Legends of Saints & Sinners. Collected and Translated from the Irish
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Title: Legends of Saints & Sinners. Collected and Translated from the Irish
Compiler: Douglas Hyde
Illustrator: Noel L. Nisbet
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[Illustration: ST. PATRICK AND CROM DUBH]
LEGENDS OF SAINTS & SINNERS
Collected and Translated from the Irish by
DOUGLAS HYDE, LL.D., D.LITT.
[Illustration: (logo) The Irish Library]
With Illustrations by Noel L. Nisbet
The Gresham Publishing Company Ltd.
London Dublin and Belfast
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION vii
ST. PATRICK AND CROM DUBH 1
MARY'S WELL 12
HOW COVETOUSNESS CAME INTO THE CHURCH 22
KNOCK MULRUANA 26
THE STONE OF TRUTH 34
THE ADVENTURES OF LEITHIN 40
THE COMPARISON AS TO AGES 56
THE DEATH OF BEARACHAN 63
STORY OF SOLOMON 66
CHRISTMAS ALMS 70
THE BURIAL OF JESUS 76
SAINT PETER 80
LEGENDS OF ST. DEGLAN 87
ST. PAUL'S VISION 95
OSCAR OF THE FLAIL 110
OISIN IN ELPHIN 114
THE PRIEST WHO WENT TO DO PENANCE 116
THE FRIARS OF URLAUR 125
DIALOGUE BETWEEN TWO OLD WOMEN 136
THE MINISTER AND THE GOSSOON 142
THE KEENING OF THE THREE MARYS 145
THE FARMER'S SON AND THE BISHOP 148
SHAUN THE TINKER 154
MARY AND ST. JOSEPH AND THE CHERRY TREE 163
THE STUDENT WHO LEFT COLLEGE 166
THE HELP OF GOD IN THE ROAD 173
THE MINISTER'S SON 178
THE OLD WOMAN OF BEARE 188
THE OLD HAG OF DINGLE 192
THE POEM OF THE TOR 195
COLUMCILLE AND HIS BROTHER DOBHRAN 198
BRUADAR AND SMITH AND GLINN 206
FRIAR BRIAN 210
HOW THE FIRST CAT WAS CREATED 214
GOD SPARE YOU YOUR HEALTH 217
TEIG O'KANE AND THE CORPSE 219
TOMAUS O'CAHAN AND THE GHOST 238
PRAYER AFTER TOBACCO 243
THE BUIDEACH, THE TINKER, AND THE BLACK DONKEY 247
THE GREAT WORM OF THE SHANNON 258
THE POOR WIDOW AND GRANIA OÏ 264
THE GAMBLER OF THE BRANCH 273
THE BEETLE, THE DHARDHEEL, AND THE PRUMPOLAUN 276
THE LADY OF THE ALMS 280
ST. PATRICK AND HIS GARRON 283
HOW SAINT MOLING GOT HIS NAME 292
INTRODUCTION.
I have called the present volume "Legends of Saints and Sinners,"
which to a certain extent it is; but I mean it for a book of Irish
Christian folk-lore. My idea in compiling it has been to give for the
first time a collection of genuine Irish folk-lore which might be
called "Christian." By this I mean folk-stories and folk-poems which
are either entirely founded upon Christian conceptions, or else are so
far coloured by them, that they could never have been told--at least
in their present shape--had not Christianity established itself in
Ireland. Every one of these stories conforms fairly to this standard,
except one or two, which I give as necessary corollaries. They are
all translations from the Irish. I have found hardly any such stories
in English. They were mostly collected by myself from the mouths of
native speakers, but three or four of them I have taken from Irish MSS.
in my own possession, and a few more were given me by my friends. Not
one of these stories was ever translated into English before, with the
exception of those which I have taken from my own "Religious Songs of
Connacht."[1] Many of these I decided to republish here, as they were
practically lost amongst the heterogeneous mass of poems, prayers,
charms, etc., in which they were embedded; and, as the Religious Songs
are little known, these stories which I have excerpted from them will
be new to nineteen-twentieths of my readers. Several of these pieces
have never been printed even in Irish, but I hope to shortly publish
the original text of these, especially the Adventures of Léithin, which
seems to belong to a strange and weird cycle of beast and bird-lore,
now lost or almost lost, but of which we find hints here and there
though we know nothing certain.
[1] And "Teig O'Kane," which I translated for Mr. Yeats nearly twenty
years ago.
Most of these pieces may be said to be in a true sense "folk-lore,"
seeing that they have almost all lingered more or less vividly in the
memory of people who for the most part could neither read nor write.
Some of them obviously come from Continental sources, though how they
first found their way into Ireland is obscure, and the derivation of
some of them cannot now be traced; others, however, are of a purely
native invention; while a third class engrafts native traits and ideas
upon foreign subject matter.
The stories in this collection cover a good deal of ground and present
many various aspects of folk tradition and folk belief. Of native
Saints we find legends concerning Patrick, Columcille, Deglan, Moling
and Ciaran; of foreign Saints we find legends of St. Peter, St. Paul
and St. Martin; of unknown or mythical characters we find tales of
Grainne Oïgh, Friar Brian, The Old Woman of Beare, and Mulruana. Of
other well-known names, Oisín and Oscar and Solomon appear. Curiously
enough I have not chanced upon any folk-tale told about Saint Brigit,
the "Mary of the Gael." There is, for some reason or other, a distinct
predominance of Petrine stories among these legends.
* * * * *
When we consider the collection as a whole, we find that its purely
Irish aspect is apparent in many ways, and in none more than in
the very characteristic dovetailing of what is Pagan into what is
Christian. But its omissions are even more distinctly Irish than its
inclusions.
In most countries, for instance, the Devil is the great outstanding
anthropomorphic conception added to the folk-lore of Europe by the
introduction of Christianity; and later the belief in Witches,
who trafficked directly or indirectly with the Evil One, became
extraordinary prevalent and powerful. Now the most striking fact
about our collection is that the Devil personified rarely appears in
it at all, and Witches never. The belief in Witches, and in Witches'
Sabbaths, with which other nations were positively obsessed, and
which gave rise to such hecatombs of unhappy victims in almost all
the Protestant and in some of the Catholic countries in Europe, as
well as in America, never found its way into native Ireland at all, or
disturbed Gaelic sanity, although a few isolated instances occurred
amongst the English settlers. The Highland Gaels, to whom the idea of
witches was more familiar owing to their proximity to the Scottish
Lowlands, which was one of the most witch-ridden Countries in Europe,
simply borrowed the English Word for witch under the form "buitseach,"
and from that they coined the word "buitseachas" for witchcraft.
The Irish, however, did not borrow even the name--they had never heard
of the thing itself, and had naturally no name for a class of creatures
with whom they had no acquaintance.
It is true that the Evil Eye was known in Ireland, and I have found one
or two prayers or charms against it;[2] but so far as I have collected,
I have not been able to find it made the basis of any story.
[2] See "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol. II., p. 52.
In ancient times, however, there were creatures known in Ireland
who appear to have had some of the characteristics of the Christian
witches, but their conception is purely Pagan and owes nothing to
Christianity. Their Irish name was _amait_, and it was applicable to
both sexes. In the old translation of the "Cath catharda" (the Irish
version of Lucan's Pharsalia), Medea is called the chief _amait_ or
witch of the world. In the "Agallamh na Senorach" or Dialogue between
St. Patrick on one side, and Oisín and Caoilte[3] on the other, we read
of nine women _amaits_ who were engaged in "amaidecht," and who used
never allow a man or woman to escape them. "And they were not long
there," says the thirteenth (?) century text, "until they saw the nine
black gloomy witches (_amaits_) coming to meet them; and if the dead
ever arose out of the ground the yells which they used to utter round
them on all sides would have brought them forth [from their tombs].
And Patrick takes the holy water and sprinkles it on the _amaits_,
and they fled away from him until they reached Inis Guil, which is
called the island of the shrine or the White Lake of Ceara.[4] And it
was there they heard the last cry from them. And the people seated
themselves on the sodded sward, and the King of Connacht spake then,
'that is the chasing of a good-cleric that thou hast given to the
demons,' said he.'"
[3] Pronounce Ussheen and Cweeltia. Oisín is better known as Ossian in
Scotland.
[4] Now Loch Carra, in Co. Mayo. The bottom of this lake consists
of white marl, which gives the water an extraordinary light green
appearance; hence it is called in old Irish documents Fionnloch Ceara,
or the "white lake of Carra." The metrical Dinnsenchus, however, calmly
ignoring this obvious physiological reason, evident to anyone who had
ever examined the lake, gives a fantastic account of the white wings of
angels, from which it says the water derived its name.
This word _amait_, though lost in folk-speech, and never now used
in the sense of witch, has nevertheless perpetuated itself in an
extraordinary tradition in parts of Connacht. The appellation for the
Fairy Palace, where the Good People or Tuatha De Danann dwell, is
_bruidhean_ (pronounced Breean with the b broad), and there is a belief
that there is a denizen of the bruidhean called "amadán na bruidhne,"
which seems to mean the "fool of the palace" whose lightest touch
is death. From the other creatures of the bruidhean one may escape
scatheless, but never from the "amadán." This "amadán" I take to be a
folk perversion or a diminutive of _amait_, and to have nothing at all
to say to the word "amadán," "a fool."
The _amait_ owes nothing to Christianity, but her equivalent in modern
folk-lore would rather be found in the Story of "Conn among the goats,"
where the woman whom all thought dead comes back from the grave, and
kills her husband, or in the story of the Priest and Bishop, where the
hanged woman comes back as a malevolent spirit to claim the priest; or
in some of the stories that Curtin collected around Dingle.
It is quite true that there are many current tales or beliefs
concerning more or less malignant old women who steal butter from
their neighbours' churns by charms or exorcisms, who turn themselves
into hares and suck the cows, and who are supposed to possess certain
more or less supernatural powers. These old women, however, seldom or
never figure in regular stories, nor have they given rise to a type or
even to a common appellation. They are just known as "cailleacha" or
hags. There is absolutely nothing in Irish folk-lore, so far as I am
acquainted with it, to suggest the disgusting and obscene orgies of the
witches' sabbaths, as we find them in other countries, or of incubi or
succubi, or of intercourse with the devil, or of riding on broomsticks
to keep appointments with the Evil One, or of conjuring up the dead, or
even of producing wasting diseases in enemies, or making, waxen or clay
images of those whom they wished to injure.[5]
[5] I am not quite so certain about this last having never been
practised in Ireland, but I have certainly never been told any story
about it, nor seen it mentioned in MSS.
The Devil, too, in so far as he comes into Irish folk-lore, is a much
less grotesque figure than the usual mediaeval conception of him,
such as we see with horns and hooves in Albrecht Dürer's pictures.
He is usually designated as the "Old Devil" or the Aidhbherseoir,
often contracted to Airseoir from the Latin Adversarius. He does not
generally appear as roaming through the world seeking whom he may
devour, but mostly keeps to his own abode in the Infernal Regions,
where he must be sought. We meet him in both forms, as a wandering
person and as king of the Lower Regions in my late friend's, Mr.
Larminie's, very curious and interesting story of the woman who went
to hell. He is not the popular or common character in our folk-lore
that he is in Teutonic legend. He does not construct bridges, nor hold
high festival on hill tops, and few or none of the curious freaks of
nature as seen in rocks, chasms, and the like are attributed to him.
The Devil's Bit and the Devil's Punch Bowl, so common in Anglo-Irish
nomenclature, do not always correspond to the original Irish
appellation.
* * * * *
When the survivors of the old Fianna, Oisín (or Ossian), Caoilte and
the rest, were told about Hell and the Devil by St. Patrick and his
clergy, they could not, according to the Ossianic legends, comprehend
it in the least, and the misunderstandings which the doctrine gave
rise to were taken full advantage of by the composers of the Ossianic
ballads. The idea of bringing the last great figure of Paganism, the
warrior and poet Ossian, into contact with the first great Christian
figure in Ireland, St. Patrick, was a brilliant one, and it gave birth
to whole volumes of badinage and semi-comic wrangling in the popular
ballads which told of the warrior and the cleric. These ballads used
to be in great vogue at one time, and any seanchuidhe worthy of the
name used to be able to repeat by heart many hundreds of lines of the
dialogue between Patrick and Oisín. This is now nearly a thing of the
past, but the poems exist in numberless manuscripts, and are not yet
forgotten by the older Irish speakers, though the only specimen I have
given in this volume is the Baptism of Oisín, and it is in prose. St.
Patrick displays in places an excess of priestly rigour, but this is
always done to set off the naïveté of Oisín's answers.
[uncial: I n-ifreann na bpian ar lóiámh
Atá an fear sáimh do Bhronnadh an t-ór,
Imtheóchaidh tusa mar d'imthigh an fhiann,
Agus tráchtamaois ar Dhia go fóil.][6]
[6] I wrote down this from the recitation of an old man near Monivea,
Co. Galway. I have not seen it in MS. Literally, "In hell of the pains
in bondage is the gentle man (Fionn) who used to bestow the gold. You
will go as the Fianna have gone, and let us talk about God yet awhile."
But Oisín could not understand how Patrick's God could get the better
of his Fianna, or why He should try to put them in hell at all.
Were God and my son Oscar seen
On Knocknaveen in combat long,
And I saw my Oscar on the sod,
It's then I'd say that God was strong.
How is your God a better man
(Or all your clan of clerics there)
Than Finn, our Fenian chief, so great,
So straight, so generous, so fair?
The spirit of banter in which St. Patrick and the Church are treated,
and which just stops short of irreverence, is, of course, a mediaeval
and not a primitive trait. My friend, the late Mr. Nutt, thought
that it is a trait more characteristic of the twelfth than of any
succeeding century.
It would be exceedingly easy to fill volumes with stories from the
lives of Saints which exist either in old vellum or in paper MSS., but
this has not been my aim. I have kept to actual folk survivals, and
have drawn upon MSS. of Saints' lives only for the elucidation of the
folk-tale.
* * * * *
Finally, I should say that after having collected Irish folk-lore for
a quarter of a century, the amount of folk-stories which are wholly
conditioned by Christianity or largely based upon Christian conceptions
would be, in my opinion, about one story in four, or one story in
five. There still remains the fascinating problem of their sources. If
foreign, what was their origin and who brought them here; if native,
who invented them, and when, and with what purpose? I have prefixed a
few notes to each of the following stories which possibly may not be
wholly uninteresting to the reader who has an eye for these problems.
LEGENDS OF SAINTS AND SINNERS.
[_FROM THE IRISH._]
ST. PATRICK AND CROM DUBH.
PREFACE.
This legend, told by Michael Mac Ruaidhri of Ballycastle, Co. Mayo, is
evidently a confused reminiscence of Crom Cruach, the great pagan idol
which was overthrown by St. Patrick.[7] Though Crom appears as a man
in this story, yet the remark that the people thought he was the lord
of light and darkness and of the seasons is evidently due to his once
supposed Godhead. The fire, too, which he is said to have kept burning
may be the reminiscence of a sacrificial fire.
[7] See my "Literary History of Ireland," pp. 84-88. Also Stokes
edition of the "Tripartite Life," p. 92.
From a letter written to Sir Samuel Ferguson[8] by the late Brian
O'Looney, concerning Mount Callan in the Co. Clare, we see that this
legend of Crom was widely circulated. "Domnach Lunasa or Lammas
Sunday," says O'Looney, "the first Sunday of the month of August was
the first fruits' day, and a great day on Buaile-na-greine. On Lammas
Sunday, called Domnach Crom Dubh, and anglicised Garland Sunday,
every householder was supposed to feast his family and household on
the first fruits, and the farmer who failed to provide his people
with new potatoes, new bacon and white cabbage on that day was called
a _felemuir gaoithe_, or wind farmer; and if a man dug new potatoes
before Crom Dubh's day he was considered a needy man.... The assemblage
of this day was called _comthineol Chruim Dhuibh_, or the congregation
or gathering of Crom Dubh, and the day is called from him _Domnach
Chrom Dubh_, or Crom Dubh's Sunday, now called Garland Sunday by the
English-speaking portion of the people of the surrounding districts.
This name is supposed to have been derived from the practise of
strewing garlands of flowers on the festive mound [or Mount Callan] on
this day, as homage to Crom Dubh--hence the name Garland Sunday.
[8] See the paper read by Sir Samuel before the Royal Irish Academy,
April 28, 1873.
"Assuredly I saw blossoms and flowers deposited upon it on the first
Sunday of August, 1844, and put some upon it myself, as I saw done by
those who were with me.
* * * * *
"If you ask me who Crom Dubh was, I can only tell you I asked the
question myself on the spot. I was told that Crom was a god and that
Dubh or Dua meant _a sacrifice_, which in combination made Crom Dubh,
or Crom Dua, that is, Crom's Sacrifice; and this Sunday was set apart
for the feast and commemoration of this Crom Dubh, whoever he may have
been."
It is interesting to find O'Looney's old-time experiences in Co. Clare
so far borne out by this legend from North Mayo.
The name Téideach given to Crom's son, is, as Mr. Lloyd acutely points
out, founded upon a misunderstanding of the name of the hole which must
have been "poll an t séidte," the puffing or blowing hole. Downpatrick,
where these events are supposed to have taken place, is at the extreme
northern extremity of Tyrawley, Co. Mayo, and all the other places are
in its neighbourhood.
For the _leannán sidhe_, or fairy sweetheart (often supposed to be the
muse of the poets), see O'Kearney's "Feis tighe Chonáin." Oss. Soc.
Publ. vol. II., pp. 80-103. For the Irish of this story, see "Lúb na
Caillighe." p. 33.
THE STORY
Before St. Patrick came to Ireland there lived a chieftain in the
Lower Country[9] in Co. Mayo, and his name was Crom Dubh. Crom Dubh
lived beside the sea in a place which they now call Dún Patrick, or
Downpatrick, and the name which the site of his house is called by is
Dún Briste, or Broken Fort. My story will tell why it was called Dún
Briste.
[9] Lower means "northern." It means round the Lagan, Creevagh and
Ballycastle.
It was well and it was not ill, brother of my heart! Crom Dubh was one
of the worst men that could be found, but as he was a chieftain over
the people of that country he had everything his own way; and that was
the bad way, for he was an evil-intentioned, virulent, cynical,[10]
obstinate man, with desire to be avenged on every one who did not
please him. He had two sons, Téideach and Clonnach, and there is a big
hollow going in under the road at Gleann Lasaire, and the name of this
hollow in Poll a' Téidigh or Téideach's hole, for it got its name from
Crom Dubh's son, and the name of this hole is on the mouth of [_i.e._,
used by] English-speaking people, though they do not know the meaning
of it. Nobody knows how far this hole is going back under the glen, but
it is said by the old Irish speakers that Téideach used to go every day
in his little floating curragh into this hole under the glen, and that
this is the reason it was called Téideach's Hole.
[10] Literally "doggish." The meaning is rather "snarling" or "fierce"
than cynical.
It was well, my dear. To continue the story, Crom Dubh's two sons
were worse than himself, and that leaves them bad enough! Crom Dubh
had two hounds of dogs and their names were Coinn Iotair and Saidhthe
Suaraighe,[11] and if ever there were [wicked] mastiffs these two dogs
were they. He had them tied to the two jaws of the door, in order to
loose them and set them to attack people according as they might come
that way; and, to go further, he had a big fire kindled on the brink
of the cliff so that any one who might escape from the hounds he might
throw into the fire; and to make a long story short, the fame of Crom
Dubh and his two sons, and his two mastiffs, went far and wide, for
their evil-doing; and the people were so terrified at his name, not to
speak of himself, that they used to hide their faces in their bosoms
when they used to hear it mentioned in their ears, and the people were
so much afraid of him that if they heard the bark of a dog they would
go hiding in the dwellings that they had underground, to take refuge
in, to defend themselves from Crom Dubh and his mastiffs.
[11] Pronounced like "Cunn eetir" and "sy-ha soory"--hound of rage and
bitch of wickedness?
It is said that there was a linnaun shee[12] or fairy sweetheart
walking with Crom Dubh, and giving him knowledge according as he used
to require it. In place of his inclining to what was good as he was
growing in age, the way he went on was to be growing in badness every
day, and the wind was not quicker than he, for he was as nimble as a
March hare. When he used to go out about the country he used to send
his two sons and his two mastiffs before him, and they announcing to
the people according as they proceeded, that Crom Dubh was coming to
collect his standing rent, and bidding them to have it ready for him.
Crom Dubh used to come after them, and his trickster (?) along with
him, and he drawing after him a sort of yoke like a wheelless sliding
car, and according as he used to get his standing rent it used to be
thrown into the car, and every one had to pay according to his ability.
Anyone who would refuse, he used to be brought next day before Crom
Dubh, as he sat beside the fire, and Crom used to pass judgment upon
him, and after the judgment the man used to be thrown into the fire.
Many a plan and scheme were hatched against Crom Dubh to put him out of
the world, but he overcame them all, for he had too much wizardry from
the [fairy] sweetheart.
[12] Linnaun shee, a fairy sweetheart; in Irish spelt "leannán sidhe."
Crom Dubh was continuing his evil deeds for many years, and according
as the story about him remains living and told from person to person,
they say that he was a native of hell in the skin of a biped, and
through the horror that the people of the country had for him they
would have given all that ever they saw if only Crom Dubh and his
company could have been put-an-end-to; but there was no help for them
in that, since he and his company had the power, and they had to endure
bitter persecution for years, and for many years, and every year it
was getting worse; and they without any hope of relief because they
had no knowledge of God or Mary or of anything else which concerned
heaven. For that reason they could not put trust in any person beyond
Crom Dubh, because they thought, bad as he was, that it was he who was
giving them the light of the day, the darkness of the night, and the
change of seasons.
It was well, brother of my heart. During this time St. Patrick was
going throughout Ireland, working diligently and baptizing many people.
On he went until he came to Fo-choill or Foghill; and at that time and
for long afterwards there were nothing but woods that grew in that
place, but there is neither branch nor tree there now. However, to
pursue the story, St. Patrick began explaining to the Pagans about the
light and glory of the heavens. Some of them gave ear to him, but the
most of them paid him no attention. After he had taken all those who
listened to him to the place which was called the Well of the Branch to
baptize them, and when he had them baptized, the people called the well
Tobar Phadraig, or Patrick's Well, and that is there ever since.
When these Pagans got the seal of Christ on their forehead, and
knowledge of the Holy Trinity, they began telling St. Patrick about the
doings of Crom Dubh and his evil ways, and they besought him if he had
any power from the All-mighty Father to chastise Crom Dubh, rightly or
wrongly, or to give him the Christian faith if it were possible.
It was well, brother, St. Patrick passed on over through Tráigh Leacan,
up Béal Trághadh, down Craobhach, and down under the Logán, the name
that was on Crom Dubh's place before St. Patrick came. When St. Patrick
reached the Logán, which is near the present Ballycastle, he was within
a quarter of a mile of Crom Dubh's house, and at the same time Crom
Dubh and Téideach his son were trying a bout of wrestling with one
another, while Saidhthe Suaraighe was stretched out on the ground from
ear to tail. With the squeezing they were giving one another they
never observed St. Patrick making for them until Saidhthe Suaraighe put
a howling bark out of her, and with that the pair looked behind them
and they saw St. Patrick and his defensive company with him, making for
them; and in the twinkling of an eye the two rushed forward, clapping
their hands and setting Saidhthe Suaraighe at them and encouraging her.
With that Téideach put his fore finger into his mouth and let a whistle
calling for Coinn Iotair, for she was at that same time hunting with
Clonnach on the top of Glen Lasaire, and Glen Lasaire is nearly two
miles from Dun Phadraig, but she was not as long as while you'd be
saying De' raisias [Deo Gratias] coming from Glen Lasaire when she
heard the sound of the whistle. They urged the two bitches against St.
Patrick, and at the same time they did not know what sort of man St.
Patrick was or where he came from.
The two bitches made for him and coals of fire out of their mouths, and
a blue venemous light burning in their eyes, with the dint of venom and
wickedness, but just as they were going to seize St. Patrick he cut
[marked] a ring round about him with the crozier which he had in his
hand, and before the dogs reached the verge of the ring St. Patrick
spoke as follows:--
A lock on thy claws, a lock on thy tooth,
A lock on Coinn Iotair of the fury.
A lock on the son and on the daughter of Saidhthe Suaraighe.
A lock quickly, quickly on you.
Before St. Patrick began to utter these words there was a froth of
foam round their mouths, and their hair was standing up as strong as
harrow-pins with their fury, but after this as they came nearer to
St. Patrick they began to lay down their ears and wag their tails. And
when Crom Dubh saw that, he had like to faint, because he knew when
they laid down their ears that they would not do any hurt to him they
were attacking. The moment they reached St. Patrick they began jumping
up upon him and making friendly with him. They licked both his feet
from the top of his great toe[13] to the butt of his ankle, and that
affection [thus manifesting itself] is amongst dogs from that day to
this. St. Patrick began to stroke them with his hand and he went on
making towards Crom Dubh, with the dogs walking at his heels. Crom Dubh
ran until he came to the fire and he stood up beside the fire, so that
he might throw St. Patrick into it when he should come as far as it.
But as St. Patrick knew the strength of the fire beforehand he lifted a
stone in his hand, signed the sign of the cross on the stone, and flung
the stone so as to throw it into the middle of the flames, and on the
moment the fire went down to the lowest depths of the ground, in such a
way that the hole is there yet to be seen, from that day to this, and
it is called Poll na Sean-tuine, the hole of the old fire (?), and when
the tide fills, the water comes in to the bottom of the hole, and it
would draw "deaf cows out of woods"--the noise that comes out of the
hole when the tide is coming in.
[13] Rather "the space between the toes."
It was well, company[14] of the world; when Crom Dubh saw that the fire
had departed out of sight, and that the dogs had failed him and given
him no help (a thing they had never done before), he himself and
Téideach struck out like a blast of March wind until they reached the
house, and St. Patrick came after them. They had not far to go, for
the fire was near the house. When St. Patrick approached it he began
to talk aloud with Crom Dubh, and he did his best to change him to a
good state of grace, but it failed him to put the seal of Christ on his
forehead, for he would not give any ear to St. Patrick's words.
[14] A variant of "it was well, my dear."
Now there was no trick of deviltry, druidism, witchcraft, or black
art in his heart, which he did not work for all he was able, trying
to gain the victory over St. Patrick, but it was all no use for him,
for the words of God were more powerful than the deviltry of the fairy
sweetheart.
With the dint of the fury that was on Crom Dubh and on Téideach his
son, they began snapping and grinding their teeth, and so outrageous
was their fury that St. Patrick gave a blow of his crozier to the cliff
under the base of the gable of the house, and he separated that much of
the cliff from the cliffs on the mainland, and that is to be seen there
to-day just as well as the first day, and that is the cliff that is
called Dún Briste or Broken Fort.
To pursue the story. All that much of the cliff is a good many yards
out in the sea from the cliff on the mainland, so Crom Dubh and his son
had to remain there until the midges and the scaldcrows had eaten the
flesh off their bones. And that is the death that Crom Dubh got, and
that is the second man that midges ate,[15] and our ancient shanachies
say that the first man that midges ate was Judas after he had hanged
himself; and that is the cause why the bite of the midges is so sharp
as it is.
[15] See the story of Mary's Well, p. 17.
To pursue the story still further. When Clonnach saw what had happened
to his father he took fright, and he was terrified of St. Patrick, and
he began burning the mountain until he had all that side of the land
set on fire. So violently did the mountains take fire on each side of
him that himself could not escape, and they say that he himself was
burned to a lump amongst them.
St. Patrick returned back to Fochoill and round through Baile na
Pairce, the Town of the Field, and Bein Buidhe, the Yellow Ben, and
back to Clochar. The people gathered in multitudes from every side
doing honourable homage to St. Patrick, and the pride of the world on
them that an end had been made of Crom Dubh.
There was a well near and handy, and he brought the great multitude
round about the well, and he never left mother's son or man's daughter
without setting on their faces the wave of baptism and the seal of
Christ on their foreheads. They washed and scoured the walls of the
well, and all round about it, and they got forked branches and limbs
of trees and bound white and blue ribbons on them, and set them round
about the well, and every one of them bowed down on his knees saying
their prayers of thankfulness to God, and as an entertainment for St.
Patrick on account of his having put an end to the sway of Crom Dubh.
After making an end of offering up their prayers every man of them
drank three sups of water out of the well, and there is not a year from
that out that the people used not to make a _turus_ or pilgrimage to
the well, on the anniversary of that day; and that day is the last
Sunday of the seventh month, and the name the Irish speakers call the
month by in that place is the month of Lughnas [August] and the name
of the Sunday is Crom Dubh's Sunday, but, the name that the English
speakers call the Sunday by, is Garland Sunday. There is never a year
from that to this that there does not be a meeting in Cill Chuimin, for
that is the place where the well is. They come far and near to make a
pilgrimage to the well; and a number of other people go there too, to
amuse themselves and drink and spend. And I believe that the most of
that rakish lot go there making a mock of the Christian Irish-speakers
who are offering up their prayers to their holy patron Patrick, high
head of their religion.
Cuimin's well is the name of this well, for its name was changed during
the time of Saint Cuimin on account of all the miraculous things he did
there, and he is buried within a perch of the well in Cill Chuimin.
There does be a gathering on the same Sunday at Dún Padraig or
Downpatrick at the well which is called Tobar Brighde or Briget's Well
beside Cill Brighde, and close to Dún Briste; but, love of my heart,
since the English jargon began a short time ago in that place the old
Christian custom of the Christians is almost utterly gone off.
There now ye have it as I got it, and if ye don't like it add to it
your complaints.[16]
[16] Apparently tell it with your complaint added to it.
MARY'S WELL.
PREFACE.
The following story I got from Proinsias O'Conchubhait when he was
in Athlone about fifteen years ago, and he heard it from a woman who
herself came from Ballintubber, Co. Mayo. This Ballintubber is not
to be confounded with the Roscommon place of the same name, which
is called in Irish Baile-an-tobair Ui Chonchubhair, or O'Conor's
Ballintubber. The Mayo Ballintubber is celebrated for its splendid
Abbey, founded by one of the Stauntons, a tribe who took the name of
Mac a mhilidh (Mac-a-Veely or Mac Evilly) in Irish. The prophesy is
current in Mayo that when the abbey is re-roofed Ireland will be free.
My friend, Colonel Maurice Moore, told me that when he was a young boy
he often wondered why the people did not roof the abbey, and so free
Ireland without any more trouble. The tomb of the notorious Shaun na
Sagart, the priest-hunter, which is not far away from it, is still
pointed out by the people. It is probably he who is the "spy" in the
following story, although his name is not mentioned. He belonged to a
class who appear to have made it their business to track down priests
and friars, which is alluded to in the following lines:
It is no use for me to be saying it,
Seeing your kinship with Donough-of-the-priest
And with Owen-of-the-cards his father,
With the people who used to cut off heads
To put them into leather bags,
To bring them down with them to the city,
And to bring home the gold they got for them,
For sustenance for wives and children.
It will be noticed that it was Mary Mother who put the curing of the
Blind into this well, and Owen O Duffy, the poet, says of her that she
is
A woman who put a hedge round every country.
A woman to whom right inclines.
A woman greatest in strength and power,
A woman softest (_i.e._, most generous) about red gold.
A woman by whom is quenched the anger of the king.
A woman who gives sight to the blind.
For the Irish text of this story, see "Religious Songs of Connacht,"
vol. I., p. 111.
The abbey where the holy well broke out was, according to some, founded
by Cathal O Conor in 1216, for the Augustinians, and was dedicated to
the Holy Trinity.
THE STORY.
Long ago there was a blessed well in Ballintubber (_i.e._, town of the
well), in the county Mayo. There was once a monastery in the place
where the well is now, and it was on the spot where stood the altar of
the monastery that the well broke out. The monastery was on the side
of a hill, but when Cromwell and his band of destroyers came to this
country, they overthrew the monastery, and never left stone on top of
stone in the altar that they did not throw down.
A year from the day that they threw down the altar--that was Lady Day
in spring--the well broke out on the site of the altar, and it is a
wonderful thing to say, that there was not one drop of water in the
stream that was at the foot of the hill from the day that the well
broke out.
There was a poor friar going the road the same day, and he went out of
his way to say a prayer upon the site of the blessed altar, and there
was great wonder on him when he saw a fine well in its place. He fell
on his knees and began to say his paternoster, when he heard a voice
saying: "Put off your brogues, you are upon blessed ground, you are on
the brink of Mary's Well, and there is the curing of thousands of blind
in it; there shall be a person cured by the water of that well for
every person who heard mass in front of the altar that was in the place
where the well is now, if they be dipped three times in it, in the name
of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
When the friar had his prayers said, he looked up and saw a large white
dove upon a fir tree near him. It was the dove who was speaking. The
friar was dressed in false clothes, because there was a price on his
head, as great as would be on the head of a wild-dog [wolf].
At any rate, he proclaimed the story to the people of the little
village, and it was not long till it went out through the country. It
was a poor place, and the people in it had nothing [to live in] but
huts, and these filled with smoke. On that account there were a great
many weak-eyed people amongst them. With the dawn, on the next day,
there were above forty people at Mary's Well, and there was never man
nor woman of them but came back with good sight.
The fame of Mary's Well went through the country, and it was not long
till there were pilgrims from every county coming to it, and nobody
went back without being cured; and at the end of a little time even
people from other countries used to be coming to it.
There was an unbeliever living near Mary's Well. It was a gentleman
he was, and he did not believe in the cure. He said there was nothing
in it but pishtrogues (charms), and to make a mock of the people he
brought a blind ass, that he had, to the well, and he dipped its head
under the water. The ass got its sight, but the scoffer was brought
home as blind as the sole of your shoe.
At the end of a year it so happened that there was a priest working as
a gardener with the gentleman who was blind. The priest was dressed
like a workman, and nobody at all knew that it was a priest who was in
it. One day the gentleman was sickly, and he asked his servant to take
him out into the garden. When he came to the place where the priest was
working he sat down. "Isn't it a great pity," says he, "that I cannot
see my fine garden?"
The gardener took compassion on him, and said, "I know where there is a
man who would cure you, but there is a price on his head on account of
his religion."
"I give my word that I'll do no spying on him, and I'll pay him well
for his trouble," said the gentleman.
"But perhaps you would not like to go through the mode of curing that
he has," says the gardener.
"I don't care what mode he has, if he gives me my sight," said the
gentleman.
Now, the gentleman had an evil character, because he betrayed a number
of priests before that. Bingham was the name that was on him. However,
the priest took courage and said, "Let your coach be ready on to-morrow
morning, and I will drive you to the place of the cure; neither
coachman nor anyone else may be present but myself, and do not tell to
anyone at all where you are going, or give anyone a knowledge of what
is your business."
On the morning of the next day Bingham's coach was ready, and he
himself got into it, with the gardener driving him. "Do you remain
at home this time," says he to the coachman, "and the gardener will
drive me." The coachman was a villain, and there was jealousy on him.
He conceived the idea of watching the coach to see what way they were
to go. His blessed vestments were on the priest, inside of his other
clothes. When they came to Mary's Well the priest said to him, "I am
going to get back your sight for you in the place where you lost it."
Then he dipped him three times in the well, in the name of the Father,
the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and his sight came to him as well as ever
it was.
"I'll give you a hundred pounds," said Bingham, "as soon as I go home."
The coachman was watching, and as soon as he saw the priest in his
blessed vestments, he went to the people of the law, and betrayed the
priest. He was taken and hanged, without judge, without judgment. The
man who was after getting back his sight could have saved the priest,
but he did not speak a word in his behalf.
* * * * *
About a month after this another priest came to Bingham, and he dressed
like a gardener, and he asked work of Bingham, and got it from him; but
he was not long in his service until an evil thing happened to Bingham.
He went out one day walking through his fields, and there met him a
good-looking girl, the daughter of a poor man, and he assaulted her
and left her half dead. The girl had three brothers, and they took an
oath that they would kill him as soon as they could get hold of him.
They had not long to wait. They caught him in the same place where
he assaulted the girl, and hanged him on a tree, and left him there
hanging.
On the morning of the next day millions of flies were gathered like a
great hill round about the tree, and nobody could go near it on account
of the foul smell that was round the place, and anyone who would go
near it the midges would blind them.
Bingham's wife and son offered a hundred pounds to anyone who would
bring out the body. A good many people made an effort to do that, but
they were not able. They got dust to shake on the flies, and boughs of
trees to beat them with, but they were not able to scatter them, nor
to go as far as the tree. The foul smell was getting worse, and the
neighbours were afraid that the flies and noisome corpse would bring a
plague upon them.
The second priest was at this time a gardener with Bingham, but the
people of the house did not know that it was a priest who was in it,
for if the people of the law or the spies knew, they would take and
hang him. The Catholics went to Bingham's wife and told her that they
knew a man who would banish the flies. "Bring him to me," said she,
"and if he is able to banish the flies, that is not the reward he'll
get, but seven times as much."
"But," said they, "if the people of the law knew, they would take him
and hang him, as they hung the man who got back the sight of his eyes
for him before." "But," said she, "could not he banish the flies
without the knowledge of the people of the law?"
"We don't know," said they, "until we take counsel with him."
That night they took counsel with the priest and told him what
Bingham's wife said.
"I have only an earthly life to lose," said the priest, "and I shall
give it up for the sake of the poor people, for there will be a plague
in the country unless I banish the flies. On to-morrow morning I shall
make an attempt to banish them in the name of God, and I have hope and
confidence in God that he will save me from my enemies. Go to the lady
now, and tell her that I shall be near the tree at sunrise to-morrow
morning, and tell her to have men ready to put the corpse in the grave."
They went to the lady and told her all the priest said.
"If it succeeds with him," said she, "I shall have the reward ready for
him, and I shall order seven men to be present."
The priest spent that night in prayer, and half an hour before sunrise
he went to the place where his blessed vestments were hidden; he put
these on, and with a cross in one hand, and with holy-water in the
other, he went to the place where were the flies. He then began reading
out of his book and scattering holy-water on the flies, in the name of
the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The hill of flies rose, and
flew up into the air, and made the heaven as dark as night. The people
did not know where they went, but at the end of half an hour there was
not one of them to be seen.
There was great joy on the people, but it was not long till they saw
the spy coming, and they called to the priest to run away as quick as
it was in him to run. The priest gave to the butts (took to his heels),
and the spy followed him, and a knife in each hand with him. When he
was not able to come up with the priest he flung the knife after him.
As the knife was flying out past the priest's shoulder he put up his
left hand and caught it, and without ever looking behind him he flung
it back. It struck the man and went through his heart, so that he fell
dead and the priest went free.
The people got the body of Bingham and buried it in the grave, but when
they went to bury the body of the spy they found thousands of rats
round about it, and there was not a morsel of flesh on his bones that
they had not eaten. They would not stir from the body, and the people
were not able to rout them away, so that they had to leave the bones
over-ground.
The priest hid away his blessed vestments and was working in the garden
when Bingham's wife sent for him, and told him to take the reward that
was for banishing the flies, and to give it to the man who banished
them, if he knew him.
"I do know him, and he told me to bring him the reward to-night,
because he has the intention of leaving the country before the
law-people hang him."
"Here it is for you," said she, as she handed him a purse of gold.
On the morning of the next day the priest went to the brink of the
sea, and found a ship that was going to France. He went on board, and
as soon as he had left the harbour he put his priest's-clothes on
him, and gave thanks to God for bringing him safe. We do not know what
happened to him from that out.
* * * * *
After that, blind and sore-eyed people used to be coming to Mary's
Well, and not a person of them ever returned without being cured. But
there never yet was anything good in this country that was not spoilt
by somebody, and the well was spoilt in this way.
There was a girl in Ballintubber and she was about to be married, when
there came a half-blind old woman to her asking alms in the honour of
God and Mary.
"I've nothing to give to an old blind-thing of a hag, it's bothered
with them I am," said the girl.
"That the marriage ring may never go on you until you're as blind as
myself," says the old woman.
Next day, in the morning, the young girl's eyes were sore, and the
morning after that she was nearly blind, and the neighbours said to her
that she ought to go to Mary's Well.
In the morning, early, she rose up and went to the well, but what
should she see at it but the old woman who asked the alms of her,
sitting on the brink, combing her head over the blessed well.
"Destruction on you, you nasty hag, is it dirtying Mary's Well you
are?" said the girl. "Get out of that or I'll break your neck."
"You have no honour nor regard for God or Mary, you refused to give
alms in honour of them, and for that reason you shall not dip yourself
in the well."
The girl caught a hold of the hag trying to pull her from the well,
and with the dragging that was between them, the two of them fell into
the well and were drowned.
From that day to this there has been no cure in the well.
HOW COVETOUSNESS CAME INTO THE CHURCH.
PREFACE.
I heard this story from a workman of the late Mr. Redington Roche, of
Rye Hill (in Irish, Druim an tseagail) near Monivea, Co. Galway. It
was in Irish prose, but it reminded me so strongly of those strange
semi-comic mediæval moralities common at an early date to most European
languages--such pieces as Goethe has imitated in his poem of "St. Peter
and the Horse Shoe"--that I could not resist the temptation to turn
it into rhyme. I have heard a story something like this in the County
Tipperary, only that it was told in English. This story is the reason
(I think the narrator added) of the well-known proverbial rann:
Four clerks who are not covetous
Four Frenchmen who are not yellow,
Four shoemakers who are not liars,
Those are a dozen who are not in the country.
More than one piece of both English and French literature founded upon
the same motif as this story will occur to the reader. The original
will be found at p. 161 of "The Religious Songs of Connacht," vol I.
THE STORY
As once our Saviour and St. Peter
Were walking over the hills together,
In a lonesome place that was by the sea,
Beside the border of Galilee,
Just as the sun to set began
Whom should they meet but a poor old man!
His coat was ragged, his hat was torn,
He seemed most wretched and forlorn,
Penury stared in his haggard eye
And he asked an alms as they passed him by.
Peter had only a copper or two,
So he looked to see what the Lord would do.
The man was trembling--it seemed to him--
With hunger and cold in every limb.
But, nevertheless, our Lord looked grave,
He turned away and he nothing gave.
And Peter was vexed awhile at that
And wondered what our Lord was at,
Because he had thought him much too good
To ever refuse a man for food.
But though he wondered he nothing said,
Nor asked the cause, for he was afraid.
It happened that the following day
They both returned that very way,
And whom should they meet where the man had been
But a highway robber gaunt and lean!
And in his belt a naked sword--
For an alms he, too, besought the Lord.
"He's a fool," thought Peter, "to cross us thus,
He won't get anything from us."
But Peter was seized with such surprise
He scarcely could believe his eyes,
When he saw the Master, without a word,
Give to the man who had the sword.
After the man was gone again
His wonder Peter could not restrain
But turning to our Saviour said:
"Master, the man who asked for bread,
The poor old man of yesterday,
Why did you turn from him away?
But to this robber, this shameless thief,
Give, when he asked you for relief.
I thought it most strange for _you_ to do;
We needn't have feared him, we were two.
I have a sword here, as you see,
And could have used it as well as he;
And I am taller by a span,
For he was only a little man."
"Peter," said the Lord, "you see
Things but as they _seem_ to be.
Look within and see behind,
Know the heart and read the mind,
'Tis not long before you know
Why it was I acted so."
After this it chanced one day
Our Lord and Peter went astray.
Wandering on a mountain wide.
Nothing but waste on every side.
Worn with hunger, faint with thirst,
Peter followed, the Lord went first.
Then began a heavy rain,
Lightning gleamed and gleamed again,
Another deluge poured from heaven,
The slanting hail swept tempest-driven.
Then when fainting, frozen, spent,
A man came towards them through the bent.
And Peter trembled with cold and fright,
When he knew again the robber wight.
But the robber brought them to his cave,
And what he had he freely gave.
He brought them wine, he gave them bread,
He strewed them rushes for a bed.
He lent them both a clean attire
And dried their clothes before the fire,
And when they rose the following day
He gave them victuals for the way,
And never left them till he showed
And put them on the straightest road.
"The Master was right," thought Peter then,
"The robber is better than better men.
There's many an honest man," thought he,
"Who never did as much for me."
They had not left the robber's ground
Above an hour, when, lo, they found
A man upon the mountain track
Lying dead upon his back.
And Peter soon, with much surprise,
The beggarman did recognize.
"Ochone!" thought Peter, "we had no right
To refuse him alms the other night.
He's dead from the cold and want of food,
And we're partly guilty of his blood."
"Peter," said our Lord, "go now
Feel his pockets and let us know
What he has within his coat."
Peter turned them inside out,
And found within the lining plenty
Of silver coins, and of gold ones twenty.
"My Lord," said Peter, "now I know
Why it was you acted so.
Whatever you say or do with men,
I never will think you wrong again."
"Peter," said our Saviour, "take
And throw those coins in yonder lake,
That none may fish them up again,
For money is often the curse of men."
Peter gathered the coins together.
And crossed to the lake through bog and heather.
But he thought in his mind "It's a real sin
To be flinging this lovely money in.
We're often hungry, we're often cold,
And money is money--I'll keep the gold
To spend on the Master, he needs the pelf,
For he's very neglectful of himself."
Then down with a splash does Peter throw
The _silver_ coins to the lake below,
And hopes our Lord from the splash would think
He had thrown the whole from off the brink.
And then before our Lord he stood
And looked as innocent as he could.
Our Lord said: "Peter, regard your soul;
Are you sure you have now thrown in the whole?"
"Yes, all," said Peter, "is gone below,
But a few gold pieces I wouldn't throw,
Since I thought we might find them very good
For a sup to drink, or a bite of food.
Because our own are nearly out,
And they're inconvenient to do without.
But, if you wish it, of course I'll go
And fling the rest of the lot below."
"Ah, Peter, Peter," said our Lord,
"You should have obeyed me at my word.
For a greedy man you are I see,
And a greedy man you will ever be;
A covetous man you are of gain,
And a covetous man you will remain."
So that's the reason, as I've been told,
All clergy are since so fond of gold.
KNOCK MULRUANA.
PREFACE.
This story was told by my friend, Mr. Peter McGinley, who printed it
in 1897 in the "Gaelic Journal" of that year. He told me that though
the story came from the Irish speaking part of the country it was in
English it was first repeated to him when he was a young boy, and he
retold it in Irish, without any change in the story itself. He says
that he feels sure it is just as he heard it. The story comes from
Gleann Domhain, which is near Gartan, in Donegal, celebrated as the
birthplace of Colmcille, and Cnoc Mhaoilruandha is near at hand,
and the lake is a little below it. The proverb, "as I have burned
the candle I'll burn the inch," does not, he says, always signify
impenitence, but means rather to hold out in any course, good or evil,
until the last. The name Maolruanadha, which I have shortened into
Mulruana, is variously anglicised Mulroney and Moroney. This story may
remind the reader a little of Lewis's "Monk."
THE STORY.
On this side of Glen Domhain, there is a little hill whose name is
Mulroney's Hill, and this is the reason why it was given that name.
In old times there was a man living in a little house on the side of
the hill, and Mulruana was his name. He was a pious holy man, and
hated the world's vanities so much that he became a hermit, and he
was always alone in that house, without anyone in his neighbourhood.
He used to be always praying and subduing himself. He used to drink
nothing but water, and used to eat nothing but berries and the wild
roots which he used to get in the mountains and throughout the glens.
His fame and reputation were going through the country for the holy
earnest life that he was living.
However, great jealousy seized the Adversary at the piety of this man,
and he sent many evil spirits to put temptations on him. But on account
of all his prayers and piety it failed those evil-spirits to get the
victory over him, so that they all returned back to hell with the
report of the steadfastness and loyalty of Mulruana in the service of
God.
Then great anger seized Satan, so that he sent further demons, each
more powerful than the other, to put temptation on Mulruana. Not one
of them succeeded in even coming near the hut of the holy man. Nor did
it fare any better with them whenever he came outside, for he used
always to be attentive to his prayers and ever musing on holy things.
Then every evil-spirit of them used to go back to hell and used to tell
the devil that there was no use contending with Mulruana, for that God
himself and His angels were keeping him and giving him help.
That account made Satan mad entirely, so that he determined at last
to go himself, hoping to destroy Mulruana, and to draw him out of the
proper path. Accordingly he came one evening at nightfall, in the
guise of a young woman, and asked the good man for lodging. Mulruana
rudely refused the pretended woman, and banished her away from his
door, although he felt a compassion for her because the night was wet
and stormy, and he thought that the girl was without house and shelter
from the rain and cold. But what the woman did was to go round to the
back of the house and play music, and it was the sweetest and most
melancholy music that man ever heard.
Because Mulruana had had a pity for the poor girl at the first, he
listened now to her music, and took great delight in it, and had much
joy of it, but he did not allow her into his hut. At the hour of
midnight the devil went back to hell, but he had a shrewd notion that
he had won the game and that he had caught the holy man. Mulruana had
quiet during the remainder of the night, but instead of continuing at
his prayers, as was his custom, he spent the end of the night, almost
till the dawn of day, thinking of the beauty of the girl and of the
sweetness of her music.
The day after that the devil came at the fall of night in the same
likeness, and again asked lodging of Mulruana. Mulruana refused that,
although he did not like to do it, but he remembered the vow he had
made never to let a woman or a girl into his hut. The pretended woman
went round to the back of the house, and she was playing music that was
like fairy music until it was twelve o'clock, when she had to go away
with herself to hell. The man inside was listening to the playing and
taking great delight in it, and when she ceased there came over him
melancholy and trouble of mind. He never slept a wink that night, and
he never said a word of his prayers either, but eagerly thinking[17] of
the young woman, and his heart going astray with the beauty of her form
and the sweetness of her voice.
[17] This idiom, borrowed from the Irish, is very common in
Anglo-Irish. It is not governed by the rules of English grammar.
On the morning of the next day Mulruana rose from his bed, and it
is likely that it was the whisper of an angel he heard, because he
remembered that it was not right for him to pay such heed to a girl and
to forget his prayers. He bowed his knees and began to pray strongly
and earnestly, and made a firm resolve that he would not think more
about the girl, and that he would not listen to her music. But, after
all, he did not succeed in obtaining a complete victory over his
thoughts concerning the young woman, and consequently he was between
two notions until the evening came.
When the night was well dark the Adversary came again in the shape of
the girl, and she even more beautiful and more lovely than she was
before, and asked the man for a night's lodging. He remembered his vow
and the resolve he had made that day in the morning, and he refused
her, and threatened her that she should not come again to trouble
him, and he drove her away with rough sharp words, and with a stern,
churlish countenance, as though there were a great anger on him. He
went into his hut and the girl remained near the hut outside, and she
weeping and lamenting and shedding tears.
When Mulruana saw the girl weeping and keening piteously he conceived
a great pity for her, and compassion for her came to him, and desire,
and he did not free his heart from those evil inclinations, since he
had not made his prayers on that day with a heart as pure as had been
his wont, and he listened willingly and gladly. It was not long until
he came out, himself, in spite of his vow and his good resolutions, and
invited the pretended woman to come into his hut. Small delay she made
in going in!
It was then the King of Grace took pity at this man being lost without
giving him time to amend himself, since he had ever been truly pious,
diligent, humane, well disposed and of good works, until this great
temptation came over him. For that reason God sent an angel to him with
a message to ask him to repent. The angel came to Mulruana's house
and went inside. Then the devil leapt to his feet, uttered a fearful
screech, changed his colour, his shape, and his appearance. His own
devilish form and demoniac appearance came upon him. He turned away
from the angel like a person blinded with a great shining or blaze of
light, and went out of the hut.
His senses nearly departed from Mulruana with the terror that overcame
him. When he came to himself again the angel made clear to him how
great was the sin to which he had given way, and how God had sent
him to him to ask him to repent. But Mulruana never believed a word
he said. He knew that it was the devil who had been in his company
in the guise of a young woman. He remembered the sin to which he had
consented, so that he considered himself to be so guilty that it would
be impossible for him ever to obtain forgiveness from God. He thought
that it was deceiving him the angel was, when he spoke of repentance
and forgiveness. The angel was patient with him and spoke gently.
He told him of the love and friendship of God and how He would never
refuse forgiveness to the truly penitent, no matter how heavy his share
of sins. Mulruana did not listen to him, but a drowning-man's-cry
issued out of his mouth always, that he was lost, and he ever-cursing
God, the devil and himself. The angel never ceased, but entreating and
beseeching him to turn to God and make repentance--but it was no use
for him. Mulruana was as hard and as stubborn as he was before, all the
time taking great oaths and blaspheming God.
All the time the angel was speaking he had the appearance of a burning
candle in his hand. At long last, when the candle was burnt all but
about an inch, a gloom fell over the countenance of the angel and he
stood out from Mulruana, and threatened him, and told him that his term
of grace was almost expired, and, said he, unless you make repentance
before this inch of candle is burnt away, God will grant you no more
respite, and you will be damned for ever.
Then there came silence on Mulruana for a while, as though he were
about to follow the advice of the angel. But then on the spot he
thought of the sin that he had done. On that, despair seized him, and
the answer he gave the angel was, "as I have burned the candle I'll
burn the inch." Then the angel spoke to him with a loud and terrible
voice, announcing to him that he was now indeed accursed of God, and,
said he, "thou shalt die to-morrow of thirst." Mulruana answered him
with no submission, and said, "O lying angel, I know now that you are
deceiving me. It is impossible that I should die of thirst in this
place, and so much water round about me. There is, outside there, a
well of spring water that was never dry, and there is a stream beside
the gable of the house which would turn the wheel of a great mill no
matter how dry the summer day, and down there is Loch Beithe on which
a fleet of ships might float. It is a great folly for you to say that
anybody could die of thirst in this place." But the angel departed from
him without an answer.
Mulruana went to lie down after that, but, if he did, he never slept
a wink through great trouble of spirit. Next morning, on his rising
early, the sharpest thirst that man ever felt came upon him. He leapt
out of his bed and went to the stoap [pail] for water, but there was
not a drop in it. Out with him then to the well, but he did not find a
drop there either. He turned on his foot towards the stream that was
beside the house, but it was dry before him down to the gravel. The
banks and the pebbles in the middle of it were as dry as though they
had never seen a drop of water for a year. Mulruana remembered then the
prophecy of the angel and he started. A quaking of terror came upon
him, and his thirst was growing every moment. He went running at full
speed to Loch Beithe, but when he came to the brink of the lake he
uttered one awful cry and fell in a heap on the ground. Loch Beithe too
was dry before him.
That is how a cowherd found him the next day, lying on the brink of
the lake, his eyes starting out of his head, his tongue stretched out
of his throat, and a lump of white froth round his mouth. His awful
appearance was such that fear would not let the people go near him to
bury him, and his body was left there until birds of prey and wild
dogs took it away with them.
That is how it happened Mulruana as a consequence of his sin, his
impenitence, and his despair, and that is the reason why it is not
right for any one to use the old saying, "As I've burnt the candle I'll
burn the inch," and yonder is "Cnoc Mhaoilruanadha," Mulruana's Hill,
as a witness to the truth of this story.
THE STONE OF TRUTH OR THE MERCHANT OF THE SEVEN BAGS.
PREFACE.
The Stone of Truth is as old as the times of the Druids. The celebrated
Lia Fail was a stone of truth. Certain stones were oracles in old
times. There was a stone in Oriel, and a celebrated stone called Cloeh
Labhrais in the south which were oracular. A man who suspected his
wife made her stand upon the southern stone to swear that she had
not wronged him. She spied a man she knew too well far away upon the
mountain, and swore she had never done anything she ought not to have
done--no more than with that man on the skyline. The heart of the stone
was broken with this equivocation, and it burst asunder exclaiming
[uncial: bionn an firinne fein searbh], "even truth itself is
bitter."
The idea is Pagan, but this story is motivated in a Christian manner,
by alleging that the stone derived its miraculous power from St.
Patrick's having knelt on it in prayer. I got this story from Francis
O'Conor. For the original Irish, see "Religious Songs of Connacht,"
vol. II., p. 230.
THE STORY.
There was a man in it, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, whose name
was Páidin[18] O Ciarbháin [Keerwaun, or Kerwin] and he was living
close to Cong in West Connacht. Páidin was a strange man; he did not
believe in God or in anything about him. It's often the priest thought
to bring him to Mass, but it was no use for him, for Páidin would not
take the advice of priest or bishop. He believed that man was like the
beast, and he believed that when man died there was no more about him.
[18] Pronounced "Paudyeen."
Páidin lived an evil life; he used to be going from house to house by
day, and stealing in the night.
Now, at the time that St. Patrick was in West Connacht seeking to make
Christians of the Pagans, he went down one day upon his knees, on a
great flag stone, to utter prayers, and he left after him a great
virtue in the same stone, for anybody who might speak above that stone,
it was necessary for him to tell the clear truth, he could not tell a
lie, and for that reason the people gave the name to that flag of the
Stone of Truth.
Páidin used always to have a great fear of this stone, and it's often
he intended to steal it. One night when he found an opportunity he
hoisted the stone on his back, took it away with him, and threw it down
into a great valley between two hills, seven miles from the place where
it used to be, and the rogue thought that he was all right; but the
stone was back in its old place that same night without his knowing.
Another night after that he stole the geese of the parish priest, and
as the people doubted him, they said that they would bring him to the
Stone of Truth. Páidin was laughing in his own mind, for he knew that
he had the stone stolen; but great was the surprise that was on him
when he saw the stone before him in its own place. When he was put
above the stone he was obliged to tell that he had stolen the geese,
and he got a great beating from the priest. He made a firm resolution
then that if he got an opportunity at the stone again, he would put it
in a place that it would never come out of.
A couple of nights after that he got his opportunity again, and stole
the stone a second time. He threw it down into a great deep hole, and
he went home rejoicing in himself. But he did not go a quarter of a
mile from the place until he heard a great noise coming after him. He
looked behind him and he saw a lot of little people, and they dressed
in clothes as white as snow. There came such fear over Páidin that he
was not able to walk one step, until the little people came up with
him, and they carrying the Stone of Truth with them. A man of them
spoke to him and said: "O accursed Páidin, carry this stone back to the
place where you got it, or you shall pay dearly for it."
"I will and welcome," said Páidin.
They put the stone upon his back and they returned the road on which
they had come. But as the devil was putting temptation upon Páidin, he
went and threw the stone into a hole that was deeper than the first
hole, a hole which the people made to go hiding in when the war would
be coming. The stone remained in that hole for more than seven years,
and no one knew where it was but Páidin only.
At the end of that time Páidin was going by the side of the churchyard,
when he looked up at a cross that was standing there, and he fell into
a faint. When he came to himself, there was a man before him and he
clothed as white as the snow. He spoke to him and said: "O accursed
Páidin, you are guilty of the seven deadly sins, and unless you do
penance you shall go to hell. I am an angel from God, and I will put a
penance on you. I will put seven bags upon you and you must carry them
for one and twenty years. After that time go before the great cross
that shall be in the town of Cong, and say three times, 'My soul to God
and Mary,' spend a pious life until then, and you will go to heaven.
Go to the priest now, if you are obedient (and ready) to receive my
counsel."
"I am obedient," said Páidin, "but the people will be making a mock of
me."
"Never mind the mock, it won't last long," said the angel.
After this conversation a deep sleep fell upon Páidin, and when he
awoke there were seven bags upon him, and the angel was gone away.
There were two bags on his right side, two bags on his left side, and
three others on his back, and they were stuck so fast upon him that
he thought that it was growing on him they were. They were the colour
of his own skin, and there was skin on them. Next day when Páidin
went among the people he put wonder on them, and they called him the
Merchant of the Seven Bags, and that name stuck to him until he died.
Páidin began a new life now. He went to the priest, and he showed him
the seven bags that were on him, and he told him the reason that they
were put on him. The priest gave him good advice and a great coat to
cover the seven bags with; and after that Páidin used to be going from
house to house and from village to village asking alms, and there used
never be a Sunday or holiday that he would not be at Mass, and there
used to be a welcome before him in every place.
About seven years after that Páidin was going by the side of the hole
into which he had thrown the Stone of Truth. He came to the brink of
the hole, went down on his two knees and asked God to send him up
the stone. When his prayer was ended he saw the stone coming up, and
hundreds of white doves round about it. The stone was rising and ever
rising until it came into Páidin's presence on the ground, and then
the doves went back again. The next day he went to the priest and told
him everything about the Stone of Truth, and the way it came up out
of the hole. "I will go with you," said the priest, "until I see this
great wonder." The priest went with him to the hole and he saw the
Stone of Truth. And he saw another thing which put great wonder on him;
thousands and thousands of doves flying round about the mouth of the
hole, going down into it and coming up again. The priest called the
place Poll na gColum or the Dove's Hole, and that name is on it until
the present day. The blessed stone was brought into Cong, and it was
not long until a grand cross was erected over it, and from that day to
this people come from every place to look at the Dove's Hole, and the
old people believed that they were St. Patrick's angels who were in
those doves.
The Stone of Truth was for years after that in Cong, and it is certain
that it did great good, for it kept many people from committing crimes.
But it was stolen at last, and there is no account of it from that out.
Páidin lived until he was four score years of age, and bore his share
of penance piously. When the one and twenty years that the angel gave
him were finished, and he carrying the seven bags throughout that time,
there came a messenger in a dream to say to him that his life in this
world was finished, and that he must go the next day before the Cross
of Cong and give himself up to God and Mary. Early in the morning he
went to the priest and told him the summons he had got in the night.
People say that the priest did not believe him, but at all events he
told Páidin to do as the messenger had bidden him.
Páidin departed, and left his blessing with his neighbours and
relations, and when the clock was striking twelve, and the people
saying the Angelical Salutation, Páidin came before the cross and said
three times, "My soul to God and to Mary," and on the spot he fell dead.
That cross was in the town of Cong for years. A bishop, one of the
O'Duffy's, went to Rome, and he got a bit of the true Cross and put
it into the Cross of Cong. It was there until the foreigners came and
threw it to the ground. The Cross of Cong is still in Ireland, and the
people have an idea that it will yet be raised up in the town of Cong
with the help of God.
THE ADVENTURES OF LÉITHIN
PREFACE.
The following interesting story, which, so far as I know, has never
been noted, has come down to us in a late Middle Irish text from which
I now translate it for the first time. My attention was first called
to it years ago by my friend, Dr. Nicholas O'Donnell of Melbourne,
an Australian born and bred, but a good Irish scholar, who made a
transcript of the story for me from an Irish MS. which he picked up in
Australia. It may well have been taken from a vellum, for the initial
letter is omitted and a great space left for the scribe to insert it in
colours later on. I have carefully compared the copy of the Australian
text with four other copies which I find in the Royal Irish Academy,
the oldest of which however only dates from 1788, but I found virtually
no difference between them, and it is evident that they are all drawn
from the same original. There seems to be no variant known. There is
an ancient poem of great interest bearing on this story, called the
Colloquy between Fintan and the Hawk of Achill. It is in Egerton, 1782,
and the text was published in "Anecdota from Irish MSS." vol. I., p.
24, but has never been translated. Fintan, who survived the flood,
holds colloquy with the bird, which asked him about his life, and
Fintan asks the bird's age. "O hawk from cold Achill take a benison and
a victory, from the time you were born of an egg, tell the number of
[the years of] your life."
"I am of the same age as thou, O Fintan, son of Bochra." The Bird asks
Fintan "since he was a poet and a prophet" to tell him the greatest
evils he had ever experienced. We learn from the answer that the
ancient salmon in our story was really a rebirth of Fintan himself,
and it is exceedingly interesting to find the wily old crow[19] who
ate Léithin's young ones, appear upon the scene again, as a leading
personage in another drama. Fintan tells how the Creator placed him in
the cold streams in the shape of a salmon, how he frequented the Boyne,
the Bush, the Bann, the Suck, the Suir, the Shannon, the Slaney, the
Liffey, etc., etc. At last he came to Assaroe.
[19] The word "préachan," though it usually means crow, is applied to
the seabhac or hawk in this poem. In Co. Roscommon I always heard the
Marsh Harrier (or Kite as they called him in English), termed "préachan
gcearc" in Irish.
"A night I was on the wave in the north and I at seal-frequented
Assaroe. I never experienced a night like that from the beginning to
the end of my time.[20]
[20] Literally "of the world."
"I could not remain in the waterfall. I give a leap--it was no luck for
me--the ice comes like blue glass between me and the pool of the son of
Modharn.
"There comes a crow out of cold Achill, above the inver of Assaroe, I
shall not hide it, though it is a thing to keep as a secret. He swept
away with him one of my eyes.
"The Goll or Blind One of Assaroe has clung to me [as a name] from that
night. Rough the deed. I am ever since without my eye. No wonder for me
to be aged."
THE BIRD.
"It was I who swallowed thy eye, O Fintan. I am the grey Hawk, who be's
alone in the waist of Achill."
Fintan demands eric [recompense] for his eye, but the implacable old
crow answers:
"Little eric would I give thee, O Fintan, son of Bochra the soft, but
that one remaining eye in the withered head quickly would I swallow it
of one morsel."
The bird goes on to tell Fintan about the various battles it had seen
in Ireland. As for the battle of Moytura in Cong:
"It was there thy twelve sons fell; to see them, awsome was the blow,
and I gnawed off each fresh body[21] either a hand or one foot or one
eye."
[21] Literally "limb."
The old crow it was who carried off the hand of Nuadh covered with
rings, which had been lopped off in the slaughter, and which was
replaced later on by a silver hand, whence the King of the Tuatha De
Danann received the cognomen of Nuadh of the silver hand, but his real
hand was the plaything of the crows' young for seven years. He recounts
all the eyes he had picked out of heroes' heads after famous fights.
It was he too who perched upon Cuchulainn's shoulder, when, dying, he
had bound himself to the standing stone,[22] but though his life had
almost departed from him the hero pierced him with his _cletin curad_
or hero's little quill. "I came above the hero as his countenance was
darkening in death to eat his eyes, it was not an errand of luck, I
stoop my head. He feels me on his face, he raises up his weakening
hand, he puts his hero's little quill through my body at the first
effort (?) I take a troubled flight to Innis Geidh across the valleyed
sea and draw forth from myself, rough the task, the hard tough shaft of
the dartlet. The head remains in my body. It tortured my heart sorely:
sound I am not since that day, and I conceal it not since I am old. It
was I who slew, great the tidings, the solitary crane that was in Moy
Leana and the eagle of Druim Breac, who fell by me at the famous ford.
[22] See my "Literary History of Ireland," p. 351.
It was I who slew, pleasant the supper, the solitary crane of blue
Innis Géidh. IT WAS I WHO CHEWED BENEATH MY COMB THE TWO FULL-FAT BIRDS
OF LEITHIN. It was I who slew, royal the rout, THE SLENDER BLACKFOOT of
Slieve Fuaid; the BLACKBIRD of Drum Seghsa of the streams died in the
talons of my daughter."
It is plain then that this ancient poem, found in Egerton 1782, and in
the Book of Fermoy, actually presupposes our story, and has a close
connection with it.
THE STORY.
A gentle, noble, renowned patron there was of a time in the land of
Ireland, whose exact name was Ciaran of Cluan.[23] A good faith had he
in the mighty Lord.
[23] _i.e._, Clonmacnoise.
One day Ciaran bade his clerics to go look for thatch for his church,
on a Saturday of all days,[24] and those to whom he spake were Sailmin,
son of Beogan, and Maolan, son of Naoi, for men submissive to God were
they twain, so far as their utmost diligence went, and many miracles
were performed for Maolan, as Ciaran said in the stanza,
[24] Literally "especially."
Maolan, son of Naoi the cleric,
His right hand be for our benison
If the son of Naoi desired it
To work miracles like every saint.
And, moreover, Sailmin, son of Beogan, he was the same man of whom, for
wisdom, for piety, and for religion, Ciaran spake the stanza,
Sailmin melodious, son of Beogan.
A faith godlike and firm.
No blemish is in his body.
His soul is an angel.
He was the seventh son of the sons of Beogan of Burren,[25] and those
men were the seven psalmists of Ciaran, so that from them are the
"Youth's Cross" on the Shannon, and the [other] "Youth's Cross" on the
high road to Clonmacnoise [named].
[25] In West Clare.
Howsoever the clerics fared forth alongside the Shannon, until they
reached Cluain Doimh. There they cut the full of their little curragh
of white-bottomed green-topped rushes. But [before they had done] they
heard the voice of the clerics' bell at the time of vespers on Sunday,
so they said that they would not leave that place until the day should
rise on them on Monday, and they spake the lay as follows:
The voice of a bell I heard in Cluan[26]
On Sunday night defeating us,
I shall not depart since that has been heard,
Until Monday, after the Sunday.
On Sunday did God shape-out Heaven,
On that day was the King of the apostles born;
On Sunday was born Mary
Mother of the King of Mercy.
On Sunday, I say it,
Was born victorious John Baptist.
By the hand of God in the stream in the East
Was he baptised on Sunday.
On Sunday, moreover, it is a true thing,
The Son of God took the captivity out of hell.
On a Sunday after the battle ...?
Shall God deliver the judgment of the last day.
On a Sunday night, we think it melodious,
The voice of the cleric I hear,
The voice I hear of a bell
On Drum Diobraid above the pool.
The voice of the bell I hear
Making me to postpone return ...?
The voice of the bell I hear
Bringing me to Cluan.
By thy hand O youth,
And by the King who created thee,
My heart thinks it delightful
The bell and the voice.
[26] _i.e._, Clonmacnoise.
Howbeit the clerics abode that night [where they were] for the love
of the King of Sunday. Now there occurred, that night, a frost and
a prolonged snow and a rigour of cold, and there arose wind and
tempest in the elements for their skaith, without as much as a bothy
or a lean-to of a bed or a fire for them, and surely were it not for
the mercy of God protecting them round about, it was not in the mind
of either of them that he should be alive on the morrow after that
night, with all they experienced of oppression and terror from the
great tempest of that wild-weather, so that they never remembered
their acts of piety or to say or sing a prayer (?) Nor could they
sleep or rest, for their senses were turned to foolishness, for they
had never seen the like or the equal of that storm, and of the bad
weather of that night, for the venom of its cold and moreover for the
bitterness of the morning [which followed it]. And as they were there
on the morning of the next day they heard a gentle, low, lamentable,
woe-begone conversation of grief above their heads on high, on a tall,
wide-extended cliff. And [the meaning] was revealed to them through the
virtue of their holiness, and although much evil and anxiety had they
suffered, [still] they paid attention to the conversation and observed
it. And they between whom the conversation was, were these, namely an
eagle who was called Léithin[27] and a bird of her birds[28] in dialogue
with her, piteously and complainingly lamenting their cold-state,
pitifully, sadly, grievously; and said the bird to the eagle:
[27] Apparently "the little grey one," from "liath"-grey; pronounced
"Lay-heen." I have made her feminine and called her "she" in the
translation, but the Irish makes her masculine.
[28] _i.e._, one of its own young eagles, or nestlings.
"Léithin," said he, "do you ever remember the like of this morning or
of last night to have come within thy knowledge before?"
"I do not remember," said Léithin, "that I ever heard or saw the like
or the equal of them, since the world was created, and do you yourself
remember, or did you ever hear of such [weather]?" said the eagle to
the bird.
"There are people who do remember," said the bird.
"Who are they?" said the eagle.
"Dubhchosach, the Black-footed one of Binn Gulban,[29] that is the
vast-sized stag of the deluge,[30] who is at Binn Gulban; and he is the
hero of oldest memory of all those of his generation (?) in Ireland.
[29] Now Ben Bulben in Co. Sligo.
[30] _i.e._, "As old as the deluge."
"Confusion on thee and skaith! surely thou knowest not that; and now
although that stag be far away from me I shall go to see him, to find
if I may get any knowledge from him!"
Therewith Léithin went off lightly, yet was she scarcely able to rise
up on high with the strength of the bad weather, and no more could she
go low with the cold of the ...? and with the great abundance of the
water, and, though it was difficult for her, she progressed lightly
and low-flying, and no one living could reveal or make known all that
she met of evil and of misery going to Ben Gulban looking for the
Blackfoot. And she found the small-headed swift-footed stag scratching
himself against a bare oak rampike. And Léithin descended on a corner
of the rampike beside him. And she saluted the stag in his own language
and asks him was he the Blackfoot. The stag said that he was, and
Léithin spoke the lay:
Well for you O Blackfoot,
On Ben Gulban high,
Many moors and marshes,
Leap you lightly by.
Hounds no more shall hunt you
Since the Fenians fell,
Feeding now untroubled
On from glen to glen.
Tell me stag high-headed,
Saw you ever fall
Such a night and morning?
You remember all.
[THE STAG ANSWERS.]
I will give you answer
Léithin wise and gray,
Such a night and morning
Never came my way.
"Tell me, Blackfoot," said Léithin, "what is thy age?"
"I shall tell thee," said the Blackfoot. "I remember this oak here
when it was a little sapling, and I was born at the foot of the oak
sapling, and I was reared upon that couch [of moss at its foot] until
I was a mighty-great stag, and I loved this abode [ever], through my
having been reared here. And the oak grew after that till it was a
giant oak (?) and I used to come and constantly scratch myself against
it every evening after my journeyings and goings [during the day] and I
used [always] to remain beside it in such wise till the next morning,
and if I had to make a journey or were hotly hunted I used to reach
the same tree, so that we grew up with one another, until I became a
mighty-great stag, and this tree became the bare withered rampike which
you see, so that it is now only a big ruined shapeless-stump without
blossom or fruit or foliage to-day, its period and life being spent.
Now I have let a long period of years[31] go by me, yet I never saw and
never heard tell-of, in all that time, the like of last night."
[31] Or, "a cargo of five hundred years."
Léithin departs [to return] to his birds after that, and on his
reaching home the other[32] bird spoke to him, "have you found out what
you went to inquire about?"
[32] Literally "second."
"I have not," said Léithin, and she began to revile the bird for all
the cold and hardships she had endured, but at last she said, "who do
you think again would know this thing for me?" said Léithin.
"I know that," said the bird, "Dubhgoire the Black caller of
Clonfert[33] of Berachan."
[33] Perhaps "Cluansost." There is no Berachan in Clonfert in the
martyrologies. See "The Death of Bearachan," p. 63.
"Well then I shall go seek him."
And although that was far away from her, yet she proceeded until she
reached Clonfert of St. Berachan, and she was observing the birds until
they had finished their feeding [and were returning home], and then
Léithin saw one splendid bird beautifully-topped, victorious-looking,
of the size of a blackbird, but of the brightness of a swan, and as
soon as it came into its presence Léithin asks it whether it were
Dubhgoire. It said that it was. It was a marvel [to Léithin] when
it said that it was, namely that the blackbird should be white, and
Léithin spake the lay.
"How is that O Dubhgoire, sweet is thy warbling, often hast thou paid
thy calls throughout the blue-leaved forest.
"In Clonfert of the bright streams and by the full plain of the Liffey,
and from the plain of the Liffey coming from the east to Kildare behind
it.
"From that thou departest to thy nest in the Cill which Brigit blessed.
Short was it for thee to overleap every hedge till thou camest to the
townland in which Berachan was.
"O Dubhgoire tell to me--and to count up all thy life--the like of
yesterday morning, didst thou ever experience it, O Dubhgoire?"
[DUBHGOIRE ANSWERS.]
"To me my full life was three hundred years before Berachan, the
lifetime of Berachan I spent [added thereto], I was enduring in lasting
happiness.
"Since the time that Lughaidh of the Blades was for a while in the
sovereignty of all Ireland I never experienced by sea or by land such
weather as that which Léithin mentions in his lay."[34]
[34] Literally, "I never got on sea or land a knowledge of that lay of
Leithin's."
"Well, then, my own errand to thee," said Léithin, "is to enquire if
thou didst ever experience, or remember to have seen or [to have heard]
that there ever came such a morning as yesterday for badness."
"I do not remember that I ever saw such," said Dubhgoire, "or anything
like it."
As for Léithin, she was sad and sorrowful, for those tidings did not
help (?) her, and she proceeded on her way till she reached her nest
and birds.
"What have you to tell us to-day?" said the bird.
"May you never have luck nor fortune," said Léithin. "I have no more
news for you than I had when departing, except all my weariness from
all the journeyings and wanderings which you contrive to get me to
take, without my getting any profit or advantage out of you," and
with that she gave a greedy venemous drive of her beak at the bird,
so that she had like to have made a prey and flesh-torn spoil of it,
with vexation at all the evil and misery she had experienced going
to Kildare, so that the bird screeched out loudly and pitifully and
miserably.
[A while] after that Léithin said, "It's a pity and a grief to me if
any one in Ireland knows [that there ever came a night worse than that
night] that I myself do not know of it."
"Well, then, indeed, there is one who knows," says the bird, "Goll of
Easruaidh (_i.e._, the Blind One of Assaroe) and another name of him is
the Éigne[35] of Ath-Seannaigh (_i.e._, the salmon of Ballyshannon), and
it is certain that he knows about that, if any one in the world knows
about it."
[35] This is an old poetic word for a salmon.
"It is hard for me to go the way you tell me," said Léithin, "yet
should I like exceeding well to know about this thing."
Howsoever she set out, and she never came down until she reached
Assaroe of Mac Modhuirn, and she began observing and scrutinizing
Assaroe until she saw the salmon feeding near the ford, and she saluted
him and said, "Delightful is that O Goll, it is not with thee as with
me, for our woes are not the same," and she spake the lay:
[LÉITHIN SPEAKS.]
"Pleasant is that [life of thine] O Goll with success (?) many is the
stream which thou hast adventured, not the same for thee and for us,
if we were to relate our wanderings.
"It is to thee that I have come from my house, O Blind one of Assaroe,
how far doth thy memory go back, or how far is thy age to be reckoned?"
[THE SALMON ANSWERS.]
"As for my memory, that is a long one. It is not easy to reckon it.
There is not on land or in bush a person like me--none like me but
myself alone!
"I remember, it is not a clear-cut remembrance, the displacing showers
of the Deluge, four women and four men, who remained after it in the
world.
"I remember Patrick of the pens coming into the land of Ireland,
and the Fir Bolg, manful the assembly, coming from Greece to take
possession of it.
"Truly do I mind me of Fintan's coming into the country close to me.
Four men were the crew of his ship, and an equal number of females.
"I remember gentle Partholan's taking the kingship over Ulster. I
remember, a while before that, Glas, son of Aimbithe in Emania.
"I chanced to be one morning that was fair, on this river, O Léithin, I
never experienced a morning like that, either before it or after it.
"I gave a leap into the air under the brow of my hard rock [here], and
before I came down into my house [of water] this pool was one flag of
ice.
"The bird of prey[36] seized me above the land with a furious ungentle
onslaught, and bore away my clear blue eye. To me it was not a pleasant
world."
[36] Literally "eagle," but this is a mistake, it was not an eagle.
* * * * *
"Well now, my own object in coming to thee," said Léithin, "was to
enquire of thee whether thou dost ever remember such a morning as was
yesterday?"
"Indeed saw I such a morning," quoth Goll. "I remember the coming
of the deluge, and I remember the coming of Partholan and of Fintan
and the children of Neimhidh and the Fir Bolg and the Tuatha De
Danann, and the Fomorians and the sons of Milesius and Patrick son of
Alprunn, and I remember how Ireland threw off from her those troops,
and I remember a morning that was worse than that morning, another
morning not speaking of the great showers out of which the deluge
fell. And the deluge left only four men and four women, namely, Noe,
son of Laimhfhiadh and his wife, and Sem, Cam and Japhet, and their
three wives, for in truth that was the crew of the ark, and neither
[church] man nor canon reckon that God left undestroyed in the world
but those four. However, wise men truly recount that God left another
four keeping knowledge and tribal-descent and preserving universal
genealogies, for God did not wish the histories of the people to fade,
and so he left Fintan son of Laimhfhiadh towards the setting of the
sun, south, keeping an account of the west of the world, and, moreover,
Friomsa Fhurdhachta keeping the lordship of the north, and the prophet
and the Easba? duly ordering [the history of the] south. And those
are they who were alive outside of the ark, and I remember all those
people. And Léithin," said Goll, "I never saw the like of that morning
for vemon except one other morning that was worse than the morning that
you speak of, and worse than any morning that ever came before it. It
was thus. One day I was in this pool and I saw a beautifully coloured
butterfly with purple spots in the air over my head. I leapt to catch
it, and before I came down the whole pool had become one flag of ice
behind me, so that [when I fell back] it bore me up. And then there
came the bird of prey[37] to me, on his seeing me [in that condition],
and he gave a greedy venemous assault on me and plucked the eye out of
my head, and only for my weight he would have lifted me, and he threw
the eye into the pool, and we both wrestled together until we broke
the ice with the violence of the struggle, and with the [heat of the]
great amount of crimson-red blood that was pouring from my eye, so that
the ice was broken by that, so that with difficulty I got down into
the pool [again], and that is how I lost my eye. And it is certain O
Léithin," said Goll, "that that was by far the worst morning that I
ever saw, and worse than this morning that thou speakest of."
[37] Literally "eagle." MSS. reads "fiolar"--"the eagle," which is
evidently a mistake.
* * * * *
Now as for the clerics, they took council with one another, and
determined to await [the eagle's return] that they might know what she
had to relate. However they experienced such hardships and anguish
from the cold and misery of the night, and they could not [despite
their resolution] endure to abide [the eagle's return]. So Maolan, the
cleric, said, "I myself beseech the powerful Lord, and the chosen
Trinity, that the eagle, Léithin, may come with the knowledge she
receives to Clonmacnoise and tell it to Ciaran," [and therewith they
themselves departed.]
Now as for Goll [the salmon], he asked Léithin, after that, who was it
that sent her in pursuit of that knowledge.
"It was the second bird of my own birds."
"That is sad," said Goll, "for that bird is much older than thou or
than I either, and that is the bird that picked my eye out of me, and
if he had desired to make thee wise in these things it would have been
easy for him. That bird," said he, "is the old Crow of Achill. And
its talons have got blunted with old age, and since its vigour and
energy and power of providing for itself have departed from it, its
way of getting food is to go from one nest to another, smothering and
killing every bird's young, and eating them, and so thou shalt never
overtake thy own birds alive. And O beloved friend, best friend that I
ever saw, if thou only succeedest in catching him alive on thy return,
remember all the tricks he has played thee, and avenge thy birds and
thy journeyings and thy wanderings upon him, and then too mind thee to
avenge my eye."
Léithin bade farewell to Goll, and off she went the self-same way she
had come, in a mighty swift course, for she felt certain [now] that
she would not overtake her birds alive in her nest. And good cause had
she for that dread, for she only found the place of the nest, wanting
its birds, they having been eaten by the Crow of Achill. So that all
Léithin got as the result of her errand was the loss of her birds.
But the old Crow of Achill had departed after its despoiling [the
nest], so that Léithin did not come upon it, neither did she know what
way it had gone.
Another thing, too, Léithin had to go every Monday, owing to the
cleric's prayer, to Clonmacnoise. There the eagle perched upon the
great pinnacle of the round tower[38] of Clonmacnoise, and revealed
herself to the holy patron, namely Ciaran. And Ciaran asked her for her
news. And Léithin said she was [not?] more grieved at her wanderings
and her loss than at that. Thereupon Ciaran said that he would give her
the price and reward of her storytelling; namely, every time that her
adventures should be told, if it were stormy or excessive rain that was
in it at the time of telling, it should be changed into fine sky and
good weather.
[38] Literally "Bell-house."
And Léithin said that it was understood by her [all along] that it
was not her birds or her nest she would receive from him; and since
that might not be, she was pleased that her journeyings and wanderings
should not go for nothing.
And [thereupon] Léithin related her goings from the beginning to the
end, just as we have told them above. So those are the adventures of
Léithin. Thus far.
THE COMPARISON AS TO AGE BETWEEN THE FOUR ELDERS; NAMELY, THE CROW OF
ACHILL, THE GREAT EAGLE OF LEAC NA BHFAOL, THE BLIND TROUT OF ASSAROE,
AND THE HAG OF BEARE.
PREFACE.
This is the folk-lore version of the last story, and it is very
interesting because it lends strength to the assumption that the story
may be a piece of pre-Christian folk-lore, and probably very much older
than any documents. I think it is pretty obvious that St. Ciaran and
his clerics were brought into the written version simply to insure
the tale against any clerical hostility which might be displayed by
well-intentioned friars or others who would say--"those are only
foolish tales, let them be." But the presence of St. Ciaran and his two
clerics would be sure to disarm hostility, if any such were attempted.
The whole of mediaeval Irish literature is full of examples of such
forethought.
This story was told by Joyce or Seoigtheach, of Poll na bracha, in Co.
Galway, some years ago, for the Oireachtas. There are a great number of
stories in Irish with regard to old age. A common saying which I have
often heard, but with variants, is the following, which purports to
tell the life of those things in the universe which will last longest:
Tri cuaille fáil, cú.
Tri cú, each.
Tri eich, duine.
Tri daoine, iolar.
Tri iolair, bradán.
Tri bradáin, iubhair (pronounced "úr.")
Tri iubhair, eitre,
Tri eitreacha o thús an domhain go deireadh an domhain
_i.e._, "Three wattles (such as are placed in a hedge to fill a gap) =
a hound's life, three hounds a steed, three steeds a man, three men an
eagle, three eagles a salmon, three salmon a yew tree, three yew trees
a ridge, three ridges from the beginning to the end of the world."
"Eitre" has been explained to me as the old very wide ridges that used
to be used in ancient times which left an almost indelible track in the
ground. But my friend Mr. Hodgson took down a different explanation
from Mathias O'Conor, and a different version, after "tri ur, eitre,"
came "tri eitre, 'eye-ar'." and 'eitre' he explained as the mark of a
plough on land, and 'aidhear' or "eye-ar" as the mark of a spade.
The Crow of Achill is a bird that every Irish speaker in the West has
heard of, but Raftery curiously made him a "raven." In one of his poems
he says of a place in his beloved Mayo where birds delighted to resort:
Ta an fiach dubh as Acaill ann
Ta an seabhac as Loch Erne ann,
Ta an t-iolrach o'n nGreig ann
Agus an eala on Roimh.
_i.e._, the Raven out of Achill is there, the Hawk from Lough Erne is
there, the Eagle out of Greece and the Swan from Rome!
THE STORY.
In the Island of Achill the Crow lived. He never frequented wood, tree
or bush, but an ancient forge in which he spent his time every evening
throughout the year, and every year of his lifetime, lying on the
anvil. And as it is the custom of birds usually to rub their beaks to
the thing that is nearest to them, the Crow used to give an odd rub,
now and again, to the horn of the anvil. At long last, in the end, the
horn grew to be as thin and worn away as a knitting needle, by the
continuous rubbing.
One night there happened to be a great storm. There came frost, snow
and wind, very violent. The roofing was swept away off the forge, and
along with it went the plumage and feathers of the crow, and the poor
crow was left in the morning after that dreadful night, and he without
a feather or any plumage on his body, but just as much as if he had
been scalded with boiling water.
When the sun rose after that in the morning there came a rest and a
calm, but the poor crow was afraid to go out, and [_i.e._, after] the
flaying that had been done upon him during the night. "Oh," said he,
"it's a long time I'm in this world, and I never felt a single other
night of such bad weather as the night last night. It is my own opinion
that there is not a single living creature in the entire world older
than myself, unless it be the great Eagle of Leac-na-bhfaol,[39] and
I'm in doubt but that the eagle is the older. I'll go to himself now
until I get knowledge from him if he ever felt a night as cold and as
venemous as the night we had last night."
[39] Pronounce L'ock-na-weel.
When the light of day came and the heat of the sun was right, my crow
slipped off with the intention of journeying to the eagle. He was going
and ever-going as well as he was able, seeing he was without feathers,
until he came in the end, at long last, as far as the nest of the Eagle.
"Aroo!" says the Eagle; "O Crow of my heart, what has happened to you,
or where have your plumage and your feathers gone?"
"Oh, don't ask me that," said the Crow, "didn't yourself feel the cold
and ill weather of last night?"
"Well, indeed," said the Eagle, "I didn't notice one jot of the wild
weather that you're talking of."
"Heavy was your slumber then," said the Crow. "I never experienced any
night myself that was one half as venemous as it was--and signs on me!
I am come now to you to find out from you did there ever come any night
in your time that was colder than it; because I was laying out in my
own mind that you are older than I am."
"I have no right-certainty as to my own age," said the Eagle; "but even
if I had, I know that there is another creature who is still alive in
the world and who is very much older than I am."
"Who is that?" said the Crow.
"He is the Blind Trout of Assaroe," said the Eagle. "Go you, now, to
that Trout, and perhaps you might get the solving of your question from
him."
The Crow went off and he never stopped nor stayed until he came as far
as Assaroe, and he found out the Trout. He told his story then to the
Trout, and told him that he came to find out from him if there had ever
come a night in the world that was as cold as last night.
"There did, and a thousand times colder," said the Trout.
"I'd scarcely believe you,"[40] said the Crow.
[40] Literally "it's badly I'd believe you."
"Why, then," said the Trout, "if you don't believe me, you can go to an
older authority than I."
"And who is that authority?" said the Crow.
"The Old Woman of Beare," said the Trout.
"I'll go right away to her this moment,"[41] said the Crow.
[41] Literally "now itself."
"Wait yet," said the Trout, "until I tell you my own story. I was
swimming on the surface of this pool one fine calm evening, as calm and
as fine as any evening that ever I saw. There were thousands of flies
above the pool. I sprang upward to catch the full of my mouth of them,
and before I reached back again into the water there was ice on the
[surface of the] water, and I was jumping and floundering on the flag
of ice until the raven[42] came and picked the eyes out of my head. My
share of blood began running fast[43] out of me, and I was there until
the heat of the blood melted the flag of ice that was on the water,
down through it, and let me down into the water again. That was the
coldest night that I ever felt myself, and that is the way I lost my
sight. I was christened the Blind Trout of Assaroe ever since, but
some of the people call me the Old Trout of Assaroe. Alas, my bitter
misfortune! I am ever since without sight."
[42] Notice the use of the definite article.
[43] Literally "thickly."
The Crow heard him out, but he would not be easy or satisfied in his
own mind until he should go on a visit to the Old Woman of Beare.
"Farewell, Trout," said he, "I must go to the Old Woman now until I
hear her own story."
"May your journey succeed with you Crow, you will have neither loss nor
hurt in the house of the Old Woman," said the Trout.
The Crow went off then, and he never stopped nor stayed until he came
to the Old Woman's house.
"Welcome, O Crow out of Achill," said she. "What is this has happened
to you, or where are your plumage and feathers?"
"They are gone with the big wind," said he; and with that he told his
story to the Old Woman from beginning to end, and he put the same
question to her that he had put before that to the Eagle and to the
Trout--Did she ever feel any night that was as sore and venemous as
last night?
"That's true for you," said she; "I did feel a little stroke of cold at
the beginning of the night, but I drew a wool pack over my head then,
and I never felt anything but moonogues[44] of perspiration running off
me again until morning."
[44] Literally "little bog-berries"
"Are you very old?" said the Crow; "or what age are you?"
"I have no certain date with regard to my age," said the Old
Woman--"only this much. My father used to kill a beef every year, on
the day I was born, in honour of my birthday, as long as he lived, and
I followed the same custom, from that day to this. All the horns [of
the beeves I killed] are on the loft in the barn and do you remain in
my house until to-morrow, and if you like I'll send the servant boy to
count them and you yourself can keep account of them" [as he numbers
them aloud.][45]
[45] See the story of "The Old Woman of Beare."
On the morrow with the rise of day the servant went up to count the
horns, and he spent one full year, and a day over, at that work, and
after all that there was only one corner of the loft emptied.
And during all that time the Crow was taking his ease, and there was
neither thirst nor hunger on him [so well was he treated] and his
plumage and his feathers grew on him again.
But even so, he got tired of keeping count.
"I give you the branch" [palm of victory] said he to the Old Woman;
"you are as old as the old grandmother long ago, who ate the apples,"
and he sped forth from the Old Woman and went home.
THE DEATH OF BEARACHAN
PREFACE.
The following little story, taken down in Irish by my friend Father
Kelleher from the dictation of Mary Sweeney, aged 82, of Coolea,
Ballyvourney, Co. Cork, and sent me by Miss G. Schoepperle, who
published the text in the revue Celtique in 1911, is of great interest,
because it is almost unique as showing a point of contact--one of the
exceedingly few points of contact--between Breton and Irish folk-lore.
"Il n'est, que je sache, d'autre example en Irlande d'un messager
surnaturel, tel que l'enfant mystérieux qui parait dans le conte qui
suit," says Miss Schoepperle, truly, but in Brittany, she goes on to
say, the "buguel (Irish, [uncial: buachaill]) noz," _i.e._, the boy or
herdsman of the night, is well known. It is generally described as a
little child with its head too large for its body, which only seldom
appears, but which is heard to cry and lament in fields or on deserted
roads. Its apparition is a presage of death. Lebraz in his Légende de
la Mort has more than one story of its appearance. The salient points
in the following story which seem to connect it with the Breton legend
are: (1) The gradual growth in size of the being which was at first
small; (2) the lamentations and cries which it utters, and (3)--most
remarkable of all--that it described itself as a herdsman, and was a
presage of death.
The Bearchan of this story must have been the bishop of [uncial:
Cluain-sosta] in [uncial: Ui Failghe] (King's County) about the year
690. He was of the race of the [uncial: Dalriada] or Scoto-Irish, and
was 21st in descent from [uncial: Cairbre Riada] who fought in the
battle of [uncial: Ceann Feadrat] in 186 A.D. I have seen his pedigree
in MS. There are about six other St. Bearchans, but so far as I know
the only one who would have been at all likely to have attracted a
body of legend to himself was this Bearchan of [uncial: Cluain-sosta],
who was esteemed as a prophet and poet. Besides I find this very
curious note in the Martyrology of Donegal compiled by Brother Michael
O'Clery from the old books of Ireland in 1630:
[uncial: Dodhach Bercháin da friot go nuaide in Uíb Fáilgi i bhferonn
ó Ui Berchain, an maidi fós timchiol an uisge. Ann sin atá cluainsosta
agus ann sin atá tempall Bercháin acus do bhi,] i.e., "Berchan's vat
has been found new in Ui Failgi in the territory of the Ui Berchain.
The timber was still round the water [_i.e._, was still good enough
to hold water.] It is there Cluainsosta is, and there Berchan's church
is and was." So, then, there must have been some well-known story
connected with Berchan's vat. The list of the great Earl of Kildare's
library, which was drawn up in 1518, contained a "St. Berchan's Book."
Poems ascribed to him are found in the "Wars of the Gael and Gall."
For other references to him, see my "Literary History of Ireland,"
210-11[46] "Bearachán" is the modern pronunciation of the older Berchán.
[46] See also O'Curry MS. Materials p. 412-418 and 432. Fer-da-lethe,
or the "man of two halves," was another name for him, "because he spent
half of his life in the world and half on pilgrimage ut ferunt periti."
An old rann runs:
[uncial: Cheithri fáidhe Gasdhel n-glan
feirdi an tir a dtanganar,
Colum cille Moling lán
Brenainn Biorra agus Berchan.]
_i.e._, "Four prophets of the clean Gael. The country from which they
sprang was the better for them. Columbcille, full Moling, Brendan of
Birr and Berchan."
THE STORY.
Bearachan of Glen Flesk[47] had a dream or vision that there was no
danger of his ever dying until three kings should come to his house
without asking or invitation. On a certain night they did pay him a
visit. He told them that there would not be a bit of him alive in the
morning. They passed a good part of the night eating and drinking away,
and they making a jest of him [saying] that so long as they themselves
were in the house there would be no danger of [anything happening] him.
[47] Near Killarney in Co. Kerry. But, as I have shown, he was probably
Bearchan of Cluainsosta. There is no Berchan of Glenflesk in any of the
Irish martyrologies.
[Illustration: THE THREE KINGS ADMIT THE "POOR LITTLE CREATURE"]
They got hold of a big dabhach or vat, and [they put] Bearachan in
under the mouth of the vat [to protect him] and they three were round
about it.
He had not been long placed there by them when they heard a very clear
little voice outside, and it crying; and there was snow outside, and
cold.
They asked it, "what was outside and what it wanted."
It said that it was a cow-herd and that it was perished.
They left him outside for a good space of time. At last they let him
in. He came in and sat down beside the fire, a poor little creature,
and he shaking with the cold. They gave him food and drink, but he told
them that he was too much frightened, and that he would not eat it.
They had a fine red-hot fire, and he was warming himself at the fire.
He was a very short time there till he began swelling with the [heat of
the] fire and growing big. He drew a little musical instrument out of
his pocket and started to play on it. And according as the music was
a-playing by him the others were inclining to weaken and fall asleep,
until they [all, at last] fell softly in a dead sleep.
And when they awoke in the morning, they had no music and no
Bearachan--nothing but his bones left bare and naked underneath the
vat.
STORY OF SOLOMON.
PREFACE.
How Solomon comes into Irish folk-lore is hard to say, but I have heard
at least three stories about him, of which the present is the most
interesting. I wrote it down, word for word, from the mouth of Michael
Mac Ruaidhri, in 1896. There is an undoubtedly Eastern flavour about
it, but how it came to the County Mayo I cannot imagine, for I have not
been able to trace it to any known source.
Solomon's name was better known in the middle ages in connection with
the conjuration of spirits. "Für solche halbe Hexenblut 1st Salomonis
Schlüssel gut," says Faust in the study scene, when threatened by the
demon dog. Josephus mentions Solomon's power over ghosts, and a book
of conjurations in Hebrew which was ascribed to Solomon was translated
into Latin, French, Italian, German and Spanish. The best known
German edition according to Zerfi (one of Faust's editors) is called
"clavicula Salomonis et theosophia pneumatica."
THE STORY.
When Solomon's mother was sick, Solomon used to send a man from the
village in which he was, to watch her every night; and every man who
used to be watching her had to come before sunrise next morning with
word to Solomon of how his mother was, and the first man who would say
that his mother was dead, his head was to be whipt off him, and hung
upon a spear that was above the Great Door. And they used to go, man
after man, each night in their turn, and five pounds was the reward for
their work, which they used to get each night. It was well, and it was
not ill, until it came to the turn of a widow's son to go to watch the
mother of Solomon; and the night that he was going to watch her she was
very weak and overcome, and given up for death.
When the account came to the widow's son to go and watch Solomon's
mother, there came the weakness and the sweat of death upon him, and
his mother began to keene for him, because she had no one but him. And
as he was going home from the day's work that he had, that evening, he
was weeping and troubled; and there met him a half-fool, and he asked
the widow's son for what cause was he weeping, and the widow's son told
him as I am telling it to you.
"What is the reward that you will get?" said the half-fool to the
widow's son.
"Five pounds," says he to him.
"My soul to God of the graces," says the half-fool, "but I'll go in
your place to night, if you give me the five pounds."
"I'll give you five pounds, and something over," says the widow's son,
"if you go there."
True was the story. The half-fool went to watch Solomon's mother that
night, and she was in the last agony when he went into the room, and
he was watching her until after the hour of twelve at night; and he
heard a noise at the big door, and he rose upon his feet and walked to
the big door, and there was a man at the big door, and he watching,
looking in on a window that was in the big door. And the man who was in
it was a body-servant of Solomon; and Solomon had a great regard for
this man, and he used to send this man every night to bring him word
privately--to tell him if the man who was taking care of his mother
was doing his business right. Now, there was none of the men who were
watching his mother for a year so keenly-watchful as the half-fool who
was watching her that night. No man of them heard the man who was at
the big door any night except him.
The half-fool opened the big door then, and there was an old sword hung
up over the big door. When the big door was opened the body-servant
thought to come in, but the half-fool drew the sword, and threw the
head off him. He left him there and went to the sleeping-room where
Solomon's mother was, and he was not long in it until Solomon's mother
died.
* * * * *
Solomon was getting very uneasy about his servant as to what was the
reason that he was not coming to him with tidings, as he used to come
every other night. But, howsoever, Solomon did not leave the house till
morning, and he did not go to look for him. [He waited], but he did
not come. And when the day came, the widow's son was not with Solomon
before the rising of the sun, as the other men had been. Solomon did
not go to rest, but he ever looking out through the window, and at long
last he saw the widow's son--for he thought it was he was in it--coming
to the palace. And when he came in to Solomon they saluted one another.
And says the half-fool--it was he was in it--to Solomon, "I am asking
pardon of you, O king and prince."
"Why say you that?" said Solomon.
"I knocked the hat off your body-servant yesterday," said the half-fool.
"You have your pardon got," said Solomon.
"But, O thou best of the kings," said the half-fool, "the head was with
the hat." And as Solomon was after giving him his pardon, he could not
go back of his word.
"Have you any other tidings with you?" said Solomon.
"I have," said he.
"Tell them," said Solomon.
"God's brightness is on the earth," said he.
"The sun is risen," said Solomon.
"It is," said the half-fool.
"The stones that were above yesterday," said he, "they are going below
now."
"The plough is ploughing, then," said Solomon.
"It is," said he, "and the first house in which you were reared, it is
overthrown."
"Then my mother is dead," said Solomon
"She is," said the half-fool.
"I shall have your head on the spear," said Solomon.
"You shall not, O honest noble king," said the half-fool, "you yourself
were the first man who said it."
"By my honour," said Solomon, "it was I."
Ye see now, that, as wise as Solomon was, the half-fool got the victory
over him in wisdom. "There be's luck on a fool."[48]
[48] A common proverb.
CHRISTMAS ALMS.
PREFACE.
There are many rhyming petitions and prayers amongst the "Askers
of Alms" to be recited at the door of those from whom they crave
assistance. One of the virtues most insisted upon in prayers and
didactic poems is almsgiving. The following story was probably invented
with a deliberately didactic purpose. It was told by Mary Gowlan,
Cathair-na-Mart (Westport), some twenty years ago. The Dardeels, or
Dharadeels which came out of the mouth of the dying woman are the most
loathsome insects known to the Irish peasant. They are black beetles
with cocked tails. See the "Legend of the Dardeel, the Keerogue and the
Prumpolaun."
THE STORY.
In the old time there was a married couple living near
Cauher-na-Mart,[49] in the County Mayo. They had seven of a family, but
God sent them worldly means, and they wanted for nothing but the love
of God.
[49] Westport.
The man was a pious and generous person, and was good to the poor, but
the wife was a hard miser without mercy, who would not give alms to
man or stranger, and after refusing the poor man she used not to be
satisfied with that, but she used to give him abuse also. If a person
able to do work were to come looking for alms from her, she would say,
"Unless you were a lazy vagabone you would not be here now looking for
alms and bothering my head with your talk;" but if an old man or an old
woman who could do no work would come to her, it is what she would say
to them that they ought to be dead long before that.
One Christmas night there was frost and snow on the ground. There was
a good fire in Patrick Kerwan's house--that was the man's name--and
the table was laid. Patrick, his wife and his family were sitting down
at the table, and they ready to go in face of a good supper when they
heard a knock at the door. Up rose the wife and opened it. There was a
poor man outside, and she asked him what he was looking for.
"I'm looking for alms in the honour of Jesus Christ, who was born on
this festival night, and who died on the Cross of passion for the human
race."
"Begone, you lazy guzzler," she said, "if you were one half as good at
working as you are at saying your prayers, you would not be looking for
alms to-night, nor troubling honest people," and with that she struck
the door to, in the face of the poor man, and sat down again at the
table.
Patrick heard a bit of the talk she gave the poor man, and he asked who
was at the door.
"A lazy good-for-nothing, that was looking for alms," said she, "and
if it wasn't that it was a lazy vagabone that was in it, he would not
come looking for alms from people who are earning their share of food
hardly, but he would sooner be saying his old prayers than working for
meat."
Patrick rose. "Bad was the thing you did," said he, "to refuse anyone
for a morsel of meat, and especially to refuse him on Christmas night.
Isn't it God that sent us everything that we have; there is more on
this table than will be eaten to-night; how do you know whether we
shall be alive to-morrow?"
"Sit down," says she, "and don't be making a fool of yourself; we want
no sermons."
"May God change your heart," says Patrick, and with that he got the
full of his two hands of bread and food, and out with him, following
the poor man, going on the track of his feet in the snow as quick as he
could, till he came up with him. He handed him the food then, and told
him he was sorry for his wife's refusing him. "But," says he, "I'm sure
there was anger on her."
"Thank you for your food," said the poor man. He handed the food back
again to him, and said "[there], you have your food and your thanks,
[both]. I am an angel from heaven who was sent to your wife in the form
of a poor man, to ask alms of her in the honour of Jesus Christ, who
was born this night, and who suffered the passion of the Cross for the
human race. She was not satisfied with refusing me, but she abused me
also. You shall receive a great reward for your alms, but as for your
wife she shall not be long until she is standing in the presence of
Jesus Christ to give Him an account of the way in which she spent her
life on this world."
The angel departed, and Patrick returned home. He sat down, but he
could neither eat nor drink.
"What's on you?" says the wife, "did that stroller do anything to you?"
"My grief! it was no stroller was in it, but an angel from heaven who
was sent to you in the shape of a man to ask alms of you, in honour
of Jesus Christ, and you were not satisfied with refusing him, but you
must abuse him with bad names. Now, your life on this world is not
long, and in the name of God, I beseech you, make a good use of it."
"Hold your tongue," she said, "I think that you saw a ghost, or that
you lost your senses, and may God never relieve you, nor anyone else
who would leave a good fire, and a good supper, running out in the snow
after a lazy rap; but the devil a much sense was in you ever."
"If you don't take my advice, you'll repent when you'll be too late,"
said Patrick; but it was no use for him to be talking.
When Little Christmas [New Year's Day] came, the woman was not able to
get dinner ready; she was deaf and blind. On the Twelfth Night she was
not able to leave her bed, but she was raving and crying, "give them
alms, alms, alms, give them everything in the house in the name of
Jesus Christ."
She remained for a while like that, between the death and the life, and
she without sense. The priest came often, but he could do nothing with
her. The seventh day the priest came to her, and he brought the last
oil to anoint her with.
The candles were lit, but they were quenched upon the spot. They tried
to light them again, but all the coals that were in the county Mayo
would not light them. Then he thought to put the oil on her without a
candle, but on the spot the place was filled with a great smoke, and it
was little but the priest was smothered. Patrick came to the door of
the room, but he could go no further. He could hear the woman crying,
"a drink, a drink, in the name of Christ!"
She remained like this for two days, and she alive, and they used to
hear her from time to time crying out, "a drink, a drink," but they
could not go near her.
Word was sent for the Bishop O'Duffy, and he came at last, and two old
friars along with him. He was carrying a cross in his right hand. When
they got near Patrick's house, there came down on them with one swoop a
multitude of kites, and it was little but they plucked the eyes out of
the three.
They came then to Patrick's door and they lit the candles. The bishop
opened a book and said to the friars, "When I shall begin reading the
prayers do ye give the responses." Then he said, "Depart, O Christian
soul----"
"She is not a Christian soul," said a voice, but they saw no one.
The Bishop began again, "Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world,
in the name of the all-powerful Father who created you." Before he
could say more there came great thunder and lightning. They were
deafened with the thunder; the house was filled with smoke. The
lightning struck the gable of the house and threw it down. The deluge
came down so that the people thought it was the end of the world that
was in it.
The Bishop and the two friars fell to their prayers again. "O Lord,
according to the abundance of Thy mercy, look mercifully upon her,"
said the Bishop. "Amen," said the friars. There came a little calm and
the Bishop went over to the bed. Poor Patrick came to the other side
of the bed, and it was not long until the woman opened her mouth and
there came a host of dardeels out of it. Patrick let a screech and ran
for fire to put on them. When he came back the woman was dead, and the
dardeels gone.
The Bishop said prayers over her, and then he himself went away and the
two friars, and Patrick went out to get women to wash the corpse, but
when he came back the body was not to be found either up or down. There
was a purse of gold round its neck, and the purse went with the body,
and there is no account of either of them from that out.
Many was the story and version that the neighbours had about Patrick
Kerwan's wife. Some of them say that the devil took her with him.
Others said that the good people carried her away. At all events there
is no account of her since.
At the end of a month after that the speckled disease (smallpox) broke
out amongst the children and they all died. There was very great grief
on Patrick. He was alone, by himself, without wife, without children,
but he said: "Welcome be the will of God."
A short time after that, he sold all that he had and went into a
monastery. He spent his life piously and died a happy death. May God
grant us a good death and the life that is enduring.
THE BURIAL OF JESUS.
PREFACE.
The first time I heard this poem was at the Galway Feis many years ago.
A poor old man, called the Cean-nuidhe Cóir (Canny Core) or Honest
Merchant--I don't know what his real name was--recited it. I took him
aside in the interval during the competitions and wrote the most of
it down from his recitation. My friend, Eoghan O Neachtain, wrote the
rest of it down for me from the old man's mouth later on, but with the
greatest difficulty as he had lost his teeth and pronounced very badly.
Neither of us ever heard the poem before, and it is obviously only a
fragment of a long piece, now, I fear, hopelessly lost, in common with
many others, once popular. Indeed, I have seen a copy of this poem
written down by a man called Hessian some eighty years ago, who called
it the Assire [=Aiseirghe], but it is hopelessly undecipherable. This
curious piece refers to a story once so commonly known in Ireland that
it may almost be said to have formed part of the regular account of
the crucifixion. It is celebrated even more in Irish art than in Irish
story and song. When examining a few years ago the remains of the
beautiful abbey which gives to Ennis its Irish name of Mainistir na
h-Innse, I saw where a portion of the stone carving had recently been
laid bare, and there, as plain as though it had been carved yesterday,
was a very spirited picture of the cock rising up out of the pot and
getting ready to crow. This was included with the other symbols of the
crucifixion. I have seen the same thing on old wooden crucifixes, and
elsewhere. There seems to have been a body of legend in some way or
other connecting the cock with the history of the Passion. A Coptic
legend tells us that on the day of the betrayal a roasted cock had been
served up to our Lord, who bade it rise up and follow Judas, who was
then upon his way to make his bargain with the chief priests. The cock
rose up and did what it was ordered, and brought back word to our Lord
that the arch-traitor had sold Him, "and for this that cock shall enter
Paradise." Thevonet Voyages II. 75, quoted in Journal for Apocrypha.
It is more likely, however, that the legend as we know it came from the
second Greek form of the Gospel of Nicodemus, certain MSS. of which
contain the following passage: "And when the Jews refused to receive
again from Judas the thirty pieces of silver for which he had betrayed
his Master, he threw them in their midst and went away. And he came
home to make a halter out of a cord to hang himself with. There he
found his wife sitting and roasting a cock upon the coals. And he said
unto her: 'Rise wife and get a rope ready for me because I mean to hang
myself as I deserve.' But his wife said unto him, 'Why speakest thou
like that?' And Judas replied, 'Know then that I have unjustly betrayed
my master, Jesus, to the evil-doers who have taken him before Pilate
to put Him to death; but He will rise again on the third day, and then
woe to us.' But his wife said unto him, 'Speak not so, and believe it
not. For it is just as likely that this cock roasting on the coals will
crow as that Jesus will rise, as thou sayest.' And while she was thus
speaking the cock flapped his wings and crew thrice. Then was Judas yet
the more convicted, etc." (Tischendorff, p. 289). The legend found its
way into Scotland also. It is told in a bald version in Scotch Gaelic
of only four verses, recovered by Carmichael ("Carmina Gadelica," vol.
II., p. 176): "That cock which you have in the pot pounded as fine as
cabbage, the liar shall not leave the tomb until it crows upon the
beam." For the original and literal translation, see "Religious Songs
of Connacht."
THE STORY.
Virgin gentle, courteous, gracious,
Whose goodness, which my soul embraces,
A shaft of light through time and space is
To lead it into heavenly places.
Thy Holy Son, the King of Angels,
Suffered passion, wounds, estrangement,
In satisfaction for the ailments
Of the sins which here assail us.
* * * * *
He was laid in the tomb at the will of the King,
He died with pains unstinted,
The blood of His heart on the point of the dart,
And death on His cold face printed.
At the door of the tomb was a stone of gloom,
Not a hundred men could heave it,
But an angel came from heaven like flame
To raise it and to leave it.
The Magdalen came, and she came in her haste
To wash His wounds in a minute,
She searched through the gloom of the rock-hewn tomb,--
No trace of the Lord was in it.
She saw by the wall the grave clothes all
Lying empty there, and started,
And timidly asked of the soldier guard,
"Where has our Lord departed."
"I was here," said the guard, "I kept watch and kept ward,
Why seek ye the truth to smother?
I've a nice little cock who boils here in my pot--
And the one is as dead as the other."
"I've a nice little cock who boils here in my pot,
While the camp looks on and sees us,
And until the cock rises out of the pot,
He never shall rise, your Jesus."
With that the dead cock flew out of the pot,
And clapped with his wings loud crowing,
"Ochone"! cried the man, and his features grew wan,
"Then Jesus is up and doing."
[SPAKE THE VIRGIN.]
"I sicken, I sigh, with longing I die,
If ye show me not where to find Him,
To put balm in the cuts and the stabs and the wounds,
Wherewith in His side they signed Him."
He is gone where are gone the Apostles, and soon
In Galilee thou shalt find him.
[SPAKE CHRIST.]
By Peter my Church has been holily built
With flame of faithful endeavour,
Though the body be stricken the soul hath no guilt,--
Confess ye My name for ever.
Here is another melodious little piece about the two Marys which I got
from my friend Miss Agnes O'Farrelly, who got it from a young gossoon
in Inismaan, or in Aranmore, I do not know which.
UPROSE THE TWO MARYS.
Uprose the two Marys,
Two hours ere day,
And they went to the temple
To keene and to pray.
There came in the angel
With candle so bright,
"All hail to thee, Mary,"
Said God full of light.
"And dost thou forget it,
Thy passion and pain,
And dost thou forget it,
Thy slaying by men?
"And dost thou forget it,
The spear and the threat,
Which no children of Adam
Could ever forget?"
* * * * *
Remember me, children
Of Adam and Eve,
And the heavens of God
Ye shall surely receive.
SAINT PETER.
PREFACE.
An old woman named Bridget Casey, from near Baile-'dir-dhá-abhainn or
Riverstown, Co. Sligo, told this story to F. O'Conor in Athlone, from
whom I got it. For the original see "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol.
1, p. 192.
THE STORY.
At the time that St. Peter and our Saviour were walking the country,
many was the marvel that his Master showed him, and if it had been
another person who was in it and who had seen half as much, no doubt
his confidence in his Master would have been stronger than that of
Peter.
One day they were entering a town, and there was a musician sitting
half-drunk on the side of the road and he asking for alms. Our Saviour
gave him a piece of money, going by of him. There came wonder on Peter
at that, for he said to himself, "many's the poor man in great want
that my Master refused, but now He has given alms to this drunken
musician; but perhaps," says he to himself, "perhaps He likes music."
Our Saviour knew what was in Peter's mind, but he did not speak a word
about it.
On the next day they were journeying again, and a poor friar (_sic_)
met them, and he bowed down with age and almost naked. He asked our
Saviour for alms, but He took no notice of him, and did not answer his
request.
"There's another thing that's not right," said Peter in his own mind.
He was afraid to speak to his Master about it, but he was losing his
confidence in Him every day.
The same evening they were approaching another village when a blind
man met them and he asking alms. Our Saviour talked with him and said,
"What do you want?" "The price of a night's lodging, the price of
something to eat, and as much as I shall want to-morrow: if you can
give it to me you shall get great recompense, and recompense that is
not to be found in this sorrowful world."
"Good is your talk," said the Lord, "but you are only seeking to
deceive me, you are in no want of the price of a lodging or of anything
to eat, you have gold and silver in your pocket, and you ought to give
thanks to God for your having enough to do you till [next] day."
The blind man did not know that it was our Saviour who was talking to
him, and he said to him, "It is not sermons but alms I'm asking for, I
am certain that if you did know that there was gold or silver about me
you would take it from me. Get off now, I don't want your talk."
"Indeed you are a senseless man," said the Lord, "you will not have
gold or silver long," and with that He left him.
St. Peter was listening to the discourse, and he had a wish to tell the
blind man that it was our Saviour who was talking to him, but he got no
opportunity. But there was another man listening when our Saviour said
that the blind man had gold and silver. It was a wicked plunderer who
was in it, but he knew that our Saviour never told a lie. As soon as
He and St. Peter were gone, the robber came to the blind man and said
to him, "give me your gold and silver or I'll put a knife through your
heart."
"I have no gold or silver," said the blind man, "if I had, I wouldn't
be looking for alms." But, with that, the robber caught hold of him,
put him under him, and took from him all he had. The blind man shouted
and screamed as loud as he was able, and our Saviour and Peter heard
him.
"There's wrong being done to the blind man," said Peter.
"Get treacherously and it will go the same way," said our Saviour, "not
to speak of the Day of Judgment."
"I understand you, there is nothing hid from you, Master," said Peter.
* * * * *
The day after that they were journeying by a desert, and a greedy lion
came out. "Now, Peter," said our Saviour, "you often said that you
would lose your life for me, go now and give yourself to the lion, and
I shall escape safe."
Peter thought to himself and said, "I would sooner meet any other death
than let a lion eat me; we are swift-footed, and we can run from him,
but if I see him coming up with us I'll remain behind, and you can
escape safe."
"Let it be so," said our Saviour.
The lion gave a roar, and off and away with him after them, and it was
not long till he was gaining on them and close up to them.
"Remain behind, Peter," said our Saviour, but Peter let on that he
never heard a word, and went running out before his Master. The Lord
turned round and said to the lion, "go back to the desert," and so he
did.
Peter looked behind him, and when he saw the lion going back, he stood
till our Saviour came up with him.
"Peter," said He, "you left me in danger, and--what was worse than
that--you told lies."
"I did that," said Peter, "because I knew that you have power over
everything, not alone over the lion of the wilderness."
"Silence your mouth, and do not be telling lies; you did _not_ know,
and if you were to see me in danger to-morrow you would forsake me
again. I know the thoughts of your heart."
"I never thought that you did anything that was not right," said Peter.
"That is another lie," said our Saviour. "Do you not remember the day
that I gave alms to the musician who was half drunk, there was wonder
on you, and you said to yourself that many's the poor man in great
want, whom I refused, and yet that I gave alms to a drunken man because
I liked music. The day after that I refused the old friar, and you
said that that was not right; and the same evening you remember what
happened about the blind man. I will explain to you now why I acted
like that. That musician did more good than twenty friars of his sort
since ever they were born. He saved a girl's soul from the pains of
hell. She wanted a piece of money, and was going to commit a deadly sin
to get it, but the musician prevented her and gave her the piece of
money, though he himself was in want of a drink at the same time. As
for the friar, he was not in want at all; although he had the name of
friar he was a limb of the devil, and that was why I paid him no heed.
As for the blind man, his God was in his pocket, for the old word is
true, 'where your store is your heart will be with it.'"
A short time after that Peter said, "Master, you have a knowledge of
the most lonesome thoughts in the heart of man, and from this moment
out I submit to you in everything."
* * * * *
About a week after that they were travelling through hills and
mountains, and they lost their way. With the fall of the night there
came lightning, thunder, and heavy rain. The night was so dark they
could not see a sheep's path. Peter fell against a rock and hurt his
foot so badly that he was not able to walk a step.
Our Saviour saw a little light under the foot of a hill, and he said to
Peter, "remain where you are, and I will go for help to carry you."
"There is no help to be found in this wild place," said Peter, "and
don't leave me here in danger by myself."
"Be it so," said our Saviour, and with that he gave a whistle, and
there came four men; and who was captain of them but the person who
robbed the blind man a while before that! He recognized our Saviour and
Peter, and told his men to carry Peter carefully to the dwelling-place
they had among the hills. "These two put gold and silver in my way a
short time ago," said he.
They carried Peter into a chamber under the ground. There was a fine
fire in it, and they put the wounded man near it, and gave him a drink.
He fell asleep, and our Saviour made the sign of the cross with his
finger above the wound, and when he awoke he was able to walk as well
as ever. There was wonder on him when he awoke, and he asked "what
happened to him." Our Saviour told him each thing and how it occurred.
"I thought," said Peter, "that I was dead, and that I was up at the
gate of heaven, but I could not get in, for the door was shut, and
there was no doorkeeper to be found."
"It was a vision you had," said our Saviour, "but it is true. Heaven is
shut and is not to be opened until I die for the sin of the human race
who put anger on My Father. It is not a common but a shameful death I
shall get, but I shall rise again gloriously and open the heaven that
was shut, and you shall be doorkeeper."
"Ora! Master," said Peter, "it cannot be that you would get a shameful
death. Would you not allow me to die for you? I am ready and willing."
"You think that," said our Saviour.
* * * * *
The time came when our Saviour was to get death. The evening before
that He Himself and His twelve disciples were at supper, when He said,
"There is a man of you going to betray Me." There was great trouble on
them, and each one of them said, "Am I he?" But He said, "He who dips
with his hand in the dish with Me, he is the man who shall betray Me."
Peter said then, "If the whole world were against you," said he, "I
will not be against you." But our Saviour said to him, "Before the cock
crows to-night you will reneague (deny) Me three times."
"I would die before I would reneague you," said Peter; "indeed I shall
not reneague you."
When death-judgment was passed upon our Saviour, His enemies were
beating Him and spitting on Him. Peter was outside in the court, when
there came a servant-girl to him and said to him, "You were with
Jesus." "I don't know," says Peter, "what you are saying."
Then when he was going out the gate another girl said, "There's a man
who was with Jesus," but he took his oath that he had no knowledge at
all of Him. Then some of the people who were listening said, "There is
no doubt at all but you were with Him; we know it by your talk." He
took the great oaths, then, that he was not with Him. And on the spot
the cock crew, and then he remembered the words our Saviour said, and
he wept the tears of repentance, and he found forgiveness from Him whom
he denied. He has the keys of heaven now, and if we shed the tears of
repentance for our faults, as he shed them, we shall find forgiveness
as he found it, and he will welcome us with a hundred thousand welcomes
when we go to the door of heaven.
LEGENDS OF ST. DEGLAN.
PREFACE
I wrote down the following legend of St. Deglan, word for word, in
Irish, from the telling of my friend, Padraig O'Dalaigh, who comes
himself from the Decies.
THE STORY
When Deglan was leaving Rome he held his bell in his hand, but as he
was going into the ship he left the bell upon a rock that was by the
harbour, and forgot to bring it with him. The ship put out to sea, with
the bell left on the rock behind it.
When Deglan was coming near Ireland he remembered the bell, and knew
that he had left it on the rock behind him in Rome. Old people say
that long ago there used not to be much good in "a cleric without a
bell."[50] Deglan knew that he would want the bell when he would land in
Ireland, and he prayed God to send it to him.
[50] "A cleric without a bell," and "the forgetting his bell by the
cleric," are common proverbs in Irish.
At the end of a little time what should be seen swimming behind the
ship but the rock and the bell on it, just as Deglan had left it at
Rome. And when the vessel came to land, then the stone came into the
harbour at Ardmore, and the stone comes up on the shore, and it is
there yet. The stone is set high up on the top of two smaller stones,
and room between the two for a man to pass out under them. If you were
to see the hole you would feel certain that even a cat could not pass
out through it, and yet a big man can pass through.
Every Deglan's Day, the 24th of July, and the Sunday nearest to it,
thousands of people come from all over the Decies, from twenty miles
away, to the "pattern," and anyone who has anything the matter with
him, either disease or pain or sickness, goes in under that stone, and
believes firmly in his mind that he will be healed. Hundreds do that
yet, up to the present day.
About fifteen years ago the "pattern" was growing small and dying out,
but a feis, the second feis in Ireland [in modern times] was held on
Deglan's Sunday, and thousands and thousands of people came to it, and
there had not been such a "pattern" for fifty years. I myself have
often seen people passing under the stones.
Every second person in the "seana-phoball," and in the parish of
Ardmore also, is called Deglan down to the present day. Scarcely a
month passes that a child is not christened Deglan. The explanation
that the people give of the name of the parish called "Seana-phoball,"
or Old Parish, is that Deglan had made a parish of it and that there
were Christians there before there was a parish, or before there were
Christians in any other place in Ireland, and "old phoball" is the same
as "old paróiste" or parish.
[The above story is the folk version of part of the following, which
is here translated for the first time from an Irish MS. in my own
possession. St. Deglan's church is spoken of in the MS. as still
standing, and his miraculous stone as being still preserved there when
the account was written. This throws back the account many hundreds of
years. I collated my MS. carefully with one written in 1758 [23 M 50],
preserved in R.I.A. It has never been printed, but I believe my friend,
Father Power, will soon publish the entire life of St. Deglan.]
ST. DEGLAN.
OF HOW TRAMORE GOT ITS NAME.
And the people of the island concealed the ship so that Deglan could
not embark on it, for they disliked it greatly that Deglan should
inhabit it, for fear they themselves might be banished out of it.
His disciples then said to Deglan, "Father, thou often requirest to
come to this place. We pray thee to avoid it, and mayest thou receive
from God that the sea should ebb away from the land so that people may
go into it with dry feet, for Christ has said that whatever shall be
asked of My Father in My name He shall give it you, for it is not easy
for thou to inhabit this place or to protect it."
And Deglan said, "This place which was promised me by God and where my
burial was promised, how shall I be able to avoid it? But concerning
this thing which ye desire me to do, namely, to inhabit it, I like not
to pray against the will of God concerning the taking away from the sea
its own natural movement; howsoever, at your entreaty I shall direct
my petition to God, and whatsoever pleases God, let it be done."
Deglan's disciples arose, and they said, "take thy staff as Moses did
with the rod, and smite the sea with it, and God shall make manifest
His own will to thee in that wise," and his disciples besought him to
do that, for they were faithful people. His staff was [accordingly]
given into Deglan's hand, and he smote the water with it in the name
of the Trinity, and he made the sign of the cross of crucifixion with
it on the water, and quickly the sea began to move out of his own
place--so quickly that it was scarcely the swift monsters[51] of the
sea could keep pace with it by swimming, and it left many of them on
the shore high and dry, who were not able to depart with the sea on
account of the rapidity with which it moved. And Deglan followed the
sea with his crozier in his hand, and his disciples followed him, and
there was a cry and a great sounding from the sea and from the monsters
departing. And when Deglan reached the place where Tarmuin-na-mara
is now, a young child of Deglan's disciples by the name of Mainchin
spake, he being terrified at the noises of the sea and at the roaring
of the unknown monsters with their mouths open, following the water.
"Father," said he, "thou hast displaced the sea enough, for I am afraid
of yonder awful monsters." At the word of the child the sea stopped.
And Deglan did not like that, and he struck a light blow on his nose,
and three drops of blood dropped from him to the ground under Deglan's
feet in three places. And Deglan blessed the nose, and the blood
ceased suddenly. And Deglan said, "it is not I who have removed the
sea but the power of God, and it would have removed it further had it
not been for the words thou spakest." And in the place where those
drops of blood fell, three little wells of sweet shining water burst
forth from them under the feet of Deglan. And those wells are still
there. And they are seldom [without?] that colour of blood upon them
as a remembrance of those miracles. And there is a mile in length and
in breadth around them, and the name of it is "the tramore," or "great
shore," and good and profitable is the land of Tramore, and there was
[built] Deglan's monastery. And the crozier that Deglan had in his
hand, when performing that miracle, its name was "Feardhacht Deglan."
We shall say something more about its miracles in another place.
[51] Biastaide luathe na mara.
OF HOW ARDMORE GOT ITS NAME, AND OF ST. DEGLAN'S STONE.
Deglan proceeded to say mass in a church that lay before him in his
way, and a small black stone was sent from heaven through the window
of the church to him, and it remained on the altar in his presence.
Great joy seized Deglan at beholding it, and he gave praise and glory
to God for it. Now his mind was firmly set against ill ways and the
unreason of the heathen after the possession of the stone, and he gave
that stone to Lunan, son of the King of the Romans, who was in his
company, to keep and to carry for him. And the name of that stone was
Bobhur in Ireland,[52] namely Deglan's "Duibhin" (or little black thing)
and it was from its colour it received that name, for by its colour it
was black, and it revealed [things] by the grace of God, and Deglan
performed many miracles [by it], and it remains to this day in Deglan's
church....
* * * * *
... and on one of these occasions (a visit to Rome) he went to a holy
bishop of the Britons named David, to the church which is called
Cillmhin [Killveen], which is beside the shore of the sea which divides
Britain from Ireland. And the bishop received him with honour, and he
was for forty days in his society, with love and joy, and he used to
say mass each day there, and they knit themselves together with bonds
of brotherhood and partnership, and [they bound] the people of the
place after them. And on his completing forty days there, they parted
with salutation, and he said farewell to David and gave him a kiss in
token of peace. And he himself and his disciples went to the shore of
the sea to go into the ship to go to Ireland. And that stone I spake
of, which was sent to Deglan from heaven, a monk was carrying it at the
time; for Deglan was unwilling ever to part with it, and it used always
to be in his company. And when they came from the shore into the ship
the monk had forgotten it, [and left it] on a rock which was on the
shore. And until they had gone about half way over the sea they never
remembered it. And when they did remember it Deglan was melancholy, and
so was every one else, after the gift, which had come down from heaven
to Deglan, being forgotten in a place from which they never thought to
get it back. Deglan looked above his head to heaven, and clearly prayed
to God in his mind. And then he said to his disciples, "lay aside your
melancholy, for God who made a gift of that stone from heaven at the
first can now send it to us in an unusual ship." Wonderful and splendid
it was that the rock without understanding or reason submitted to the
Creator contrary to nature, for it swam directly after the ship, with
the stone on it, and it was not long until Deglan and his disciples
saw the rock after them, and the stone upon it. And when Deglan's
people beheld that miracle, they were filled with the love of God and
with honour for their master, Deglan. And Deglan spake prophetically:
"Let the stone go on in front of you, and follow ye it, for whatsoever
harbour it shall arrive at, it is near it that my city shall be, and
my house and bishoprick,[53] and it is from that place I shall go to
God's heaven, and it is there that my resurrection shall be." And the
stone went out past the ship, and ceased the great pace at which it had
proceeded up to then, and remained a little in advance of the ship, so
that it could be seen from on board the ship, yet in such wise that the
ship might not overtake it. And the rock steered for Ireland so that it
took harbour in the south, in the Decies, at an island that was at that
time called Ard-Innis Caerach, or High Island of the Sheep, and the
ship took the same harbour, as Deglan had told them.
[52] This passage about Bobhur is not in the R.I.A. copy only the part
about the Duibhin.
[53] Mo chathair si agus mo thigheas easbogoidheacht in my MS. "Mo
theaghdhais easbogoideachta" 23 M 50. 1758.
Deglan, that holy man, went on shore, and he gave praise and glory and
thanks to God because that he had reached the place of his resurrection
on that island, where the sheep of the king of the Déise used to be
kept usually and herded. And there was a pleasant high hill on it. And
one of his disciples said to Deglan on going to the top of that hill
"how shall this Ard beag (Little Height) support thy people."
"Beloved son," said Deglan, "say not so. This is no Little Height, but
an Ard Mór (Great Height)," and the name has clung to it ever since,
namely Ardmore of Deglan.
[Illustration: THE LANDING OF ST. DEGLAN AT ARDMORE]
ST. PAUL'S VISION; OR, THE LAST END OF THE MAN WHO LEADS A BAD LIFE.
PREFACE.
I took the following very curious account from an Irish MS. a couple of
hundred years old, which had been thrown away on a loft in a farm house
in the County Meath before I secured it. There are other copies of this
story in the Royal Irish Academy, and a fragment in the library of
University College, Dublin, but mine is the best copy I have met. There
is no other version, so far as I know, of St. Paul's Vision that is at
all like this. The Vision was at one time well known in Europe. It was
at first, according to Tischendorf, probably composed in Greek, and
there is a version of it in Syrian and another in Latin. The story is
also found in old High German, in Danish, French and Slavonic. The best
and longest Latin version is to be found in the Bibliotheque Nationale
at Paris, but there is not a word in it, nor in the Greek, nor in the
Syrian, of the driving of the soul out of the body, or of the angel
Michael's guiding St. Paul to the bedside of the dying man. As it is
unlikely that some Irish Gael composed all this out of his own head, I
can only surmise that it is a translation of a Latin or Greek original
now lost, and that the story now survives through its translation into
Irish alone.
We know that the Irish have saved for us several pieces of an
apocryphal or mystic character, whose originals are now lost, such as
the extraordinary piece called the "Ever-new Tongue," and the "Vision
of Tundal."
This story contains a close resemblance to the "Debate between the
Body and the Soul," which is usually known as the "Visio Philaberti,"
ascribed to Walter Mapes, or Map, or else to Walter Grosseteste, bishop
of Lincoln, and of which a kind of middle Irish version exists in the
"Leabhar Breac" and was published by Atkinson in his "Passions and
Homilies." Another imperfect version was published by Dottin in the
"Revue Celtique," 1903. My MS. from which I have taken this Vision of
St. Paul's contains an excellent copy of it also. Almost all the Irish
copies ascribe it to Grosseteste.
The longest Latin version of this Vision contains 51 chapters or
sections, and deals with St. Paul's account of Paradise and his other
wanderings, as well as with the infernal regions.
There is a "Passion of St. Paul" in the Leabhar Breac, or Speckled
Book, but there is not a word about this Vision in it. I found an
account of St. Paul in another Irish MS., probably taken from some lost
source. "A small, miserable-looking person was the apostle Paul. Broad
shoulders he had; a white face with a sedate demeanour. His head small.
Pleasant bright eyes he had. Long brows, a projecting (?) nose and a
long beard with a little grey hair."
The horrid description of the soul leaving the body with such
reluctance has a curious Pagan parallel in an exactly reverse sense
in Lucan's Pharsalia, Book vi., 721, in the dreadful account of the
sorceress conjuring back a soul into the dead body, and its reluctance
to enter it. "Adspicit adstantem projecti corporis umbram Exanimes
artus, invisaque claustra timentem, Carceris antiqui: pavet ire in
pectus apertum, Visceraque, et ruptas letali vulnere fibras. Ah miser
extremum qui mortis munus iniquae, Eripitur non posse mori, etc."
The mediæval Irish translator of the Pharsalia revelled in this
sorceress episode.
For the original of the following piece, see "Religious Songs of
Connacht," vol. II.
THE STORY
The Apostle Paul, upon a certain time, chanced to be in a city of
the name of Smyrna, in the land of Syria. And this is how Paul was,
namely, making intercession with God, the all-powerful, to reveal to
him something of the pains of hell, so that all the more for receiving
that revelation, he might perform the will of God, and give instruction
to the congregations. And, as he was beseeching God in this wise,
there cometh unto him a youth, and he asketh Paul to go with him, to
confirm in his faith a man who was at the point of death. Paul departed
along with the youth to the place where was the sick man, and him they
found before them struggling with the Death. Now this is the manner
wherein the soul parteth from the body--as saith St. Bernard, one of
the arch-doctors of the Trinity. He saith that the Death cometh in a
cold, unrecognisable, insufferable shape, stabbing the body with spits
and arrows. And first it cometh into the outer members, namely the
centre of the soles of the feet, and of the palms of the hands, in the
veins, and in every other member of the body, until it hunt the noble
soul before it out of every member of the body, even as the fisherman
routeth the fish under the hollows of the banks (?) to the weedy-place
(?) in which the net is set to catch them. Even so doth the Death,
routing before it the soul into the heart--the first member of a person
to be alive, and the last member to die.
But, howsoever, upon the coming of Paul and of the messenger to the
sick man, they perceived how he himself and the Death were struggling
with one another, and that the Death was after taking possession of all
the body, except that the soul was in the lower chamber of the heart,
striving to conceal itself from the Death. But that was in vain for it,
for when Death came to the heart, he began ploughing and boring the
heart, for he felt certain that it was there the soul was. But when the
soul felt its enemy and adversary the Death close to it, it thought to
leave the body and to come forth out of the mouth, since it found no
dwelling place nor shelter in the body. But it is what it finds before
itself there, a frightful fearsome host of black, ugly-coloured devils,
and fiery flames full of stench, and a loathsome, insufferable, evil
smell coming forth out of their mouths, and each one of them watching
with fierceness for the soul to come forth out of the mouth and out
of the body, for it was in a state of damnation, without repentance,
that this sinner was dying. And when the poor soul beheld this devilish
guard in front of it, the soul returned fearful (?) and quaking and
cometh into the passage of the nose and thought to come out there. But
it beholds the same host before it. It returneth full of weariness and
misery and goeth to the eyes, but it is what it findeth there before
it--many black, ugly-coloured devils with fiery flames out of their
mouths and gullets, and each of them saying, "What is this delay of
Death's that he routeth not out to us this damned soul forth from the
greedy body in which it is, till we bear it with us to its own abode--a
place where there is darkness and eternal pain for ever and ever as
its evil deeds have deserved [that were wrought] during the time that
it was its own master?" And on the poor soul's hearing these words
it screamed and cried feebly, and wept tearfully, sorrowfully, and
with bitter weariness, for it recognised then that it was parted from
the eternal life for ever and ever, and it turns back again to the
hollows of the ears, where it thought to find a way out, but it is what
it finds there before it many loathly worms and evil-shaped terrific
serpents of various kinds. When the soul saw that, it returned back to
the heart, for it desired to go, as it seemed to it, into hiding, but
it found Death before it there, ploughing and boring the heart. Then
the soul considered that it had no escape on any side. It despaired of
God and of the whole angelic court, and it went aloft to the crown of
the head. It goes out and leaves the body and settles on the top of
the head. It looks down at that tomb where it had been--namely, the
body--and said, "Oh! all-powerful God! is it possible that this is the
body wherein I was for a brief [space of] happiness; and if it is,
where has gone the blue clear-seeing eye, or the crimson cheek? 'Tis
what I behold in place of the eyes--hollow dry cavities sucked back
into the hollow of the skull; the ruddy handsome cheek now dark and
beetle-hued; the mouth that was to-day red and shapely now closed, not
to be opened, livid, hideous, without talk, without speech; and oh!
all-powerful God! alas for him who was deceived by the companion at the
raising (?) of the body's strength, power, pride, and spirit, which was
begotten and which was alive, and whose share of gold and treasures was
great; but I do not see one thing of all that in his possession now,
nor advantaging nor comforting him at all; but I see that it is ill he
spent the gifts that God gave him, and that on account of this he has
damned me for ever."
The body spake, and said: "If it were not for thee these devilish
furious hosts would not come to claim me now. For this is how thou
wast when thou wast bound to me; thou wast an active, most powerful
spirit, full of understanding and of feeling, and of clear intellect,
of nobility and of honour; thou didst recognise between evil and good;
whilst I was nothing but a fistful of clay, without beauty or strength,
or feeling, or sense, or understanding, or power, or guidance, or
movement, or sight, or hearing, until thou wast bound to me, and for
that reason it is thou who art guilty and not I."
"Thou greedy, carnal, unsubduable worm, all thou sayest is not true,
for I was a clean, glorious spirit," said the soul, "who had no
necessity for food or clothing or for anything at all, of all that is
on the earth, but the joy of holy life, until I was bound to thee. And
this is why I was bound to thee, for thee to spend the activity of
thy feet, the labour of thy hands, the sight of thy eyes, the hearing
of thy ears, the speech of thy mouth, the thoughts of thy heart, and
every other gift that God gave thee, so as to do ministering, to
make submission, and to perform every other service to glorious God
throughout thy period on this world, so that after that I and thou
might find the fruit of those good deeds in the enjoyment of eternal
glory in the company of God and of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and of
all the angelic heavenly court, where cometh everyone who has done
good deeds, such as fasting, alms-giving, prayers, acts of friendship
to a neighbour, listening willingly to the words of God, and acting
accordingly; and who used not to refuse to relieve the necessity of
the poor, and the like. But those are not the things that thou didst,
but spending the gifts God gave with gluttony, drunkenness, adultery,
pride, arrogance, greed; with the ruin of thy neighbour's portion;
with lies, noisiness (?) anger, quarrelling, back-biting, folly,
pitilessness, injustice, wrath, sloth, envy, lechery, with the spoil of
the poor, and with every other sort of sin that the human body thought
pleasant; and lo! what fruit hast thou for those misdeeds. Dead and
feeble are thy limbs which were once active and strong; closed is the
mouth wherewith thou didst use to hold unlawful discourse; weak is
the tongue wherewith thou wast wont to utter obscene barbarous words,
giving ill-fame, reproach, disrespect, shame, contempt, displeasure,
and every other sort [of evil] that thy thoughts and intellect could
bring to mind. Deaf is the ear that used to listen with pleasure to
murmurings, to scandal, to the back-biting of neighbours. Blind and
hollow is the eye that used to look with greed, partiality, and malice.
There is no fairness nor beauty in the hand on whose fingers the gems
used to be. I see them not on thee now. And, moreover, I see not the
gold nor the silver nor the various other goods which thou didst get
by defrauding, which thou didst rob, which thou gottest from the weak,
from the orphan, and from the miserable, with deceptions and ill-will.
They are now in the possession of other people, and not one thing of
them doing good to thee, but [doing] every evil that is possible to
reckon. And, therefore, O greedy, lustful body, most unsubduable worm
that God ever created, it is thou art most guilty and not I," said the
soul.
After the soul uttering those words miserably and wearily, an evil
spirit of that damned host that was waiting to get the soul into its
own possession spake, and said: "It is a wonder how long Death is
without routing this damned soul to us forth out of the body."
Another devil answered him and spake: "It is not possible for us to
possess it or to take it until Jesus Christ pass judgment upon it
first, according to its actions, bad and good. However, its possession
for ever is ours; for ever, because it was to us it did service and
ministry whilst it was living, and ours is the possession of soul and
body from the day of the last judgment for ever."
After the devils speaking these words, a shining, happy host of the
angels of heaven lowered themselves, with singing of music, round about
the body, and in their midst a Youth more glorious than the sun. Many
awful, wide-opened wounds in His skin, and they dripping blood. The
Youth spake to the dead, and asked him how he had spent the life that
he got, or the gifts that God gave him. The body answered and said: "O
Jesus Christ, O Lamb, Son of God, I am not able to deny it, that it was
ill I spent my time and the gifts that I got; that Thou didst suffer
passion-pains and death on my behalf, and that I paid no regard to
that, and therefore I am myself admitting that Thou hast no power (from
the true right of Thy divinity, and from the plentifulness of my evil
deeds, since I did not make repentance of them either early or late)
not to pass judgment damning me now. And alas! now I see the wrong, the
loss, and the harm, of the neglect I was guilty of, in putting off
repentance, until Thy messenger, the Death, came to me, and, my grief!
I was not prepared for him, and, moreover, I got no respite when he
came, until he destroyed me--and that is my account of my life, and
indeed it is more evil than it is good."
"Well, then," said the Youth on whom were the wounds, "all that thou
hast committed of faults and of evil deeds throughout thy life, if
thou wert to make true repentance from thy heart of them, I would make
thee as clean as the sun, and I would place thee in the company of the
angels and of the saints, enjoying everlasting glory, and the devilish
host which is waiting for thee would have no power nor might over thee.
But since thou hast not done that, it is necessary to pass judgment
upon thee according to thy deeds, bad and good."
Then there came each one of the demon host that was waiting for the
poor soul, and a roll of dark black parchment in the hand of each
of them, in which was written all that the dead man had done in the
service of the devil. On the Saviour Jesus Christ perceiving that, it
was what He said, "Take with you this damned soul to hell, to pain it
till the day of the general judgment, and from that out ye shall have
the body as well as the soul, enduring eternal pains."
Then came the devilish host that was waiting for the soul. They drew
the poor soul with fiery crooks, and they made of it a lump of fire,
and they were hunting it before them to hell, and it calling and crying
out faintly and fearfully.
Paul the Apostle was observing each thing of those, because it was God
who had sent His messenger to him, so that he might get a view of the
person who led a bad life, at the point of death, according to the
prayer he had made. Then, upon the departure of the accursed host and
of the soul out of sight, Paul cried aloud, weeping and lamenting, to
get a sight of the end that was being brought upon the soul. Then the
messenger asked Paul did he desire to get a sight of the pains of that
soul and of the other damned souls. "I should so desire," said Paul,
"if it were God's will." "Well, then," said the messenger, "I will give
thee a sight of them, for I am not a man of this earth, but an angel
that God has sent to thee to show thee these things, and I am Michael
the Arch-Angel," said he.
After these words the angel brought him to the brink of a valley that
was stupendous for depth and fearfulness. Paul beheld, amongst the
first things there, a great, dark, frightful river. Blacker than coal
was its appearance, and jet black the bubbling terrible water that
was in it, so that one puff alone of the venemous wind that used to
come out of it would kill all the men and women of the world--were
it not for the Spirit of God succouring them it would split stones
and trees--and he beheld many loathly worms and snakes, and devils of
divers shapes in it, raging, beating, gnawing (?), and bone-cutting
one another; cursing the day in which they were born or were created.
And on the other opposite side of the river there was a dark cave in
which were many damned souls screaming(?); being bound (?) and lashed.
And some of them were in this wise, sitting on the fiery hearth of
pains; many black, ugly-shaped devils serving and administering
the insufferable pains to them, such as fiery flames, sharp and
hurting (?), and the devils tossing them and turning them (?) with
sharp-pointed spits in those flames. And there was a resting-lake (?)
of very cold ice, full of venom, into which the damned souls used to
leap, seeking cooling and comfort from the sharp goading of the fire.
However, no sooner would they go to the lake than they would leap out
of it again into the fire, by reason of its cold, and of the sharp
venom that was in the water, and here are the words some of them would
say:--"O all-powerful God, is there any redemption or help in store for
us, or shall we be for ever in these pains, or in what place is Death
that he cometh not unto us to put us into nothingness, so that we might
find a sleep, on our being dead?" Another spirit of them answered and
said: "O accursed, devilish, damned spirits," said he, "there is no
help nor redemption laid out for you for ever and ever, because this
is the end your misdeeds deserved whilst ye were in life, with pride,
with haughtiness, with gluttony, with inordinate desire, and with every
other sort of sin. Ye have spent the gifts that God gave you, namely
feeling, beauty, strength, airiness (?), happiness, the sight of the
eyes, the hearing of the ears, the speaking of the mouth, the movement
of the limbs, and all those [given] to do the service of God. However,
what ye have done was to spend them in the service of the devil, and it
is he who shall give you your wages in pains, without help or relief,
for ever and ever."
"Knowest thou, O Paul," said the angel, "who they are who are pained
like this?"
"I know not," said Paul, "but it is on them are the hardships
impossible to count-up or to show-forth."
"There," said the angel, "are the people of haughtiness and pride,
who used to be bruising-to-pieces the poor, who gave themselves up to
drinking and the evil desires of the world. Yon devils are beating
them, and ministering to them eternal pains, and they shall be so for
ever and ever, in eric for their misdeeds."
* * * * *
Paul beheld another band upon the fiery hearth of pains, many loathsome
beetle-worms and serpents gnawing and bone-cutting each member of them;
some of the worms going into their mouths and their necks and coming
out on their ears, and the spirits themselves collecting and drawing
those devils and those loathsome reptiles to themselves.
"Knowest thou, O Paul," said the angel, "what people are pained like
this?"
"I know not," said Paul.
"Those," said the angel, "are the people of adultery and disgusting
lust; and in eric for the fair-coloured, gaudy clothes that they used
to put upon themselves, both men and women, deceiving one another,
those devils are for ever gnawing, overthrowing, and bone-cutting them."
* * * * *
Paul beheld another lot upon the fiery hearth of hell. Great mountains
of fire on every side of them, many ill-shaped devils throwing down
those mountains upon the very top of them, bruising them together and
bitter-urging them for ever.
"Knowest thou, O Paul," said the angel, "what people are pained like
this?"
"I know not," said Paul.
"Those," said the angel, "are the people of greed, the lot who store
and gather their neighbours' portion unlawfully, who used not to show
mercy or give alms or act with humanity to the poor, and who used to
oppress the feeble."
Paul saw another lot of people on the fiery hearth of pains,
ever-hideous devils, their eyes straying in their heads, being pained
and bitter-tortured, and being tightened with fiery chains.
"Knowest thou, O Paul," said the angel, "what people are pained like
this?"
"I know not," said Paul.
"Those are the people of envy, the lot who used to be tortured
and burnt with envy and with jealousy when they used to see their
neighbours' goods or possessions, and who would not be satisfied with
the gifts that God would give themselves--and in eric for that they
shall be tortured in this way for ever."
* * * * *
Paul beheld another band upon the hearth of fiery pains, up to their
chins in cold frosty water of the colour of coal. More stinking was
that water than a dead carcase after corruption. Many reptiles,
swimming before them in that water, they being tortured with famine and
with thirst, their mouths opened, crying for food and drink, it set
before them, without its being in their power to taste it, for as often
as they would make an attempt it used to remove farther from them.
"Knowest thou, O Paul," said the angel, "what people are pained like
this?"
"I know not," said Paul.
"Those are the people of gluttony, the people who never fasted nor
abstained nor gave alms nor said prayers, who used to be eating and
drinking forbidden food and drink, who used to give to the body its own
satisfaction, with drunkenness, gluttony and lust, and never checked
the want of the poor."
* * * * *
Paul beheld another band upon the hearth of fiery pains, and this is
how that lot were, with fiery flames out of their mouths and gullets.
An evil disgusting, insufferable smell upon that flame. Their eyes
ghastly wandering, straying in their heads; they pulling one another
and beating one another like fully famished lions.
"Knowest thou, O Paul," said the angel, "what people are pained like
that?"
"I know not," said Paul.
"Those are the people of anger, of disobedience and of despair. They
shall be thus for ever and ever."
* * * * *
Paul beheld another lot very cold and dark, upon the hearth of pains,
bound with chains upon their narrow beds, bruised and tortured and
tightened in bondage by those chains, full of foulness and of evil
disgusting smell, and every pain that it is possible to think of.
"What people are those?" said Paul.
"Those," said the angel, "are the people of sloth who used to remain
away from Mass, from sermons, and from the service of God. Through
sloth they used to neglect and disregard good deeds, and alas for him
who is journeying towards that kingdom," said the angel, "for that is
the habitation of the fiery pains and of the misery, the lake of cold,
the prison of gall, the cave of darkness, the congregation of curses,
the hearth of anger, the ford of snow, the captivity of sloth, the
abode of misery, the dungeon of venom, the court of dispute, the war
of the damned devils, the lake and the sea that is filled with wrath,
with want, with envy, with covetous desire, with jealousy, and with all
evil. _Uch hone, uch!_ Alas for him who is journeying to it."
Howsoever, the angel showed Paul, at full length and completely, the
pains of hell. And, on Paul's beholding all that, with the grace
of God, and with the help of the angel, he gave thanks to God for
receiving that vision, and he fell to thinking bitterly about the
numbers of people on the world who were journeying to those pains. Then
the angel led Paul from the clouds of hell until he gave him a sight of
the glory of the heaven of God. And, on Paul's beholding that sight,
no sorrow of all he had had in his life oppressed him. He beheld the
entire glory of the heavenly palace. He beheld our Saviour Jesus Christ
in the midst of the angels on His throne, and the Lord gave Paul a
gentle, friendly welcome, and told him that it was a short time until
he should come to eternal glory. Then the angel took Paul with him from
the sight of the glory [of heaven], and left him in the place where he
had found him at first, bade him farewell, and departed to heaven.
* * * * *
Paul was throughout his life teaching and preaching to the
congregations and to the Gentiles about the glory of the heavens and
the pains of hell.
Glory be to the living God!
OSCAR OF THE FLAIL.
PREFACE.
I wrote down the following story from the mouth of John Cunningham of
Ballinphuill, Co. Roscommon, on the high road between Frenchpark and
Ballaghaderreen, about twenty years ago. Oscar's flail is well known in
Irish tradition. The poet O'Kelly, in his series of English curses on
Doneraile, alludes to it--
May Oscar with his fiery flail
To pieces dash all Doneraile.
Mr. Stephen Gwynn, M.P., found a variant of this story in Donegal and
has given a spirited poetic version of it. The story is also known in
Waterford. It is probably spread all over the lands occupied by the
Gael, and contains elements that are exceedingly old. The very verses
about "the humming gnat or the scintilla of a beam of the sun" which I
wrote down from the mouth of old John Cunningham in the Co. Roscommon,
had been already jotted down in phonetics by Magregor, the Dean of
Lismore, in Argyllshire in the year 1512. I printed the whole story
with a French translation and introduction in the "Revue Celtique,"
vol. 13, p. 425, showing how in the Tripartite life of St. Patrick the
story of piercing a penitent's foot is told of a son of the King of
Munster. But, as his name was doubtless soon forgotten, the story got
fathered upon Oisín.
The story had its rise, no doubt, in the sorrow felt by the people when
the clerics told them that their beloved Fenians and Oisín and Finn
were damned, and the story was probably invented by some clever person
to save them from perdition. There are scores of MSS. which contain
disputes between St. Patrick and Oisín, or Ossian as the Scotch call
him, on this very subject. See "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol. I.,
p. 209. For the allusion to Elphin, see the poem which follows.
THE STORY
Saint Patrick came to Ireland, and Oisín met him in Elphin and he
carrying stones.
And whatever time it might be that he got the food,
It would be long again till he would get the drink.
"Oisín," says he, "let me baptize you."
"Oh, what good would that do me?" says Oisín.
"Oisín," says St. Patrick, "unless you let me baptize you, you will go
to hell where the rest of the Fenians are."
"If," says Oisín, "Diarmaid and Goll were alive for us, and the king
that was over the Fenians, if they were to go to hell they would bring
the devil and his forge up out of it on their back."
"Listen, O gray and senseless Oisín, think upon God, and bow your knee,
and let me baptize you."
"Patrick," says Oisín, "for what did God damn all that of people?"
"For eating the apple of commandment," says St. Patrick.
"If I had known that your God was so narrow-sighted that he damned all
that of people for one apple, we would have sent three horses and a
mule carrying apples to God's heaven to Him."
"Listen, O gray and senseless Oisín, think upon God, and bow your knee,
and let me baptize you."
Oisín fell into a faint, and the clergy thought that he had died.
When he woke up out of it, "O Patrick, baptize me," says he--he saw
something in his faint, he saw the thing that was before him. The
spear was in St. Patrick's hand, and he thrust it into Oisín's foot
purposely; and the ground was red with his share of blood.
"Oh," says St. Patrick to Oisín, "you are greatly cut."
"Oh, isn't that for my baptism?" says Oisín.
"I hope in God that you are saved," says St. Patrick, "you have
undergone baptism and ...?"
"Patrick," says Oisín, "would you not be able to take the Fenians out
of hell"--he saw them there when he was in his sleep.
"I could not," says St. Patrick, "and any one who is in hell, it is
impossible to bring him out of it."
"Patrick," says Oisín, "are you able to take me to the place where Finn
and the Fenians of Erin are?"
"I cannot," says St. Patrick.
As much as the humming gnat
Or a scintilla of the beam of the sun,
Unknown to the great powerful king
Shall not pass in beneath my shield.
"Can you give them relief from the pain?" says Oisín.
* * * * *
St. Patrick then asked it as a petition from God to give them a relief
from their pain, and he said to Oisín that they had found relief. This
is the relief they got from God. Oscar got a flail, and he requested a
fresh thong to be put into the flail, and there went a green rush as a
thong into it, and he got the full of his palm of green sand, and he
shook the sand on the ground, and as far as the sand reached the devils
were not able to follow; but if they were to come beyond the place
where the sand was strewn, Oscar was able to follow _them_, and to beat
them with the flail. Oscar and all the Fenians are on this side of the
sand, and the devils are on the other side, for St. Patrick got it as
a request from God that they should not be able to follow them where
the sand was shaken,--and the thong that was in the flail never broke
since!
OISIN IN ELPHIN.
PREFACE.
In the story which I have just given it is said that St. Patrick met
Oisin when he was carrying stones in Elphin, a small village in the
County Roscommon, which was once a great ecclesiastical centre founded
by St. Patrick. I had often heard other people in Roscommon tell about
Oisín's carrying those stones in Elphin, and of St. Patrick meeting him
there, but I always imagined that they had localised the story because
they themselves belonged to the place. That this is not so, however,
and that the story of the ancient warriors being forced to carry stones
in his old age is old and genuine is proved by Magregor in Argyllshire
jotting down a verse 400 years ago in which Ossian tells how Finn
had prophesied to him that he would yet be carrying stones for the
"Tailgin."
Bea tou schell a tarraing clooch,
Ma in deyt how in weit wronyth.
i.e., [uncial: Béidh tú seal ag tarraing cloch,
Man [rul] dtéld tu ón bhith bhrónach]
and the very poem (which I give here, taken from a Belfast MS.) was
written in phonetics by Magregor in far-away Argyll.
Magregor's first line as read by McLaughlin (Skene's Book of Lismore)
runs "is fadda noch ni nelli fiym," but Dr. Cameron later on gave a
more correct reading "is fadda not ni nelli finni." It is not to be
translated as McLaughlan does, "long are the clouds this night above
me," but "long is to-night in Elphin," ni nelli finni being evidently
to be transliterated as "i n-Ailfinne." This poem may almost be looked
upon as a pendant to the last piece. See my "Religious Songs of
Connacht."
COLD ELPHIN.
Long was last night in cold Elphin,
More long is to-night on its weary way,
Though yesterday seemed to me long and ill,
Yet longer still was this dreary day.
And long, for me, is each hour new-born,
I fall forlorn to grinding grief
For the hunting lands, and the Fenian bands,
And the long-haired generous Fenian Chief.
I make no music, I find no feast,
I slay no beast from a bounding steed,
I give no gold, I am poor and old,
I am cursed and cold without wine or mead.
No more I court, and I hunt no more,
These were before my strong delight,
I have ceased to slay, and I take no prey,
--Weary the day and long the night.
No heroes come in their war array,
No game I play, and no gold I win;
I swim no stream with my men of might,
--Long is to-night in cold Elphin.
Would I were gone from this evil earth,
I am wan with dearth, I am old and thin,
Carrying stones in my own despite,
--Long is to-night in cold Elphin.
Ask, O Patrick, of God, for grace,
And tell me what place he will hold me in,
And save my soul from the Ill One's might
--For long is to-night in cold Elphin.
THE PRIEST WHO WENT TO DO PENANCE.
PREFACE.
This story I wrote down most carefully, word for word, from the telling
of Mairtin Ruadh O Giollarnath, near Monivea, Co. Galway. He knew no
English. I printed it in my "Sgeuluidhe Gaedhealach," published in
Rennes. I know no variant of this story.
THE STORY.
There arose some little difference between three sons. A farmer's sons
they were. One man of them said that he would leave home and go to an
island (_i.e._, emigrate). Another man of them became a priest, and the
eldest brother remained at home.
The young priest never stopped until he went to Athlone to the college
there, and he remained there for five years until his term had expired,
and he was turned out a professed priest. He got himself ready, then,
in the college, and said that he would go home to visit his father and
mother.
He bound his books together in his bag, and then he faced for home.
There was no mode of conveyance at that time; he had to walk. He walked
all through the day until night was coming on. He saw a light at a
distance from him. He went to it and found a gentleman's big house. He
came into the yard and asked for lodgings until the morning. He got
that from the gentleman and welcome, and the gentleman did not know
what he would do for him, with the regard he had for him.
The priest was a fine handsome man, and the daughter of the gentleman
took, as you would say, a fancy to him, when she was bringing his
supper--and a fine supper it was he got. When they went to sleep
then the young woman went into the room where the priest was. She
began entreating him to give up the church and to marry herself. The
gentleman had no daughter but herself, and she was to have the house
and place, all of it, and she told that to the priest.
Says the priest, "don't tell me your mind," says he; "it's no good. I
am wed already to Mary Mother, and I shall never have any other wife,"
says he. She gave him up then when she saw that it was no good for her,
and she went away. There was a piece of gold plate in the house, and
when the young priest fell asleep she came back again into his room,
and she put the gold plate unbeknownst to him into his bag, and out she
went again.
When he rose then, in the morning, he was getting himself ready to be
going off again. It was a Friday, a fast day, that was in it, but she
got a piece of meat and put it into his pocket, unbeknownst to him. Now
he had both the meat and the gold plate in his bag, and off my poor man
went, without any meal in the morning. When he had gone a couple of
miles on his road, up she rose and told her father that the man that he
had last night with him, "it was a bad man he was, that he stole the
gold plate, and that he had meat in his pocket, going away of him, that
she herself saw him eating it as he went the road that morning." Then
the father got ready a horse and pursued him, and came up with him and
got him taken and brought back again to his own house, and sent for the
peelers.
"I thought," said he, "that it was an honest man you were, and it's a
rogue you are," said he.
He was taken out then and given to the jury to be tried, and he was
found guilty. The father took the gold plate out of the bag and showed
it to the whole jury. He was sentenced to be hanged then. They said
that any man who did a thing of that sort, he deserved nothing but to
put his head in the noose[54] and hang him.
[54] Literally, "in the gallows."
He was up on the stage then going to be hanged, when he asked leave to
speak in the presence of the people. That was given him. He stood up,
then, and he told all the people who he himself was, and where he was
going and what he had done; how he was going home to his father and
mother, and how he came into the gentleman's house. "I don't know that
I did anything bad," said he, "but the daughter that this gentleman
had, she came in to me, into the room, where I was asleep, and she
asked me to leave the church and to marry herself, and I would not
marry her, and no doubt it was she who put the gold plate and the fish
into my bag," and he went down on his two knees then, and put up a
petition to God to send them all light that it was not himself who was
guilty.
"Oh, it was not fish that was in your bag at all but meat," said the
daughter.
"It was meat perhaps that _you_ put in it, but it was fish that I found
in it," says the priest.
When the people heard that, they desired to bring the bag before them,
and they found that it was fish in the place of meat that was in it.
They gave judgment then to hang the young woman instead of the priest.
She was put up then in place of him to be hanged, and when she was up
on the stage, going to be hanged, "Well, you devil," said she, "I'll
have you, in heaven or on earth," and with that she was hanged.
* * * * *
The priest went away after that, drawing on home. When he came home
he got, after a while, a chapel and a parish, and he was quiet and
satisfied, and everybody in the place had a great respect for him, for
he was a fine priest in the parish. He was like this for a good while,
until a day came when he went to visit a great gentleman who was in
that place; just as yourself might come into this garden,[55] or like
that, and they were walking outside in the garden, the gentleman and
himself. When he was going up a walk in this garden a lady met him, and
when she was passing the priest on the walk, she struck a light little
blow of her hand on his cheek. It was that lady who had been hanged who
was in it, but the priest did not recognise her, [seemingly] alive, and
thought she was some other fine lady who was there.
[55] This story was told to me in the garden of Mr. Reddington Roche,
at Rye Hill.
She went then into a summer house, and the priest went in after her,
and had a little conversation with her, and it is likely that she
beguiled him with melodious conversation and talk before she went out.
When she herself and he himself were ready to depart, and when they
were separating from one another, she turned to him and said, "you
ought to recognize me," said she, "I am the woman that you hanged; I
told you that day that I would have you yet, and I shall. I came to you
now to damn you." With that she vanished out of his sight.
He gave himself up then; he said that he was damned for ever. He was
getting no rest, either by day or by night, with the fear that was on
him at her having met him again. He said that it was not in his power
either to go back or forward--that he was to be damned for ever. That
thought was preying on him day and night.
He went away then, and he went to the Bishop, and he told him the whole
story and made his confession to him, and told him how she met him and
tempted him. Then the bishop told him that he was damned for ever, and
that there was nothing in the world to save him or able to save him.
"I have no hope at all, so?" said the priest.
The bishop said to him, "you have no hope at all, till you get a small
load of cambrick needles,"--the finest needles at all--"and get a ship,
and go out to sea, and according as you go every hundred yards on the
sea you must throw away a needle from you out of the ship. Be going
then," says he, "for ever," says he, "until you have thrown away the
last of them. Unless you are able to gather them up out of the sea and
to bring them all to me back again here, you will be lost for ever."
"Well that's a thing that I never shall do; it fails me to do that,"
said the priest.
He got the ship and the needles and went out to sea, according as he
used to go a piece he used to throw a needle from him. He was going
until he was very far away from land, and until he had thrown out the
last needle. By the time he had thrown away the last needle, his own
food was used up, and he had not a thing to eat. He spent three days
then, on end, without bite or sup or drink, or means to come by them.
Then on the third day he saw dry land over from him at a distance. "I
shall go," said he, "to yon dry land over there, and perhaps we may
get something there that we can
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