance; when these are ended, thou shalt again stand here, to be
saved or lost for ever.’—I heard no more; I saw no more, until I
awoke to life, the moment before you entered.”

Charles’s strength continued just long enough to finish these last
words, and on uttering them he closed his eyes, and lay quite
exhausted. His mother, though, as was before said, somewhat disposed
to give credit to supernatural visitations, yet hesitated whether or
not she should believe that, although awakened from a swoon, which
might have been the crisis of his disease, he was still under the
influence of delirium. Repose, however, was at all events necessary,
and she took immediate measures that he should enjoy it undisturbed.
After some hours’ sleep, he awoke refreshed, and thenceforward
gradually but steadily recovered.

Still he persisted in his account of the vision, as he had at first
related it; and his persuasion of its reality had an obvious and
decided influence on his habits and conduct. He did not altogether
abandon the society of his former associates, for his temper was not
soured by his reformation; but he never joined in their excesses, and
often endeavoured to reclaim them. How his pious exertions succeeded,
I have never learnt; but of himself it is recorded, that he was
religious without ostentation, and temperate without austerity; giving
a practical proof that vice may be exchanged for virtue, without a
loss of respectability, popularity, or happiness.

Time rolled on, and long before the three years were ended, the story
of his vision was forgotten, or, when spoken of, was usually mentioned
as an instance proving the folly of believing in such things.
Charles’s health from the temperance and regularity of his habits,
became more robust than ever. His friends, indeed, had often occasion
to rally him upon a seriousness and abstractedness of demeanour,
which grew upon him as he approached the completion of his
seven-and-twentieth year, but for the most part his manner exhibited
the same animation and cheerfulness for which he had always been
remarkable. In company he evaded every endeavour to draw from him a
distinct opinion on the subject of the supposed prediction; but among
his own family it was well known that he still firmly believed it.
However, when the day had nearly arrived on which the prophecy was, if
at all, to be fulfilled, his whole appearance gave such promise of a
long and healthy life, that he was persuaded by his friends to ask a
large party to an entertainment at Spring House, to celebrate his
birth-day. But the occasion of this party, and the circumstances
which attended it, will be best learned from a perusal of the
following letters, which have been carefully preserved by some
relations of his family. The first is from Mrs. Mac Carthy to a lady,
a very near connexion and valued friend of hers, who lived in the
county of Cork, at about fifty miles’ distance from Spring House.

                        _“To Mrs. Barry, Castle Barry._

                                    Spring House, Tuesday morning,
                                               October 15th, 1752.

     “MY DEAREST MARY,

     “I am afraid I am going to put your affection for your old
     friend and kinswoman to a severe trial. A two days’ journey at
     this season, over bad roads and through a troubled country, it
     will indeed require friendship such as yours to persuade a
     sober woman to encounter. But the truth is, I have, or fancy I
     have, more than usual cause for wishing you near me. You know
     my son’s story. I can’t tell how it is, but as next Sunday
     approaches, when the prediction of his dream or his vision will
     be proved false or true, I feel a sickening of the heart, which
     I cannot suppress, but which your presence, my dear Mary, will
     soften, as it has done so many of my sorrows. My nephew, James
     Ryan, is to be married to Jane Osborne (who, you know, is my
     son’s ward,) and the bridal entertainment will take place here
     on Sunday next, though Charles pleaded hard to have it
     postponed a day or two longer. Would to God—but no more of
     this till we meet. Do prevail upon yourself to leave your good
     man for _one_ week, if his farming concerns will not admit of
     his accompanying you; and come to us with the girls, as soon
     before Sunday as you can.

     “Ever my dear Mary’s attached cousin and friend,
                                                  “ANN MAC CARTHY.”

Although this letter reached Castle Barry early on Wednesday, the
messenger having travelled on foot, over bog and moor, by paths
impassable to horse or carriage, Mrs. Barry, who at once determined on
going, had so many arrangements to make for the regulation of her
domestic affairs (which, in Ireland, among the middle orders of the
gentry, fall soon into confusion when the mistress of the family is
away,) that she and her two younger daughters were unable to leave
home until late on the morning of Friday. The eldest daughter
remained, to keep her father company, and superintend the concerns of
the household. As the travellers were to journey in an open one-horse
vehicle, called a jaunting-car (still used in Ireland,) and as the
roads, bad at all times, were rendered still worse by the heavy rains,
it was their design to make two easy stages; to stop about mid-way the
first night, and reach Spring House early on Saturday evening. This
arrangement was now altered, as they found that from the lateness of
their departure, they could proceed, at the utmost, no further than
twenty miles on the first day; and they therefore purposed sleeping at
the house of a Mr. Bourke, a friend of theirs, who lived at somewhat
less than that distance from Castle Barry. They reached Mr. Bourke’s
in safety, after rather a disagreeable drive. What befell them on
their journey the next day to the Spring House, and after their
arrival there, is fully related in a letter from the second Miss Barry
to her eldest sister.

                                       “Spring House, Sunday evening,
                                                  20th October, 1752.

     “DEAR ELLEN,

     “As my mother’s letter, which encloses this, will announce to
     you briefly the sad intelligence which I shall here relate more
     fully, I think it better to go regularly through the recital of
     the extraordinary events of the last two days.

     “The Bourkes kept us up so late on Friday night, that yesterday
     was pretty far advanced before we could begin our journey, and
     the day closed when we were nearly fifteen miles distant from
     this place. The roads were excessively deep, from the heavy
     rains of the last week, and we proceeded so slowly, that at
     last my mother resolved on passing the night at the house of
     Mr. Bourke’s brother (who lives about a quarter of a mile off
     the road), and coming here to breakfast in the morning. The day
     had been windy and showery, and the sky looked fitful, gloomy,
     and uncertain. The moon was full, and at times shone clear and
     bright; at others, it was wholly concealed behind the thick,
     black, and rugged masses of clouds, that rolled rapidly along,
     and were every moment becoming larger, and collecting together,
     as if gathering strength for a coming storm. The wind, which
     blew in our faces, whistled bleakly along the low hedges of the
     narrow road, on which we proceeded with difficulty from the
     number of deep sloughs, and which afforded not the least
     shelter, no plantation being within some miles of us. My
     mother, therefore, asked Leary, who drove the jaunting-car, how
     far we were from Mr. Bourke’s. ‘’Tis about ten spades from this
     to the cross, and we have then only to turn to the left into
     the avenue, ma’am.’ ‘Very well, Leary: turn up to Mr. Bourke’s
     as soon as you reach the cross roads.’ My mother had scarcely
     spoken these words, when a shriek that made us thrill as if our
     very hearts were pierced by it, burst from the hedge to the
     right of our way. If it resembled any thing earthly, it seemed
     the cry of a female, struck by a sudden and mortal blow, and
     giving out her life in one long deep pang of expiring agony.
     ‘Heaven defend us!’ exclaimed my mother. ‘Go you over the
     hedge, Leary, and save that woman, if she is not yet dead,
     while we run back to the hut we just passed, and alarm the
     village near it.’ ‘Woman!’ said Leary, beating the horse
     violently, while his voice trembled—‘that’s no woman: the
     sooner we get on, ma’am, the better;’ and he continued his
     efforts to quicken the horse’s pace. We saw nothing. The moon
     was hid. It was quite dark, and we had been for some time
     expecting a heavy fall of rain. But just as Leary had spoken,
     and had succeeded in making the horse trot briskly forward, we
     distinctly heard a loud clapping of hands, followed by a
     succession of screams, that seemed to denote the last excess of
     despair and anguish, and to issue from a person running forward
     inside the hedge, to keep pace with our progress. Still we saw
     nothing; until, when we were within about ten yards of the
     place where an avenue branched off to Mr. Bourke’s to the left,
     and the road turned to Spring House on the right, the moon
     started suddenly from behind a cloud, and enabled us to see, as
     plainly as I now see this paper, the figure of a tall thin
     woman, with uncovered head, and long hair that floated round her
     shoulders, attired in something which seemed either a loose
     white cloak, or a sheet thrown hastily about her. She stood on
     the corner hedge, where the road on which we were, met that
     which leads to Spring House, with her face towards us, her left
     hand pointing to this place, and her right arm waving rapidly
     and violently, as if to draw us on in that direction. The horse
     had stopped, apparently frightened at the sudden presence of
     the figure, which stood in the manner I have described, still
     uttering the same piercing cries, for about half a minute. It
     then leaped upon the road, disappeared from our view for one
     instant, and the next was seen standing upon a high wall a
     little way up the avenue, on which we proposed going, still
     pointing towards the road to Spring House, but in an attitude
     of defiance and command, as if prepared to oppose our passage
     up the avenue. The figure was now quite silent, and its
     garments, which had before flown loosely in the wind, were
     closely wrapped around it. ‘Go on, Leary, to Spring House, in
     God’s name,’ said my mother; ‘whatever world it belongs to, we
     will provoke it no longer.’ ‘’Tis the Banshee, ma’am,’ said
     Leary; ‘and I would not, for what my life is worth, go any
     where this blessed night but to Spring House. But I’m afraid
     there’s something bad going forward, or _she_ would not send us
     there.’ So saying, he drove forward; and as we turned on the
     road to the right, the moon suddenly withdrew its light, and we
     saw the apparition no more; but we heard plainly a prolonged
     clapping of hands, gradually dying away, as if it issued from a
     person rapidly retreating. We proceeded as quickly as the
     badness of the roads and the fatigue of the poor animal that
     drew us would allow, and arrived here about eleven o’clock last
     night. The scene which awaited us you have learned from my
     mother’s letter. To explain it fully, I must recount to you
     some of the transactions which took place here during the last
     week.

     “You are aware that Jane Osborne was to have been married this
     day to James Ryan, and that they and their friends have been
     here for the last week. On Tuesday last, the very day on the
     morning of which cousin Mac Carthy despatched the letter
     inviting us here, the whole of the company were walking about
     the grounds a little before dinner. It seems that an
     unfortunate creature, who had been seduced by James Ryan, was
     seen prowling in the neighbourhood in a moody melancholy state
     for some days previous. He had separated from her for several
     months, and, they say, had provided for her rather handsomely;
     but she had been seduced by the promise of his marrying her;
     and the shame of her unhappy condition, uniting with
     disappointment and jealousy, had disordered her intellects.
     During the whole forenoon of this Tuesday, she had been walking
     in the plantations near Spring House, with her cloak folded
     tight around her, the hood nearly covering her face; and she
     had avoided conversing with or even meeting any of the family.

     “Charles Mac Carthy, at the time I mentioned, was walking
     between James Ryan and another, at a little distance from the
     rest, on a gravel path, skirting a shrubbery. The whole party
     were thrown into the utmost consternation by the report of a
     pistol, fired from a thickly planted part of the shrubbery,
     which Charles and his companions had just passed. He fell
     instantly, and it was found that he had been wounded in the
     leg. One of the party was a medical man; his assistance was
     immediately given, and, on examining, he declared that the
     injury was very slight, that no bone was broken, that it was
     merely a flesh wound, and that it would certainly be well in a
     few days. ‘We shall know more by Sunday,’ said Charles, as he
     was carried to his chamber. His wound was immediately dressed,
     and so slight was the inconvenience which it gave, that several
     of his friends spent a portion of the evening in his apartment.

     “On inquiry, it was found that the unlucky shot was fired by the
     poor girl I just mentioned. It was also manifest that she had
     aimed, not at Charles, but at the destroyer of her innocence
     and happiness, who was walking beside him. After a fruitless
     search for her through the grounds, she walked into the house
     of her own accord, laughing, and dancing and singing wildly,
     and every moment exclaiming that she had at last killed Mr.
     Ryan. When she heard that it was Charles, and not Mr. Ryan, who
     was shot, she fell into a violent fit, out of which, after
     working convulsively for some time, she sprung to the door,
     escaped from the crowd that pursued her, and could never be
     taken until last night, when she was brought here, perfectly
     frantic, a little before our arrival.

     “Charles’s wound was thought of such little consequence, that
     the preparations went forward, as usual, for the wedding
     entertainment on Sunday. But on Friday night he grew restless
     and feverish, and on Saturday (yesterday) morning felt so ill,
     that it was deemed necessary to obtain additional medical
     advice. Two physicians and a surgeon met in consultation about
     twelve o’clock in the day, and the dreadful intelligence was
     announced, that unless a change, hardly hoped for, took place
     before night, death must happen within twenty-four hours after.
     The wound it seems, had been too tightly bandaged, and
     otherwise injudiciously treated. The physicians were right in
     their anticipations. No favourable symptom appeared, and long
     before we reached Spring House every ray of hope had vanished.
     The scene we witnessed on our arrival would have wrung the
     heart of a demon. We heard briefly at the gate that Mr. Charles
     was upon his death-bed. When we reached the house, the
     information was confirmed by the servant who opened the door.
     But just as we entered, we were horrified by the most appalling
     screams issuing from the staircase. My mother thought she heard
     the voice of poor Mrs. Mac Carthy, and sprung forward. We
     followed, and on ascending a few steps of the stairs, we found
     a young woman, in a state of frantic passion, struggling
     furiously with two men-servants, whose united strength was
     hardly sufficient to prevent her rushing up stairs over the
     body of Mrs. Mac Carthy, who was lying in strong hysterics upon
     the steps. This, I afterwards discovered, was the unhappy girl
     I before described, who was attempting to gain access to
     Charles’s room, to ‘get his forgiveness,’ as she said, ‘before
     he went away to accuse her for having killed him.’ This wild
     idea was mingled with another, which seemed to dispute with the
     former possession of her mind. In one sentence she called on
     Charles to forgive her, in the next she would denounce James
     Ryan as the murderer both of Charles and her. At length she was
     torn away; and the last words I heard her scream were, ‘James
     Ryan, ’twas you killed him, and not I—’twas you killed him,
     and not I.’

     “Mrs. Mac Carthy, on recovering, fell into the arms of my
     mother, whose presence seemed a great relief to her. She wept
     the first tears, I was told, that she had shed since the fatal
     accident. She conducted us to Charles’s room, who she said, had
     desired to see us the moment of our arrival, as he found his
     end approaching, and wished to devote the last hours of his
     existence to uninterrupted prayer and meditation. We found him
     perfectly calm, resigned, and even cheerful. He spoke of the
     awful event which was at hand with courage and confidence, and
     treated it as a doom for which he had been preparing ever since
     his former remarkable illness, and which he never once doubted
     was truly foretold to him. He bade us farewell with the air of
     one who was about to travel a short and easy journey; and we
     left him with impressions which, notwithstanding all their
     anguish, will, I trust, never entirely forsake us.

     “Poor Mrs. Mac Carthy——but I am just called away. There seems
     a slight stir in the family; perhaps——”

The above letter was never finished. The enclosure to which it more
than once alludes, told the sequel briefly, and it is all that I have
farther learned of this branch of the Mac Carthy family. Before the
sun had gone down upon Charles’s seven-and-twentieth birth-day, his
soul had gone to render its last account to its Creator.

     “BANSHEE, correctly written she-fairies or women fairies,
     credulously supposed, by the common people, to be so affected
     to certain families, that they are heard to sing mournful
     lamentations about their houses at night, whenever any of the
     family labours under a sickness which is to end in death. But
     no families which are not of an ancient and noble stock are
     believed to be honoured with this fairy privilege.”—O’BRIEN’S
     _Irish Dictionary_.

     For accounts of the appearance of the Irish Banshee, see
     “Personal Sketches, &c. by Sir Jonah Barrington;” Miss Lefanu’s
     Memoirs of her Grandmother, Mrs. Frances Sheridan (1824,) p.
     32; “The Memoirs of Lady Fanshaw” (quoted by Sir Walter Scott
     in a note on “the Lady of the Lake,”) &c.

     Sir Walter Scott terms the belief in the appearance of the
     Banshee “one of the most beautiful” of the leading
     superstitions of Europe. In his “Letters on Demonology,” he
     says that “several families of the Highlands of Scotland
     anciently laid claim to the distinction of an attendant spirit,
     who performed the office of the Irish Banshee,” and
     particularly refers to the supernatural cries and lamentations
     which foreboded the death of the gallant Mac Lean of Lochbuy.

     “The Welsh Gwrâch y Rhibyn (or the hag of the Dribble) bears
     some resemblance to the Irish Banshee, being regarded as an
     omen of death. She is said to come after dusk and flap her
     leathern wings against the window where she warns of death, and
     in a broken, howling tone, to call on the one who is to quit
     mortality by his or her name several times, as thus,
     _A-a-a-n-ni-i-i-i! Anni._”—_MS. Communication from_ DR. OWEN
     PUGHE. For some farther particulars, see, in “A Relation of
     Apparitions, &c. by the Rev. Edmund Jones,” his account of the
     _Kyhirraeth_, “a doleful foreboding noise before death;” and
     Howell’s “Cambrian Superstitions,” (Tipton, 1831,) p. 31.

     The reader will probably remember the White Lady of the House
     of Brandenburgh, and the fairy Melusine, who usually
     prognosticated the recurrence of mortality in some noble family
     of Poitou. Prince, in his “Worthies of Devon,” records the
     appearance of a white bird performing the same office for the
     worshipful lineage of Oxenham.

     “In the Tyrol, too, they believe in a spirit which looks in at
     the window of the house in which a person is to die (_Deutsche
     Sagen_, No. 266;) the white woman with a veil over her head
     (267,) answers to the Banshee; but the tradition of the
     _Klage-weib_ (mourning woman,) in the _Lüneburger Heath_
     (_Spiels Archiv._ ii. 297,) resembles it still more closely. On
     stormy nights, when the moon shines faintly through the
     fleeting clouds, she stalks, of gigantic stature, with
     death-like aspect, and black hollow eyes, wrapt in
     grave-clothes which float in the wind, and stretches her
     immense arm over the solitary hut, uttering lamentable cries in
     the tempestuous darkness. Beneath the roof over which the
     _Klage-weib_ has leaned, one of the inmates must die in the
     course of the month.”—THE BROTHERS GRIMM, _and MS.
                               Communication from_ DR. WILLIAM GRIMM.




LEGENDS OF THE PHOOKA.

    “Ne let house-fires, nor lightnings’ helpless harms,
    Ne let the _Pouke_, nor other evil spright,
    Ne let mischievous witches with their charms,
    Ne let hobgoblins, names whose sense we see not,
        Fray us with things that be not.”
                                                SPENSER.




THE SPIRIT HORSE.

XIV.


The history of Morty Sullivan ought to be a warning to all young men
to stay at home, and to live decently and soberly if they can, and not
to go roving about the world. Morty, when he had just turned of
fourteen, ran away from his father and mother, who were a mighty
respectable old couple, and many and many a tear they shed on his
account. It is said they both died heart-broken for his loss: all they
ever learned about him was that he went on board of a ship bound to
America.

Thirty years after the old couple had been laid peacefully in their
graves, there came a stranger to Beerhaven inquiring after them—it
was their son Morty; and, to speak the truth of him, his heart did
seem full of sorrow when he heard that his parents were dead and
gone;—but what else could he expect to hear? Repentance generally
comes when it is too late.

Morty Sullivan, however, as an atonement for his sins, was recommended
to perform a pilgrimage to the blessed chapel of Saint Gobnate, which
is in a wild place called Ballyvourney.

This he readily undertook: and willing to lose no time, commenced his
journey the same afternoon. He had not proceeded many miles before the
evening came on: there was no moon, and the star-light was obscured by
a thick fog, which ascended from the valleys. His way was through a
mountainous country, with many cross-paths and by-ways, so that it was
difficult for a stranger like Morty to travel without a guide. He was
anxious to reach his destination, and exerted himself to do so; but
the fog grew thicker and thicker, and at last he became doubtful if
the track he was in led to the blessed chapel of Saint Gobnate. But
seeing a light which he imagined not to be far off, he went towards
it, and when he thought himself close to it, the light suddenly seemed
at a great distance, twinkling dimly through the fog. Though Morty
felt some surprise at this, he was not disheartened, for he thought
that it was a light sent by the holy Saint Gobnate to guide his feet
through the mountains to her chapel.

And thus did he travel for many a mile, continually, as he believed,
approaching the light, which would suddenly start off to a great
distance. At length he came so close as to perceive that the light
came from a fire: seated beside which he plainly saw an old
woman;—then, indeed, his faith was a little shaken, and much did he
wonder that both the fire and the old woman should travel before him,
so many weary miles, and over such uneven roads.

“In the holy names of the pious Gobnate, and of her preceptor Saint
Abban,” said Morty, “how can that burning fire move on so fast before
me, and who can that old woman be sitting beside the moving fire?”

These words had no sooner passed Morty’s lips than he found himself,
without taking another step, close to this wonderful fire, beside
which the old woman was sitting munching her supper. With every wag of
the old woman’s jaw her eyes would roll fiercely upon Morty, as if she
was angry at being disturbed; and he saw with more astonishment than
ever that her eyes were neither black, nor blue, nor gray, nor hazel,
like the human eye, but of a wild red colour, like the eye of a
ferret. If before he wondered at the fire, much greater was his wonder
at the old woman’s appearance; and stout-hearted as he was, he could
not but look upon her with fear—judging, and judging rightly, that it
was for no good purpose her supping in so unfrequented a place, and at
so late an hour, for it was near midnight. She said not one word,
but munched and munched away, while Morty looked at her in
silence.—“What’s your name?” at last demanded the old hag, a
sulphureous puff coming out of her mouth, her nostrils distending, and
her eyes growing redder than ever, when she had finished her question.

Plucking up all his courage, “Morty Sullivan,” replied he “at your
service;” meaning the latter words only in civility.

“_Ubbubbo!_” said the old woman, “we’ll soon see that;” and the red
fire of her eyes turned into a pale green colour. Bold and fearless as
Morty was, yet much did he tremble at hearing this dreadful
exclamation: he would have fallen down on his knees and prayed to
Saint Gobnate, or any other saint, for he was not particular; but he
was so petrified with horror, that he could not move in the slightest
way, much less go down on his knees.

“Take hold of my hand, Morty,” said the old woman: “I’ll give you a
horse to ride that will soon carry you to your journey’s end.” So
saying, she led the way, the fire going before them;—it is beyond
mortal knowledge to say how, but on it went, shooting out bright
tongues of flame, and flickering fiercely.

Presently they came to a natural cavern in the side of the mountain,
and the old hag called aloud in a most discordant voice for her horse!
In a moment a jet-black steed started from its gloomy stable, the
rocky floor whereof rung with a sepulchral echo to the clanging
hoofs.

“Mount, Morty, mount!” cried she, seizing him with supernatural
strength, and forcing him upon the back of the horse. Morty finding
human power of no avail, muttered, “O that I had spurs!” and tried to
grasp the horse’s mane; but he caught at a shadow; it nevertheless
bore him up and bounded forward with him, now springing down a fearful
precipice, now clearing the rugged bed of a torrent, and rushing like
the dark midnight storm through the mountains.

The following morning Morty Sullivan was discovered by some pilgrims
(who came that way after taking their rounds at Gougane Barra) lying
on the flat of his back, under a steep cliff, down which he had been
flung by the Phooka. Morty was severely bruised by the fall, and he is
said to have sworn on the spot, by the hand of O’Sullivan (and that is
no small oath),[15] never again to take a full quart bottle of whisky
with him on a pilgrimage.

    [15]  “Nulla manus,
          Tam liberalis
          Atque generalis
          Atque universalis
          Quam Sullivanis.”




DANIEL O’ROURKE.

XV.


People may have heard of the renowned adventures of Daniel O’Rourke,
but how few are there who know that the cause of all his perils, above
and below, was neither more nor less than his having slept under the
walls of the Phooka’s tower! I knew the man well; he lived at the
bottom of Hungry Hill, just at the right hand side of the road as you
go towards Bantry. An old man was he at the time that he told me the
story, with gray hair, and a red nose; and it was on the 25th of June,
1813, that I heard it from his own lips, as he sat smoking his pipe
under the old poplar tree, on as fine an evening as ever shone from
the sky. I was going to visit the caves in Dursey Island, having spent
the morning at Glengariff.

“I am often _axed_ to tell it, sir,” said he, “so that this is not the
first time. The master’s son, you see, had come from beyond foreign
parts in France and Spain, as young gentlemen used to go, before
Bonaparte or any such was heard of; and sure enough there was a dinner
given to all the people on the ground, gentle and simple, high and
low, rich and poor. The _ould_ gentlemen were the gentlemen, after
all, saving your honour’s presence. They’d swear at a body a little,
to be sure, and may be, give one a cut of a whip now and then, but we
were no losers by it in the end;—and they were so easy and civil, and
kept such rattling houses, and thousands of welcomes;—and there was
no grinding for rent, and few agents; and there was hardly a tenant on
the estate that did not taste of his landlord’s bounty often and often
in the year;—but now it’s another thing: no matter for that, sir; for
I’d better be telling you my story.

“Well, we had every thing of the best, and plenty of it; and we ate,
and we drank, and we danced, and the young master by the same token
danced with Peggy Barry, from the Bohereen—a lovely young couple they
were, though they are both low enough now. To make a long story short,
I got, as a body may say, the same thing as tipsy almost; for I can’t
remember ever at all, no ways, how it was I left the place: only I did
leave it, that’s certain. Well, I thought, for all that, in myself,
I’d just step to Molly Cronohan’s, the fairy woman, to speak a word
about the bracket heifer that was bewitched; and so as I was crossing
the stepping-stones of the ford of Ballyasheenough, and was looking up
at the stars and blessing myself—for why? it was Lady-day—I missed
my foot, and souse I fell into the water. ‘Death alive!’ thought I,
‘I’ll be drowned now!’ However, I began swimming, swimming, swimming
away for the dear life, till at last I got ashore, somehow or other,
but never the one of me can tell how, upon a _dissolute_ island.

“I wandered and wandered about there, without knowing where I
wandered, until at last I got into a big bog. The moon was shining as
bright as day, or your fair lady’s eyes, sir, (with your pardon for
mentioning her,) and I looked east and west, and north and south, and
every way, and nothing did I see but bog, bog, bog;—I could never
find out how I got into it; and my heart grew cold with fear, for sure
and certain I was that it would be my _berrin_ place. So I sat down
upon a stone which, as good luck would have it, was close by me, and I
began to scratch my head and sing the _Ullagone_—when all of a sudden
the moon grew black, and I looked up, and saw something for all the
world as if it was moving down between me and it, and I could not tell
what it was. Down it came with a pounce, and looked at me full in the
face; and what was it but an eagle? as fine a one as ever flew from
the kingdom of Kerry.

“So he looked at me in the face, and says he to me, ‘Daniel O’Rourke,’
says he, ‘how do you do?’ ‘Very well, I thank you, sir,’ says I: ‘I
hope you’re well;’ wondering out of my senses all the time how an
eagle came to speak like a Christian. ‘What brings you here, Dan?’
says he. ‘Nothing at all, sir,’ says I: ‘only I wish I was safe home
again.’ ‘Is it out of the Island you want to go, Dan?’ says he. ‘’Tis,
sir,’ says I: so I up and told him how I had taken a drop too much and
fell into the water; how I swam to the Island; and how I got into the
bog, and did not know my way out of it. ‘Dan,’ says he, after a
minute’s thought, ‘though it is very improper for you to get drunk on
Lady-day, yet as you are a decent sober man, who ’tends mass well, and
never flings stones at me nor mine, nor cries out after us in the
fields—my life for yours,’ says he; ‘so get up on my back, and grip
me well for fear you’d fall off, and I’ll fly you out of the bog.’ ‘I
am afraid,’ says I, ‘your honour’s making game of me; for who ever
heard of riding a horseback on an eagle before?’ ‘’Pon the honour of a
gentleman,’ says he, putting his right foot on his breast, ‘I am quite
in earnest; and so now either take my offer or starve in the
bog—besides, I see that your weight is sinking the stone.’

“It was true enough as he said, for I found the stone every minute
going from under me. I had no choice; so thinks I to myself, faint
heart never won fair lady, and this is fair persuadance:—‘I thank
your honour,’ says I, ‘for the loan of your civility; and I’ll take
your kind offer.’ I therefore mounted upon the back of the eagle, and
held him tight enough by the throat, and up he flew in the air like a
lark. Little I knew the trick he was going to serve me. Up—up—up—I
know not how far up he flew.

“‘Why, then,’ said I to him,—thinking he did not know the right road
home—very civilly, because why?—I was in his power entirely;—‘sir,’
says I, ‘please your honour’s glory, and with humble submission to
your better judgment, if you’d fly down a bit, you’re now just over my
cabin, and I could put down there, and many thanks to your worship.’

“‘_Arrah_, Dan,’ said he, ‘do you think me a fool? Look down in the
next field, and don’t you see two men and a gun? By my word it would
be no joke to be shot this way, to oblige a drunken blackguard that I
picked up off of a _cowld_ stone in a bog.’ ‘Bother you,’ said I to
myself, but I did not speak out, for where was the use? Well, sir, up
he kept, flying, flying, and I asking him every minute to fly down,
and all to no use. ‘Where in the world are you going, sir?’ says I to
him. ‘Hold your tongue, Dan,’ says he: ‘mind your own business, and
don’t be interfering with the business of other people.’ ‘Faith, this
is my business, I think,’ says I. ‘Be quiet, Dan,’ says he: so I said
no more.

“At last, where should we come to, but to the moon itself. Now you
can’t see it from this, but there is, or there was in my time, a
reaping-hook sticking out of the side of the moon, this way, (drawing
the figure thus [in-line illustration] on the ground with the end of
his stick.)

“‘Dan,’ said the eagle, ‘I’m tired with this long fly; I had no
notion ’twas so far.’ ‘And my lord, sir,’ said I, ‘who in the world
_axed_ you to fly so far—was it I? did not I beg, and pray, and
beseech you to stop half an hour ago?’ ‘There’s no use talking, Dan,’
said he; ‘I’m tired bad enough, so you must get off, and sit down on
the moon until I rest myself.’ ‘Is it sit down on the moon?’ said I;
‘is it upon that little round thing, then? why, then, sure I’d fall
off in a minute, and be _kilt_ and split, and smashed all to bits: you
are a vile deceiver,—so you are.’ ‘Not at all, Dan,’ said he: ‘you
can catch fast hold of the reaping-hook that’s sticking out of the
side of the moon, and ’twill keep you up.’ ‘I won’t, then,’ said I.
‘May be not,’ said he, quite quiet. ‘If you don’t, my man, I shall
just give you a shake, and one slap of my wing, and send you down to
the ground, where every bone in your body will be smashed as small as
a drop of dew on a cabbage-leaf in the morning.’ ‘Why, then, I’m in a
fine way,’ said I to myself, ‘ever to have come along with the likes
of you;’ and so giving him a hearty curse in Irish, for fear he’d know
what I said, I got off his back with a heavy heart, took a hold of the
reaping hook, and sat down upon the moon; and a mighty cold seat it
was, I can tell you that.

“When he had me there fairly landed, he turned about on me, and said,
‘Good morning to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he: ‘I think I’ve nicked
you fairly now. You robbed my nest last year,’ (’twas true enough for
him, but how he found it out is hard to say,) ‘and in return you are
freely welcome to cool your heels dangling upon the moon like a
cock-throw.’

“‘Is that all, and is this the way you leave me, you brute, you?’ says
I. ‘You ugly unnatural _baste_, and is this the way you serve me at
last? Bad luck to yourself, with your hooked nose, and to all your
breed, you blackguard.’ ’Twas all to no manner of use: he spread out
his great big wings, burst out a laughing, and flew away like
lightning. I bawled after him to stop; but I might have called and
bawled for ever, without his minding me. Away he went, and I never saw
him from that day to this—sorrow fly away with him! You may be sure I
was in a disconsolate condition, and kept roaring out for the bare
grief, when all at once a door opened right in the middle of the moon,
creaking on its hinges as if it had not been opened for a month
before. I suppose they never thought of greasing ’em, and out there
walks—who do you think but the man in the moon himself? I knew him by
his bush.

“‘Good morrow to you, Daniel O’Rourke,’ said he: ‘How do you do?’
‘Very well, thank your honour,’ said I. ‘I hope your honour’s well.’
‘What brought you here, Dan?’ said he. So I told him how I was a
little overtaken in liquor at the master’s, and how I was cast on a
_dissolute_ island, and how I lost my way in the bog, and how the
thief of an eagle promised to fly me out of it, and how instead of
that he had flew me up to the moon.

“‘Dan,’ said the man in the moon, taking a pinch of snuff when I was
done, ‘you must not stay here.’ ‘Indeed, sir,’ says I, ‘’tis much
against my will I’m here at all; but how am I to go back?’ ‘That’s
your business,’ said he, ‘Dan: mine is to tell you that here you must
not stay; so be off in less than no time.’ ‘I’m doing no harm,’ says
I, ‘only holding on hard by the reaping-hook, lest I fall off.’
‘That’s what you must not do, Dan,’ says he. ‘Pray, sir,’ says I, ‘may
I ask how many you are in family, that you would not give a poor
traveller lodging: I’m sure ’tis not so often you’re troubled with
strangers coming to see you, for ’tis a long way.’ ‘I’m by myself,
Dan,’ says he; ‘but you’d better let go the reaping-hook.’ ‘Indeed,
and with your leave,’ says I, ‘I’ll not let go the grip, and the more
you bids me, the more I won’t let go;—so I will.’ ‘You had better,
Dan,’ says he again. ‘Why, then, my little fellow,’ says I, taking the
whole weight of him with my eye from head to foot, ‘there are two
words to that bargain, and I’ll not budge, but you may if you like.’
‘We’ll see how that is to be,’ says he; and back he went, giving the
door such a great bang after him (for it was plain he was huffed),
that I thought the moon and all would fall down with it.

“Well, I was preparing myself to try strength with him, when back
again he comes, with the kitchen cleaver in his hand, and without
saying a word, he gives two bangs to the handle of the reaping-hook
that was keeping me up, and _whap_! it came in two. ‘Good morning to
you, Dan,’ says the spiteful little old blackguard, when he saw me
cleanly falling down with a bit of the handle in my hand:

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