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W. B. Yeats, ed. & sel., Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry (1888) [7]
[See Contents, supra.]
| {146} |
| WITCHES, FAIRY DOCTORS |
Witches and fairy doctors receive their power from opposite dynasties; the witch from evil spirits and her own malignant will; the fairy doctor from the fairies, and a something — a temperament — that is born with him or her. The first is always feared and hated. The second is gone to for advice, and is never worse than mischievous. The most celebrated fairy doctors are sometimes people the fairies loved and carried away, and kept with them for seven years; not that those the fairies’ love are always carried off — they may merely grow silent and strange, and take to lonely wanderings in the “gentle” places. Such will, in after-times, be great poets or musicians, or fairy doctors; they must not be confused with those who have a Lianhaun shee [leannán-sidhe], for the Lianhaun shee lives upon the vitals of its chosen, and they waste and die. She is of the dreadful solitary fairies. To her have belonged the greatest of the Irish poets, from Oisin down to the last century.
Those we speak of have for their friends the trooping fairies — the gay and sociable populace of raths and caves. Great is their knowledge of herbs and spells. These doctors, when the butter will not come on the milk, or the milk will not come from the cow, will be sent for to find out if the cause be in the course of common nature or if there has been witchcraft. Perhaps some old hag in the shape of a hare has been milking the cattle. Perhaps some user of “the dead hand” has drawn away the butter to her own churn. Whatever it be, there is the counter-charm. They will give advice, too, in cases of suspected changelings, and prescribe for the “fairy blast” (when the fairy strikes anyone a tumour rises, or they become paralysed. This is called a “fairy blast” or a “fairy stroke”). {147}
The fairies are, of course, visible to them, and many a new-built house have they bid the owner pull down because it lay on the fairies’ road. Lady Wilde thus describes one who lived in Innis Sark:
He never touched beer, spirits, or meat in all his life, but has lived entirely on bread, fruit. and vegetables. A man who knew him thus describes him — “Winter and summer his dress is the same — merely a flannel shirt and coat. He will pay his share at a feast, but neither eats nor drinks of the food and drink set before him. He speaks no English, and never could be made to learn the English tongue, though he says it might be used with great effect to curse one’s enemy. He holds a burial-ground sacred, and would not carry away so much as a leaf of ivy from a grave. And he maintains that the people are right to keep to their ancient usages, such as never to dig a grave on a Monday, and to carry the coffin three times round the grave, following the course of the sun, for then the dead rest in peace. Like the people, also, he holds suicides as accursed; for they believe that all its dead turn over on their faces if a suicide is laid amongst them.
“Though well off, he never, even in his youth, thought of taking a wife; nor was he ever known to love a woman. He stands quite apart from life, and by this means holds his power over the mysteries. No money will tempt him to impart his knowledge to another, for if he did he would be struck dead — so he believes. He would not touch a hazel stick, but carries an ash wand, which he holds in his hands when he prays, laid across his knees; and the whole of his life is devoted to works of grace and charity, and though now an old man, he has never had a day’s sickness. No one has ever seen him in a rage, nor heard an angry word from his lips but once, and then being under great irritation, he recited the Lord’s Prayer backwards as an imprecation on his enemy. Before his death he will reveal the mystery of his power, but not till the hand of death is on him for certain.’”
When he does reveal it, we may be sure it will be to one person only — his successor. There are several such doctors in County Sligo, really well up in herbal medicine by all accounts, and my friends find them in their own counties. {148} All these things go on merrily. The spirit of the age laughs in vain, and is itself only a ripple to pass, or already passing away.
The spells of the witch are altogether different; they smell of the grave. One of the most powerful is the charm of the dead hand. With a hand cut from a corpse they, muttering words of power, will stir a well and skim from its surface a neighbour’s butter.
A candle held between the fingers of the dead hand can never be blown out. This is useful to robbers, but they appeal for the suffrage of the lovers likewise, for they can make love-potions by drying and grinding into powder the liver of a black cat. Mixed with tea, and poured from a black teapot, it is infallible. There are many stories of its success in quite recent years, but, unhappily, the spell must be continually renewed, or all the love may turn into hate. But the central notion of witchcraft everywhere is the power to change into some fictitious form, usually in Ireland a hare or a cat.
Long ago a wolf was the favourite. Before Giraldus Cambrensis came to Ireland, a monk wandering in a forest at night came upon two wolves, one of whom was dying. The other entreated him to give the dying wolf the last sacrament. He said the mass, and paused when he came to the viaticum. The other, on seeing this, tore the skin from the breast of the dying wolf, laying bare the form of an old woman. Thereon the monk gave the sacrament. Years afterwards he confessed the matter, and when Giraldus visited the country, was being tried by the synod of the bishops. To give the sacrament to an animal was a great sin. Was it a human being or an animal? On the advice of Giraldus they sent the monk, with papers describing the matter, to the Pope for his decision. The result is not stated.
Giraldus himself was of opinion that the wolf-form was an illusion, for, as he argued, only God can change the form. His opinion coincides with tradition, Irish and otherwise.
It is the notion of many who have written about these things that magic is mainly the making of such illusions. Patrick Kennedy tells a story of a girl who, having in her hand a sod of {149} grass containing, unknown to herself, a four-leaved shamrock, watched a conjurer at a fair. Now, the four-leaved shamrock guards its owner from all pishogues (spells), and when the others were staring at a cock carrying along the roof of a shed a huge beam in its bill, she asked them what they found to wonder at in a cock with a straw. The conjurer begged from her the sod of grass, to give to his horse, he said. Immediately she cried out in terror that the beam would fall and kill somebody.
This, then, is to be remembered — the form of an enchanted thing is a fiction and a caprice. |
§
Bewitched Butter (Donegal)
Miss Letitia MacClintock |
Not far from Rathmullen lived, last spring, a family called Hanlon; and in a farm-house, some fields distant, people named Dogherty. Both families had good cows, but the Hanlons were fortunate in possessing a Kerry cow that gave more milk and yellower butter than the others.
Grace Dogherty, a young girl, who was more admired than loved in the neighbourhood, took much interest in the Kerry cow, and appeared one night at Mrs. Hanlon’s door with the modest request —
“Will you let me milk your Moiley cow?”
“An’ why wad you wish to milk wee Moiley, Grace, dear,” inquired Mrs. Hanlon.
“Oh, just becase you’re sae throng at the present time.”
“Thank you kindly, Grace, but I’m no too throng to do my ain work. I’ll no trouble you to milk.”
The girl turned away with a discontented air; but the next evening, and the next, found her at the cow-house door with the same request. {150}
At length Mrs. Hanlon, not knowing well how to persist in her refusal, yielded, and permitted Grace to milk the Kerry cow.
She soon had reason to regret her want of firmness. Moiley gave no milk to her owner.
When this melancholy state of things lasted for three days, the Hanlons applied to a certain Mark McCarrion, who lived near Binion.
“That cow has been milked by someone with an evil eye,” said he. “Will she give you a wee drop, do you think? The full of a pint measure wad do.”
“Oh, ay, Mark, dear; I’ll get that much milk frae her, any way.”
“Weel, Mrs. Hanlon, lock the door, an’ get nine new pins that was never used in clothes, an’ put them into a saucepan wi’ the pint o’ milk. Set them on the fire, an’ let them come to the boil.”
The nine pins soon began to simmer in Moiley’s [19] milk.
Rapid steps were heard approaching the door, agitated knocks followed, and Grace Dogherty’s high-toned voice was raised in eager entreaty.
“Let me in, Mrs. Hanlon!” she cried. “Tak off that cruel pot! Tak out them pins, for they’re pricking holes in my heart, an’ I’ll never offer to touch milk of yours again.”
[There is hardly a village in Ireland where the milk is not thus believed to have been stolen times upon times. There are many counter-charms. Sometimes the coulter of a plough will be heated red-hot, and the witch will rush in, crying out that she is burning. A new horse-shoe or donkey-shoe, heated and put under the churn, with three straws, if possible, stolen at midnight from over the witches’ door, is quite infallible. — Ed.]
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| {151} |
| A Queen’s County Witch 20 |
It was about eighty years ago, in the month of May, that a Roman Catholic clergyman, near Rathdowney, in the Queen’s County, was awakened at midnight to attend a dying man in a distant part of the parish. The priest obeyed without a murmur, and having performed his duty to the expiring sinner, saw him depart this world before he left the cabin. As it was yet dark, the man who had called on the priest offered to accompany him home, but he refused, and set forward on his journey alone. The grey dawn began to appear over the hills. The good priest was highly enraptured with the beauty of the scene, and rode on, now gazing intently at every surrounding object, and again cutting with his whip at the bats and big beautiful night-flies which flitted ever and anon from hedge to hedge across his lonely way. Thus engaged, he journeyed on slowly, until the nearer approach of sunrise began to render objects completely discernible, when he dismounted from his horse, and slipping his arm out of the rein, and drawing forth his “Breviary” from his pocket, he commenced reading his “morning office” as he walked leisurely along.
He had not proceeded very far, when he observed his horse, a very spirited animal, endeavouring to stop on the road, and gazing intently into a field on one side of the way where there were three or four cows grazing. However, he did not pay any particular attention to this circumstance, but went on a little farther, when the horse suddenly plunged with great violence, and endeavoured to break away by force. The priest with great difficulty succeeded in restraining him, and, looking at him more closely, observed him shaking from head to foot, and sweating profusely. He now stood calmly, and refused to move from where he was, nor could threats or entreaty induce him to proceed. The father was greatly astonished, but recollecting to have often heard of horses labouring under affright being induced to go by {152} blindfolding them, he took out his handkerchief and tied it across his eyes. He then mounted, and, striking him gently, he went forward without reluctance, but still sweating and trembling violently. They had not gone far, when they arrived opposite a narrow path or bridle-way, flanked at either side by a tall, thick hedge, which led from the high road to the field where the cows were grazing. The priest happened by chance to look into the lane, and saw a spectacle which made the blood curdle in his veins. It was the legs of a man from the hips downwards, without head or body, trotting up the avenue at a smart pace. The good father was very much alarmed, but, being a man of strong nerve, he resolved, come what might, to stand, and be further acquainted with this singular spectre. He accordingly stood, and so did the headless apparition, as if afraid to approach him. The priest observing this, pulled back a little from the entrance of the avenue, and the phantom again resumed its progress. It soon arrived on the road, and the priest now had sufficient opportunity to view it minutely. It wore yellow buckskin breeches, tightly fastened at the knees with green ribbon; it had neither shoes nor stockings on, and its legs were covered with long, red hairs, and all full of wet, blood, and clay, apparently contracted in its progress through the thorny hedges. The priest, although very much alarmed, felt eager to examine the phantom, and for this purpose summoned all his philosophy to enable him to speak to it. The ghost was now a little ahead, pursuing its march at its usual brisk trot, and the priest urged on his horse speedily until he came up with it, and thus addressed it —
“Hilloa, friend! who art thou, or whither art thou going so early?”
The hideous spectre made no reply, but uttered a fierce and superhuman growl, or “Umph”.
“A fine morning for ghosts to wander abroad,” again said the priest.
Another “Umph” was the reply.
“Why don’t you speak?”
“Umph.” {153}
“You don’t seem disposed to be very loquacious this morning.”
“Umph,” again.
The good man began to feel irritated at the obstinate silence of his unearthly visitor, and said, with some warmth —
“In the name of all that’s sacred, I command you to answer me, Who art thou, or where art thou travelling?”
Another “Umph”, more loud and more angry than before, was the only reply.
“Perhaps,” said the father, “a taste of whipcord might render you a little more communicative”; and so saying, he struck the apparition a heavy blow with his whip on the breech.
The phantom uttered a wild and unearthly yell, and fell forward on the road, and what was the priest’s astonishment when he perceived the whole place running over with milk. He was struck dumb with amazement; the prostrate phantom still continued to eject vast quantities of milk from every part; the priest’s head swam, his eyes got dizzy; a stupor came all over him for some minutes, and on his recovering, the frightful spectre had vanished, and in its stead he found stretched on the road, and half drowned in milk, the form of Sarah Kennedy, an old woman of the neighbourhood, who had been long notorious in that district for her witchcraft and superstitious practices, and it was now discovered that she had, by infernal aid, assumed that monstrous shape, and was employed that morning in sucking the cows of the village. Had a volcano burst forth at his feet, he could not be more astonished; he gazed awhile in silent amazement — the old woman groaning, and writhing convulsively.
“Sarah,” said he, at length, “I have long admonished you to repent of your evil ways, but you were deaf to my entreaties; and now, wretched woman, you are surprised in the midst of your crimes.”
“Oh, father, father,” shouted the unfortunate woman, “can you do nothing to save me? I am lost; hell is open for me, and legions of devils surround me this moment, waiting to carry my soul to perdition.” {154}
The priest had not power to reply; the old wretch’s pains increased; her body swelled to an immense size; her eyes flashed as if on fire, her face was black as night, her entire form writhed in a thousand different contortions; her outcries were appalling, her face sunk, her eyes closed, and in a few minutes she expired in the most exquisite tortures.
The priest departed homewards, and called at the next cabin to give notice of the strange circumstances. The remains of Sarah Kennedy were removed to her cabin, situate at the edge of a small wood at a little distance. She had long been a resident in that neighbourhood, but still she was a stranger, and came there no one knew from whence. She had no relation in that country but one daughter, now advanced in years, who resided with her. She kept one cow, but sold more butter, it was said, than any farmer in the parish, and it was generally suspected that she acquired it by devilish agency, as she never made a secret of being intimately acquainted with sorcery and fairyism. She professed the Roman Catholic religion, but never complied with the practices enjoined by that church, and her remains were denied Christian sepulture, and were buried in a sand-pit near her own cabin.
On the evening of her burial. the villagers assembled and burned her cabin to the earth. Her daughter made her escape, and never after returned. |
§
The Witch Hare
Mr. & Mrs. S. C. Hall |
I was out thracking hares meeself, and I seen a fine puss of a thing hopping, hopping in the moonlight, and whacking her ears about, now up, now down, and winking her great eyes, and — “Here goes,” says I, and the thing was so close to me that she turned round and looked at me, and then {155} bounced back, as well as to say, do your worst! So I had the least grain in life of blessed powder left, and I put it in the gun — and bang at her! My jewel, the scritch she gave would frighten a rigment, and a mist, like, came betwixt me and her, and I seen her no more; but when the mist wint off I saw blood on the spot where she had been, and I followed its track, and at last it led me — whist, whisper — right up to Katey MacShane’s door; and when I was at the thrashold, I heerd a murnin’ within, a great murnin’, and a groanin’, and I opened the door, and there she was herself, sittin’ quite content in the shape of a woman, and the black cat that was sittin’ by her rose up its back and spit at me; but I went on never heedin’, and asked the ould — how she was and what ailed her.
“Nothing,” sis she.
“What’s that on the floor?” sis I.
”Oh,” she says, “I was cuttin’ a billet of wood,” she says, “wid the reaping hook,” she says, “an’ I’ve wounded meself in the leg,” she says, “and that’s drops of my precious blood,” she says. |
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| Bewitched Butter (Queen’s County) 21 |
About the commencement of the last century there lived in the vicinity of the once famous village of Aghavoe [22] a wealthy farmer, named Bryan Costigan. This man kept an extensive dairy and a great many milch cows, and every {156} year made considerable sums by the sale of milk and butter. The luxuriance of the pasture lands in this neighbourhood has always been proverbial; and, consequently, Bryan’s cows were the finest and most productive in the country, and his milk and butter the richest and sweetest, and brought the highest price at every market at which he offered these articles for sale.
Things continued to go on thus prosperously with Bryan Costigan, when, one season, all at once, he found his cattle declining in appearance, and his dairy almost entirely profitless. Bryan, at first, attributed this change to the weather, or some such cause, but soon found or fancied reasons to assign to a far different source. The cows, without any visible disorder, daily declined, and were scarcely able to crawl about on their pasture: many of them, instead of milk, gave nothing but blood; and the scanty quantity of milk which some of them continued to supply was so bitter that even the pigs would not drink it; whilst the butter which it produced was of such a bad quality, and stunk so horribly, that the very dogs would not eat it. Bryan applied for remedies to all the quacks and “fairy-women” in the country — but in vain. Many of the impostors declared that the mysterious malady in his cattle went beyond their skill; whilst others, although they found no difficulty in tracing it to superhuman agency, declared that they had no control in the matter, as the charm under the influence of which his property was made away with, was too powerful to be dissolved by anything less than the special interposition of Divine Providence. The poor farmer became almost distracted; he saw ruin staring him in the face; yet what was he to do? Sell his cattle and purchase others! No; that was out of the question, as they looked so miserable and emaciated, that no one would even take them as a present, whilst it was also impossible to sell to a butcher, as the flesh of one which he killed for his own family was as black as a coal, and stunk like any putrid carrion.
The unfortunate man was thus completely bewildered. He knew not what to do; he became moody and stupid; {157} his sleep forsook him by night, and all day he wandered about the fields, amongst his “fairy-stricken” cattle like a maniac.
Affairs continued in this plight, when one very sultry evening in the latter days of July, Bryan Costigan’s wife was sitting at her own door, spinning at her wheel, in a very gloomy and agitated state of mind. Happening to look down the narrow green lane which led from the high road to her cabin, she espied a little old woman barefoot, and enveloped in an old scarlet cloak, approaching slowly, with the aid of a crutch which she carried in one hand, and a cane or walking-stick in the other. The farmer’s wife felt glad at seeing the odd-looking stranger; she smiled, and yet she knew not why, as she neared the house. A vague and indefinable feeling of pleasure crowded on her imagination; and, as the old woman gained the threshold, she bade her “welcome” with a warmth which plainly told that her lips gave utterance but to the genuine feelings of her heart.
“God bless this good house and all belonging to it,” said the stranger as she entered.
“God save you kindly, and you are welcome, whoever you are,” replied Mrs. Costigan.
“Hem, I thought so,” said the old woman with a significant grin. “I thought so, or I wouldn’t trouble you.”
The farmer’s wife ran, and placed a chair near the fire for the stranger; but she refused, and sat on the ground near where Mrs. C. had been spinning. Mrs. Costigan had now time to survey the old hag’s person minutely. She appeared of great age; her countenance was extremely ugly and repulsive; her skin was rough and deeply embrowned as if from long exposure to the effects of some tropical climate; her forehead was low, narrow, and indented with a thousand wrinkles; her long grey hair fell in matted elf-locks from beneath a white linen skull-cap; her eyes were bleared, blood-shotten, and obliquely set in their sockets, and her voice was croaking, tremulous, and, at times, partially inarticulate. As she squatted on the floor, she looked round the house with an inquisitive gaze; she peered pryingly {158} from corner to corner, with an earnestness of look, as if she had the faculty, like the Argonaut of old, to see through the very depths of the earth, whilst Mrs. C. kept watching her motions with mingled feelings of curiosity, awe, and pleasure.
“Mrs.,” said the old woman, at length breaking silence, “I am dry with the heat of the day; can you give me a drink?”
“Alas!” replied the farmer’s wife, “I have no drink to offer you except water, else you would have no occasion to ask me for it.”
“Are you not the owner of the cattle I see yonder?” said the old hag, with a tone of voice and manner of gesticulation which plainly indicated her foreknowledge of the fact.
Mrs. Costigan replied in the affirmative, and briefly related to her every circumstance connected with the affair, whilst the old woman still remained silent, but shook her grey head repeatedly; and still continued gazing round the house with an air of importance and self-sufficiency.
When Mrs. C. had ended, the old hag remained a while as if in a deep reverie: at length she said —
“Have you any of the milk in the house?”
“I have,” replied the other.
“Show me some of it.”
She filled a jug from a vessel and handed it to the old sybil, who smelled it, then tasted it, and spat out what she had taken on the floor.
“Where is your husband?” she asked.
“Out in the fields,” was the reply.
“I must see him.”
A messenger was despatched for Bryan, who shortly after made his appearance.
“Neighbour,” said the stranger, “your wife informs me that your cattle are going against you this season.”
’She informs you right,” said Bryan.
“And why have you not sought a cure?”
“A cure!” re-echoed the man; “why, woman, I have sought cures until I was heart-broken, and all in vain; they get worse every day.”
“What will you give me if I cure them for you?” {159}
“Anything in our power,” replied Bryan and his wife, both speaking joyfully, and with a breath.
“All I will ask from you is a silver sixpence, and that you will do everything which I will bid you,” said she.
The farmer and his wife seemed astonished at the moderation of her demand. They offered her a large sum of money.
“No,” said she, ’I don’t want your money; I am no cheat, and I would not even take sixpence, but that I can do nothing till I handle some of your silver.”
The sixpence was immediately given her, and the most implicit obedience promised to her injunctions by both Bryan and his wife, who already began to regard the old beldame as their tutelary angel.
The hag pulled off a black silk ribbon or fillet which encircled her head inside her cap, and gave it to Bryan, saying —
“Go, now, and the first cow you touch with this ribbon, turn her into the yard, but be sure don’t touch the second, nor speak a word until you return; be also careful not to let the ribbon touch the ground, for, if you do, all is over.”
Bryan took the talismanic ribbon, and soon returned, driving a red cow before him.
The old hag went out, and, approaching the cow, commenced puffing hairs out of her tail, at the same time singing some verses in the Irish language in a low, wild, and unconnected strain. The cow appeared restive and uneasy, but the old witch still continued her mysterious chant until she had the ninth hair extracted. She then ordered the cow to be drove back to her pasture, and again entered the house.
“Go, now,” said she to the woman, “and bring me some milk from every cow in your possession.”
She went, and soon returned with a large pail filled with a frightful-looking mixture of milk, blood, and corrupt matter. The old woman got it into the churn, and made preparations for churning.
“Now,” she said, “you both must churn, make fast the {160} door and windows, and let there be no light but from the fire; do not open your lips until I desire you, and by observing my directions, I make no doubt but, ere the sun goes down, we will find out the infernal villain who is robbing you.”
Bryan secured the doors and windows, and commenced churning. The old sorceress sat down by a blazing fire which had been specially lighted for the occasion, and commenced singing the same wild song which she had sung at the pulling of the cow-hairs, and after a little time she cast one of the nine hairs into the fire, still singing her mysterious strain, and watching, with intense interest, the witching process.
A loud cry, as if from a female in distress, was now heard approaching the house; the old witch discontinued her incantations, and listened attentively. The crying voice approached the door.
“Open the door quickly,” shouted the charmer.
Bryan unbarred the door, and all three rushed out in the yard, when they heard the same cry down the boreheen, but could see nothing.
“It is all over,” shouted the old witch; “something has gone amiss, and our charm for the present is ineffectual.”
They now turned back quite crest-fallen, when, as they were entering the door, the sybil cast her eyes downwards, and perceiving a piece of horse-shoe nailed on the threshold, [23] she vociferated —
“Here I have it; no wonder our charm was abortive. The person that was crying abroad is the villain who has your cattle bewitched; I brought her to the house, but she was not able to come to the door on account of that horse-shoe. Remove it instantly, and we will try our luck again.”
Bryan removed the horse-shoe from the doorway, and by {161} the hag’s directions placed it on the floor under the churn, having previously reddened it in the fire.
They again resumed their manual operations. Bryan and his wife began to churn, and the witch again to sing her strange verses, and casting her cow-hairs into the fire until she had them all nearly exhausted. Her countenance now began to exhibit evident traces of vexation and disappointment. She got quite pale, her teeth gnashed, her hand trembled, and as she cast the ninth and last hair into the fire, her person exhibited more the appearance of a female demon than a human being.
Once more the cry was heard, and an aged red-haired woman [24] was seen approaching the house quickly.
“Ho, ho!” roared the sorceress, “I knew it would be so; my charm has succeeded; my expectations are realised, and here she comes, the villain who has destroyed you.”
“What are we to do now?” asked Bryan.
“Say nothing to her,” said the hag; “give her whatever she demands, and leave the rest to me.”
The woman advanced screeching vehemently, and Bryan went out to meet her. She was a neighbour, and she said that one of her best cows was drowning in a pool of water — that there was no one at home but herself, and she implored Bryan to go rescue the cow from destruction.
Bryan accompanied her without hesitation; and having rescued the cow from her perilous situation, was back again in a quarter of an hour.
It was now sunset, and Mrs. Costigan set about preparing supper.
During supper they reverted to the singular transactions of the day. The old witch uttered many a fiendish laugh at the success of her incantations, and inquired who was the woman whom they had so curiously discovered.
Bryan satisfied her in every particular. She was the wife of a neighbouring farmer; her name was Rachel Higgins; and she had been long suspected to be on familiar terms with the spirit of darkness. She had five or six cows; {162} but it was observed by her sapient neighbours that she sold more butter every year than other farmers’ wives who had twenty. Bryan had, from the commencement of the decline in his cattle, suspected her for being the aggressor, but as he had no proof, he held his peace.
“Well,” said the old beldame, with a grim smile, “it is not enough that we have merely discovered the robber; all is in vain, if we do not take steps to punish her for the past, as well as to prevent her inroads for the future.”
“And how will that be done?” said Bryan.
“I will tell you; as soon as the hour of twelve o’clock arrives tonight, do you go to the pasture, and take a couple of swift-running dogs with you; conceal yourself in some place convenient to the cattle; watch them carefully; and if you see anything, whether man or beast, approach the cows, set on the dogs, and if possible make them draw the blood of the intruder; then ALL will be accomplished. If nothing approaches before sunrise, you may return, and we will try something else.”
Convenient there lived the cow-herd of a neighbouring squire. He was a hardy, courageous young man, and always kept a pair of ferocious buff-dogs. To him Bryan applied for assistance, and he cheerfully agreed to accompany him, and, moreover, proposed to fetch a couple of his master’s best greyhounds, as his own dogs, although extremely fierce and bloodthirsty, could not be relied on for swiftness. He promised Bryan to be with him before twelve o’clock, and they parted.
Bryan did not seek sleep that night; he sat up anxiously awaiting the midnight hour. It arrived at last, and his friend, the herdsman, true to his promise, came at the time appointed. After some further admonitions from the Collough, they departed. Having arrived at the field, they consulted as to the best position they could choose for concealment. At last they pitched on a small brake of fem, situated at the extremity of the field, adjacent to the boundary ditch, which was thickly studded with large, old white-thorn bushes. Here they crouched themselves, and {163} made the dogs, four in number, lie down beside them, eagerly expecting the appearance of their as yet unknown and mysterious visitor.
Here Bryan and his comrade continued a considerable time in nervous anxiety, still nothing approached, and it became manifest that morning was at hand; they were beginning to grow impatient, and were talking of returning home, when on a sudden they heard a rushing sound behind them, as if proceeding from something endeavouring to force a passage through the thick hedge in their rear. They looked in that direction, and judge of their astonishment, when they perceived a large hare in the act of springing from the ditch, and leaping on the ground quite near them. They were now convinced that this was the object which they had so impatiently expected, and they were resolved to watch her motions narrowly.
After arriving to the ground, she remained motionless for a few moments, looking around her sharply. She then began to skip and jump in a playful manner; now advancing at a smart pace towards the cows, and again retreating precipitately, but still drawing nearer and nearer at each sally. At length she advanced up to the next cow, and sucked her for a moment; then on to the next, and so respectively to every cow on the field — the cows all the time lowing loudly, and appearing extremely frightened and agitated. Bryan, from the moment the hare commenced sucking the first, was with difficulty restrained from attacking her; but his more sagacious companion suggested to him, that it was better to wait until she would have done, as she would then be much heavier, and more unable to effect her escape than at present. And so the issue proved; for being now done sucking them all, her belly appeared enormously distended, and she made her exit slowly and apparently with difficulty. She advanced towards the hedge where she had entered, and as she arrived just at the clump of ferns where her foes were crouched, they started up with a fierce yell, and hallooed the dogs upon her path.
The hare started off at a brisk pace, squirting up the {164} milk she had sucked from her mouth and nostrils, and the dogs making after her rapidly. Rachel Higgins’s cabin appeared, through the grey morning twilight, at a little distance; and it was evident that puss seemed bent on gaining it, although she made a considerable circuit through the fields in the rear. Bryan and his comrade, however, had their thoughts, and made towards the cabin by the shortest route, and had just arrived as the hare came up, panting and almost exhausted, and the dogs at her very scut. She ran round the house, evidently confused and disappointed at the presence of the men, but at length made for the door. In the bottom of the door was a small, semi-circular aperture, resembling those cut in fowl-house doors for the ingress and egress of poultry. To gain this hole, puss now made a last and desperate effort, and had succeeded in forcing her head and shoulders through it, when the foremost of the dogs made a spring and seized her violently by the haunch. She uttered a loud and piercing scream, and struggled desperately to free herself from his gripe, and at last succeeded, but not until she left a piece of her ramp in his teeth. The men now burst open the door; a bright turf fire blazed on the hearth, and the whole floor was streaming with blood. No hare, however, could be found, and the men were more than ever convinced that it was old Rachel, who had, by the assistance of some demon, assumed the form of the hare, and they now determined to have her if she were over the earth. They entered the bed-room, and heard some smothered groaning, as if proceeding from some one in extreme agony. They went to the comer of the room from whence the moans proceeded, and there, beneath a bundle of freshly-cut rushes, found the form of Rachel Higgins, writhing in the most excruciating agony, and almost smothered in a pool of blood. The men were astounded; they addressed the wretched old woman, but she either could not, or would not answer them. Her wound still bled copiously; her tortures appeared to increase, and it was evident that she was dying. The aroused family thronged around her with cries and lamentations; {165} she did not seem to heed them, she got worse and worse, and her piercing yells fell awfully on the ears of the bystanders. At length she expired, and her corpse exhibited a most appalling spectacle, even before the spirit had well departed.
Bryan and his friend returned home. The old hag had been previously aware of the fate of Rachel Higgins, but it was not known by what means she acquired her supernatural knowledge. She was delighted at the issue of her mysterious operations. Bryan pressed her much to accept of some remuneration for her services, but she utterly rejected such proposals. She remained a few days at his house, and at length took her leave and departed, no one knew whither.
Old Rachel’s remains were interred that night in the neighbouring churchyard. Her fate soon became generally known, and her family, ashamed to remain in their native village, disposed of their property, and quitted the country for ever. The story, however, is stiff fresh in the memory of the surrounding villagers; and often, it is said, amid the grey haze of a summer twilight, may the ghost of Rachel Higgins, in the form of a hare, be seen scudding over her favourite and well-remembered haunts. |
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| The Horned Women 25 |
A rich woman sat up late one night carding and preparing wool, while all the family and servants were asleep. Suddenly a knock was given at the door, and a voice called — “Open! open!”
“Who is there?” said the woman of the house.
“I am the Witch of the one Horn,” was answered.
The mistress, supposing that one of her neighbours had called and required assistance, opened the door, and a {166} woman entered, having in her hand a pair of wool carders, and bearing a horn on her forehead, as if growing there. She sat down by the fire in silence, and began to card the wool with violent haste. Suddenly she paused, and said aloud: “Where are the women? they delay too long.”
Then a second knock came to the door, and a voice called as before, “Open! open!”
The mistress felt herself constrained to rise and open to the call, and immediately a second witch entered, having two horns on her forehead, and in her hand a wheel for spinning wool.
“Give me place,” she said, “I am the Witch of the two Horns,” and she began to spin as quick as lightning.
And so the knocks went on, and the call was heard, and the witches entered, until at last twelve women sat round the fire — the first with one horn, the last with twelve horns.
And they carded the thread, and turned their spinning wheels, and wound and wove.
All singing together an ancient rhyme, but no word did they speak to the mistress of the house. Strange to hear, and frightful to look upon, were these twelve women, with their horns and their wheels; and the mistress felt near to death, and she tried to rise that she might call for help, but she could not move, nor could she utter a word or a cry, for the spell of the witches was upon her.
Then one of them called to her in Irish, and said —
“Rise, woman, and make us a cake.” Then the mistress searched for a vessel to bring water from the well that she might mix the meal and make the cake, but she could find none.
And they said to her, “Take a sieve and bring water in it.”
And she took the sieve and went to the well; but the water poured from it, and she could fetch none for the cake, and she sat down by the well and wept.
Then a voice came by her and said, “Take yellow clay and moss, and bind them together, and plaster the sieve so that it will hold.” {167}
This she did, and the sieve held water for the cake; and the voice said again —
“Return, and when thou comest to the north angle of the house, cry aloud three times and say, ‘The mountain of the Fenian women and the sky over it is all on fire’.”
And she did so.
When the witches inside heard the call, a great and terrible cry broke from their lips, and they rushed forth with wild lamentations and shrieks, and fled away to Slievenamon, [26] where was their chief abode. But the Spirit of the Well bade the mistress of the house to enter and prepare her home against the enchantments of witches if they returned again.
And first, to break their spells, she sprinkled the water in which she had washed her child’s feet (the feet-water) outside the door on the threshold; secondly, she took the cake which the witches had made in her absence of meal mixed with the blood drawn from the sleeping family, and she broke the cake in bits, and placed a bit in the mouth of each sleeper, and they were restored; and she took the cloth they had woven and placed it half in and half out of the chest with the padlock; and lastly, she secured the door with a great crossbeam fastened in the jambs, so that they could not enter, and having done these things she waited.
Not long were the witches in coming back, and they raged and called for vengeance.
“Open! open!” they screamed, “open, feet-water!”
“I cannot,” said the feet-water, “I am scattered on the ground, and my path is down to the Lough.”
“Open, open, wood and trees and beam!” they cried to the door.
“I cannot,” said the door, “for the beam is fixed in the jambs and I have no power to move.”
“Open, open, cake that we have made and mingled with blood!” they cried again.
“I cannot,” said the cake, “for I am broken and bruised, and my blood is on the lips of the sleeping children.” {168}
Then the witches rushed through the air with great cries, and fled back to Slievenamon, uttering strange curses on the Spirit of the Well, who had wished their ruin; but the woman and the house were left in peace, and a mantle dropped by one of the witches in her flight was kept hung up by the mistress as a sign of the night’s awful contest; and this mantle was in possession of the same family from generation to generation for five hundred years after. |
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The Witches’ Excursion
Patrick Kennedy 27 |
Shemus Rua [28] (Red James) awakened from his sleep one night by noises in his kitchen. Stealing to the door, he saw half-a-dozen old women sitting round the fire, jesting and laughing, his old housekeeper, Madge, quite frisky and gay, helping her sister crones to cheering glasses of punch. He began to admire the impudence and imprudence of Madge, displayed in the invitation and the riot, but recollected on the instant her officiousness in urging him to take a comfortable posset, which she had brought to his bedside just before he fell asleep. Had he drunk it, he would have been just now deaf to the witches’ glee. He heard and saw them drink his health in such a mocking style as nearly to tempt him to charge them, besom. in hand, but he restrained himself.
The jug being emptied, one of them cried out, “Is it time to be gone?” and at the same moment, putting on a red cap, she added —
“By yarrow and rue,
And my red cap too,
Hie over to England.”
Making use of a twig which she held in her hand as a steed, she gracefully soared up the chimney, and was rapidly {169} followed by the rest. But when it came to the house-keeper, Shemus interposed. “By your leave, ma’am,” said he, snatching twig and cap. “Ah, you desateful ould crocodile! If I find you here on my return, there’ll be wigs on the green —
“By yarrow and rue,
And my red cap too,
Hie over to England.”
The words were not out of his mouth when he was soaring above the ridge pole, and swiftly ploughing the air. He was careful to speak no word (being somewhat conversant with witch-lore), as the result would be a tumble, and the immediate return of the expedition.
In a very short time they had crossed the Wicklow hills, the Irish Sea, and the Welsh mountains, and were charging, at whirlwind speed, the hall door of a castle. Shemus, only for the company in which he found himself, would have cried out for pardon, expecting to be mummy against the hard oak door in a moment; but, all bewildered, he found himself passing through the keyhole, along a passage, down a flight of steps, and through a cellar-door key-hole before he could form any clear idea of his situation.
Waking to the full consciousness of his position, he found himself sitting on a stillion, plenty of lights glimmering round, and he and his companions, with full tumblers of frothing wine in hand, hob-nobbing and drinking healths as jovially and recklessly as if the liquor was honestly come by, and they were sitting in Shemus’s own kitchen. The red birredh [29] has assimilated Shemus’s nature for the time being to that of his unholy companions. The heady liquors soon got into their brains, and a period of unconsciousness succeeded the ecstasy, the head-ache, the turning round of the barrels, and the “scattered sight” of poor Shemus. He woke up under the impression of being roughly seized, and shaken, and dragged upstairs, and subjected to a disagreeable examination by the lord of the castle, in his state parlour. There was much derision among the whole company, gentle {170} and simple, on hearing Shemus’s explanation, and, as the thing occurred in the dark ages, the unlucky Leinster man was sentenced to be hung as soon as the gallows could be prepared for the occasion.
The poor Hibernian was in the cart proceeding on his last journey, with a label on his back, and another on his breast, announcing him as the remorseless villain who for the last month had been draining the casks in my lord’s vault every night, He was surprised to hear himself addressed by his name, and in his native tongue, by an old woman in the crowd. “Ach, Shemus, alanna! is it going to die you are in a strange place without your cappen d’yarrag?” [30] These words infused hope and courage into the poor victim’s heart. He turned to the lord and humbly asked leave to die in his red cap, which he supposed had dropped from his head in the vault. A servant was sent for the head-piece, and Shemus felt lively hope warming his heart while placing it on his head. On the platform he was graciously allowed to address the spectators, which he proceeded to do in the usual formula composed for the benefit of flying stationers — “Good people all, a warning take by me;” but when he had finished the line, “My parents reared me tenderly,” he unexpectedly added — “By yarrow and rue,” etc., and the disappointed spectators saw him shoot up obliquely through the air in the style of a sky-rocket that had missed its aim. It is said that the lord took the circumstance much to heart, and never afterwards hung a man for twenty-four hours after his offence. |
§
The Confession of Tom Bourke
T. Crofton Croker |
Tom Bourke lives in a low, long farm-house, resembling in outward appearance a large barn, placed at the bottom of the hill, just where the new road strikes off from the old one, leading from the town of Kilworth to that of Lismore. He {171} is of a class of persons who are a sort of black swans in Ireland: he is a wealthy farmer. Tom’s father had, in the good old times, when a hundred pounds were no inconsiderable treasure, either to lend or spend, accommodated his landlord with that sum, at interest; and obtained as a return for his civility a long lease about half-a-dozen times more valuable than the loan which procured it. The old man died worth several hundred pounds, the greater part of which, with his farm, he bequeathed to his son, Tom. But besides all this, Tom received from his father, upon his deathbed, another gift, far more valuable than worldly riches, greatly as he prized and is still known to prize them. He was invested with the privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of communicating with those mysterious beings called “the good people”.
Tom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about fifty-five years of age. His hair is perfectly white, short and bushy behind, but rising in front erect and thick above his forehead, like a new clothes-brush. His eyes are of that kind which I have often observed with persons of a quick, but limited intellect — they are small, grey, and lively. The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather within, which they twinkle, give them an expression of shrewdness and intelligence, if not of cunning. And this is very much the character of the man. If you want to make a bargain with Tom Bourke you must act as if you were a general besieging a town, and make your advances a long time before you can hope to obtain possession; if you march up boldly, and tell him at once your object, you are for the most part sure to have the gates closed in your teeth. Tom does not wish to part with what you wish to obtain; or another person has been speaking to him for the whole of the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems to meet the most favourable reception. “Very well, sir”; “That’s true, sir”; I’m very thankful to your honour?” and other expressions of kindness and confidence greet you in reply to every sentence; and you part from him wondering how he can have obtained the character which he universally {172} bears, of being a man whom no one can make anything of in a bargain. But when you next meet him the flattering illusion is dissolved: you find you are a great deal further from your object than you were when you thought you had almost succeeded; his eye and his tongue express a total forgetfulness of what the mind within never lost sight of for an instant; and you have to begin operations afresh, with the disadvantage of having put your adversary completely upon his guard.
Yet, although Tom Bourke is, whether from supernatural revealings, or (as many will think more probable) from the tell-truth experience, so distrustful of mankind, and so close in his dealings with them, he is no misanthrope. No man loves better the pleasures of the genial board. The love of money, indeed, which is with him (and who will blame him?) a very ruling propensity, and the gratification which it has received from habits of industry, sustained throughout a pretty long and successful life, have taught him the value of sobriety, during these seasons, at least, when a man’s business requires him to keep possession of his senses. He has, therefore, a general rule, never to get drunk but on Sundays. But in order that it should be a general one to all intents and purposes, he takes a method which, according to better logicians than he is, always proves the rule. He has many exceptions; among these, of course, are the evenings of all the fair and market-days that happen in his neighbourhood; so also all the days in which funerals, marriages, and christenings take place among his friends within many miles of him. As to this last class of exceptions, it may appear at first very singular, that he is much more punctual in his attendance at the funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of his friends. This may be construed as an instance of disinterested affection for departed worth, very uncommon in this selfish world. But I am afraid that the motives which lead Tom Bourke to pay more court to the dead than the living are precisely those which lead to the opposite conduct in the generality of mankind — a hope of future benefit and a fear {173} of future evil. For the good people, who are a race as powerful as they are capricious, have their favourites among those who inhabit this world; often show their affection by easing the objects of it from the load of this burdensome life; and frequently reward or punish the living according to the degree of reverence paid to the obsequies and the memory of the elected dead.
Some may attribute to the same cause the apparently humane and charitable actions which Tom, and indeed the other members of his family, are known frequently to perform. A beggar has seldom left their farm-yard with an empty wallet, or without obtaining a night’s lodging, if required, with a sufficiency of potatoes and milk to satisfy even an Irish beggar’s appetite; in appeasing which, account must usually be taken of the auxiliary jaws of a hungry dog, and of two or three still more hungry children, who line themselves well within, to atone for their nakedness without. If one of the neighbouring poor be seized with a fever, Tom will often supply the sick wretch with some untenanted hut upon one of his two large farms (for he has added one to his patrimony), or will send his labourers to construct a shed at a hedge-side, and supply straw for a bed while the disorder continues. His wife, remarkable for the largeness of her dairy, and the goodness of everything it contains, will furnish milk for whey; and their good offices are frequently extended to the family of the patient, who are, perhaps, reduced to the extremity of wretchedness, by even the temporary suspension of a father’s or a husband’s labour.
If much of this arises from the hopes and fears to which I above alluded, I believe much of it flows from a mingled sense of compassion and of duty, which is sometimes seen to break from an Irish peasant’s heart, even where it happens to be enveloped in a habitual covering of avarice and fraud; and which I once heard speak in terms not to be misunderstood: “When we get a deal, ’tis only fair we should give back a little of it.”
It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of those good {174} people, with whom he is said to hold frequent and intimate communications. To the faithful, who believe in their power, and their occasional delegation of it to him, he seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his high prerogative when any unfortunate being is struck in his neighbourhood. Still he will not be won unsued: he is at first difficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by a little gentle violence. On these occasions he is unusually solemn and mysterious, and if one word of reward be mentioned he at once abandons the unhappy patient, such a proposition being a direct insult to his supernatural superiors. It is true that, as the labourer is worthy of his hire, most persons gifted as he is do not scruple to receive a token of gratitude from the patients or their friends after their recovery. It is recorded that a very handsome gratuity was once given to a female practitioner in this occult science, who deserves to be mentioned, not only because she was a neighbour and a rival of Tom’s, but from the singularity of a mother deriving her name from her son. Her son’s name was Owen, and she was always called Owen sa vauher (Owen’s mother). This person was, on the occasion to which I have alluded, persuaded to give her assistance to a young girl who had lost the use of her right leg; Owen sa vauher found the cure a difficult one. A journey of about eighteen miles was essential for the purpose, probably to visit one of the good people, who resided at that distance; and this journey could only be performed by Owen sa vauher travelling upon the back of a white hen. The visit, however, was accomplished; and at a particular hour, according to the prediction of this extraordinary woman, when the hen and her rider were to reach their journey’s end, the patient was seized with an irresistible desire to dance, which she gratified with the most perfect freedom of the diseased leg, much to the joy of her anxious family. The gratuity in this case was, as it surely ought to have been, unusually large, from the difficulty of procuring a hen willing to go so long a journey with such a rider.
To do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these occasions, as {175} I have heard from many competent authorities, perfectly disinterested. Not many months since he recovered a young woman (the sister of a tradesman living near him), who had been struck speechless after returning from a funeral, and had continued so for several days. He steadfastly refused receiving any compensation, saying that even if he had not as much as would buy him his supper, he could take nothing in this case, because the girl had offended at the funeral of one of the good people belonging to his own family, and though he would do her a kindness, he could take none from her.
About the time this last remarkable affair took place, my friend Mr. Martin, who is a neighbour of Tom’s, had some business to transact with him, which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a conclusion. At last Mr. Martin, having tried an quiet means, had recourse to a legal process, which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was arranged to their mutual satisfaction, and with perfect good-humour between the parties. The accommodation took place after dinner at Mr. Martin’s house, and he invited Tom to walk into the parlour and take a glass of punch, made of some excellent poteen, which was on the table: he had long wished to draw out his highly-endowed neighbour on the subject of his supernatural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who was in the room, was rather a favourite of Tom’s, this seemed a good opportunity.
“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “that was a curious business of Molly Dwyer’s, who recovered her speech so suddenly the other day.”
“You may say that, sir,” replied Tom Bourke; “but I had to travel far for it: no matter for that now. Your health, ma’am,” said he, turning to Mrs. Martin.
“Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once in that way in your own family,” said Mrs. Martin.
“So I had, ma’am; trouble enough: but you were only a child at that time.”
“Come, Tom,” said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupting {176} him, “take another tumbler;” and he then added, “I wish you would tell us something of the manner in which so many of your children died. I am told they dropped off, one after another, by the same disorder, and that your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way, when the physicians had given him over.”
“’Tis true for you, sir,” returned Tom; “your father, the doctor (God be good to him, I won’t belie him in his grave), told me. when my fourth boy was a week sick, that himself and Dr. Barry did all that man could do for him; but they could not keep him from going after the rest. No more they could, if the people that took away the rest wished to take him too. But they left him; and sorry to the heart I am I did not know before why they were taking my boys from me; if I did, I would not be left trusting to two of ’em now.”
“And how did you find it out, Tom?” inquired Mr. Martin.
“Why, then, I’ll tell you, sir,” said Bourke. “When your father said what I told you, I did not know very well what to do. I walked down the little bohereen [31] you know, sir, that goes to the river-side near Dick Heafy’s ground; for ’twas a lonesome place, and I wanted to think of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me, when I thought I was to lose my little boy; and I did not well know how to face his mother with the news, for she doated down upon him. Besides, she never got the better of all she cried at his brother’s berrin [32] the week before. As I was going down the bohereen I met an old bocough, that used to come about the place once or twice a-year, and used always to sleep in our barn while he staid in the neighbourhood. So he asked me how I was. ‘Bad enough, Shamous,’ [33] says I. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble,’ says he; ‘but you’re a foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be well enough if you would only do what you ought with him.’ ‘What more can I do with him, Shamous?’ {177} says I; ‘the doctors give him over.’ ‘The doctors know no more what ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her milk,’ says Shamous; ‘but go to such a one,’ telling me his name, (and try what he’ll say to you.’”
“And who was that, Tom?” asked Mr. Martin.
“I could not tell you that, sir,” said Bourke, with a mysterious look; “howsomever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this. But I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first, maybe I’d have now some of them that’s gone, and so Shamous often told me. Well, sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By course, I did everything as he bid me. According to his order, I took the little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and made a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay down by his side in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell asleep. He got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was drawn through the river, and breathed hard, with a great impression on his chest, and was very bad — very bad entirely through the night. I thought about twelve o’clock he was going at last, and I was just getting up to go call the man I told you of; but there was no occasion. My friends were getting the better of them that wanted to take him away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house but the child and myself. There was only one halfpenny candle lighting it, and that was stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough of light where we were lying to see a person walking or standing near us: and there was no more noise than it was a churchyard, except the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls.
“Just as I was thinking of getting up, as I told you — I won’t belie my father, sir, he was a good father to me — I saw him standing at the bedside, holding out his right hand to me, and leaning his other on the stick he used to carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would not lose the child. ‘Is that you, father?’ says I. He said nothing. ‘If that’s you,’ says I again, ‘for the love of them that’s gone, {178} let me catch your hand.’ And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a child’s. He stayed about as long as you’d be going from this to the gate below at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn’t tonight a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains.”
“But I think, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “it appears as if you are more indebted to your father than to the man recommended to you by Shamous; or do you suppose it was he who made favour with your enemies among the good people, and that then your father — ”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Bourke, interrupting him; “but don’t call them my enemies. ’Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to sit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir. Here’s wishing you a good health and long life.”
“I assure you,” returned Mr. Martin, “I meant no offence, Tom; but was it not as I say?”
“I can’t tell you that, sir,” said Bourke; “I’m bound down, sir. Howsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of and my father, and those they know, settled it between them.”
There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage to inquire of Tom whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and a pair of pigeons, at the time of his son’s illness — circumstances often mysteriously hinted at by Tom.
“See that, now,” said he, turning to Mr. Martin, “how well she remembers it! True for you, ma’am. The goat I gave the mistress, your mother, when the doctors ordered her goats’ whey?”
Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued, “Why then, I’ll tell you how that was. The goat was as well as e’er goat ever was, for a month after she was sent to Killaan, to your father’s. The morning after the night I just told you of, before the child woke, his mother was standing at the gap leading out of the barn-yard into the {179} road, and she saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth off the church down towards her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till they came to the house on the hill at the other side of the river, facing our farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and after looking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight across the river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where the child and I were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing, sir?”
“Certainly not, Tom,” returned Mr. Martin.
“Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to cry. ‘Whisht, you fool?’ says I; ‘’tis all for the better.’ ’Twas true for me. What do you think, ma’am; the goat that I gave your mother, that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as merry as a bee, dropped down dead without anybody knowing why, before Jack’s face; and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly from the top of the house out of the town, towards the Lismore road. ’Twas at the same time my woman saw them, as I just told you.”
“’Twas very strange, indeed, Tom,” said Mr. Martin; “I wish you could give us some explanation of it.”
“I wish I could, sir,” was Tom Bourke’s answer; “but I’m bound down. I can’t tell but what I’m allowed to tell, any more than a sentry is let walk more than his rounds.”
“I think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the man that assisted in the cure of your son,” said Mr. Martin. “So I had, sir,” returned Bourke. “I had a trial of that man. But that’s neither here nor there. I can’t tell you anything about that, sir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?”
“Oh! very much, indeed,” said Mr. Martin. “But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him better through the story,” added Mrs. Martin.
Tom Bourke paused for a minute to consider this proposition.
“Well I believe that I may tell you that, anyhow; {180} name is Patrick. He was always a smart, ’cute [34] boy, and would be a great clerk if he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother’s wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to bury her. Her people and my father’s people — I mean their friends, sir, among the good people — had the greatest battle that was known for many a year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she’d be taken. They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to settle it. The neighbours wondered how long before I buried my mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried her in Kilcrumper churchyard, with my father’s people.”
“He was a valuable friend, Tom,” said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty suppressing a smile. “But you were about to tell how he became so skilful.”
“So I will and welcome,” replied Bourke. “Your health, ma’am. I’m drinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never tasted the like of it; it goes down one’s throat like sweet oil. But what was I going to say? Yes — well — Patrick, many a long year ago, was coming home from a berrin late in the evening, and walking by the side of a river, opposite the big inch, [35] near Ballyhefaan ford. He had taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a little merry, as you may say, and knew very well what he was doing. The moon was shining, for it was in the month of August, and the river was as smooth and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long time but the fall of the water at the mill weir about a mile down the river, and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of the river. All at once there was a noise of a great number of people laughing as if they’d break their hearts, and of a piper playing among them. It came from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw, through the mist {181} that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people dancing on the inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance, as he was of a glass, and that’s saying enough for him; so he whipped off his shoes and stockings, and away with him across the ford. After putting on his shoes and stockings at the other side of the river he walked over to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being minded. He thought, sir, that he’d show them better dancing than any of themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and a good right he had, for there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or treble with him. But pwah! his dancing was no more to theirs than mine would be to the mistress’ there. They did not seem as if they had a bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire them. Patrick was ’shamed within himself, for he thought he had not his fellow in all the country round; and was going away, when a little old man, that was looking at the company bitterly, as if he did not like what was going on, came up to him. ‘Patrick,’ says he. Patrick started, for he did not think anybody there knew him. ‘Patrick,’ says he, ‘you’re discouraged, and no wonder for you. But you have a friend near you. I’m your friend, and your father’s friend, and I think worse [36] 1 of your little finger than I do of all that are here, though they think no one is as good as themselves. Go into the ring and call for a lilt. Don’t, be afeard. I tell you the best of them did not do it as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.’ Patrick felt something within him as if he ought not to gainsay the old man. He went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the best double he had. And sure enough, all that the others were able for was nothing to him! He bounded like an eel, now here and now there, as light as a feather, although the people could hear the music answered by his steps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the left foot of the piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then they got a table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts from the whole company. At last he called for a trencher; {182} and when they saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not know what to make of him. Some praised him for the best dancer that ever entered a ring; others hated him because he was better than themselves; although they had good right to think themselves better than him or any other man that ever went the long journey.”
“And what was the cause of his great success?” inquired Mr. Martin.
“He could not help it, sir,” replied Tom Bourke. “They that could make him do more than that made him do it. Howsomever, when he had done, they wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not persuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your presence, that he would not dance a step more; and the word was hardly out of his mouth when he found himself all alone, with nothing but a white cow grazing by his side.”
“Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these extraordinary powers in the dance, Tom?” said Mr. Martin.
“I’ll tell you that too, sir,” answered Bourke, “when I come to it. When he went home, sir, he was taken with a shivering and went to bed; and the next day they found he had got the fever, or something like it, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn’t make out what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors gave him over. But it’s little they knew what ailed him. When he was, as you may say, about ten days sick, and everybody thought he was going, one of the neighbours came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from Ballinlacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I can’t tell you his name either, only it was Darby. The minute Darby saw Patrick he took a little bottle, with the juice of herbs in it, out of his pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same every day for three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time {183} before he came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day sometimes by the ditch-side, talking to himself, like as if there was someone along with him. And so there was, surely, or he wouldn’t be the man he is today.”
“I suppose it was from some such companion he learned his skill,” said Mr. Martin. “You have it all now, sir,” replied Bourke. “Darby told him his friends were satisfied with what he did the night of the dance; and though they couldn’t hinder the fever, they’d bring him over it, and teach him more than many knew beside him. And so they did. For you see, all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a different faction; only the old man that spoke to him, he was a friend of Patrick’s family, and it went again his heart, you see, that the others were so light and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear ’em boasting how they’d dance with any set in the whole country round. So he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave him the skill that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to be sure it was only learning he was at that time when he was wandering in his mind after the fever.”
“I have heard many strange stories about that inch near Ballyhefaan ford,” said Mr. Martin.
“’Tis a great place for the good people, isn’t it, Tom?”
“You may say that, sir,” returned Bourke. “I could tell you a great deal about it. Many a time I sat for as good as two hours by moonlight, at th’ other side of the river, looking at ’em playing goal as if they’d break their hearts over it; with their coats and waistcoats off, and white handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and red ones on th’ other, just as you’d see on a Sunday in Mr. Simming’s big field. I saw ’em. one night play till the moon set, without one party being able to take the ball from th’ other. I’m sure they were going to fight, only ’twas near morning. I’m told your grandfather, ma’am used to see ’em there too,” said Bourke, turning to Mrs. Martin. “So I have been told, Tom,” replied Mrs. Martin. “But don’t they say that the churchyard of Kilcrumper is just {184} as favourite a place with the good people as Ballyhefaan inch?”
“Why, then, maybe you never heard, ma’am, what happened to Davy Roche in that same churchyard,” said Bourke; and turning to Mr. Martin, added, “’Twas a long time before he went into your service, sir. He was walking home, of an evening, from the fair of Kilcumber, a little merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin. So he walked along with it, and thought it very queer that he did not know a mother’s soul in the crowd but one man, and he was sure that man was dead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin till they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and faith, he went in and stayed with the rest, to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was covered, what should they do but gather about a piper that come along with ’em, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy longed to be among ’em (for he hadn’t a bad foot of his own, that time, whatever he may now); but he was loth to begin, because they all seemed strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was dead. Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him. ‘Davy,’ says he, ‘take out a partner, and show what you can do, but take care and don’t offer to kiss her.’ ‘That I won’t,’ says Davy, ‘although her lips were made of honey.’ And with that he made his bow to the purtiest girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance. ’Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th’ admiration, do you see, of all that were there. ’Twas all very well till the jig was over; but just as they had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner, according to custom. The smack was no sooner off of his lips, you see, than he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him, and all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy said they seemed as if they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that happened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it was a great many hours later than he thought it; ’twas near morning {185} when he came home; but they couldn’t get a word out of him till the next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o’clock.”
When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and the berrin, it became quite evident that spirits, of some sort, were working too strong within him to admit of his telling many more tales of the good people. Tom seemed conscious of this. He muttered for a few minutes broken sentences concerning churchyards, river-sides, leprechauns, and dina magh [37] which were quite unintelligible, perhaps, to himself, certainly to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length he made a slight motion of the head upwards, as if he would say, “I can talk no more”; stretched his arm on the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly, and with the most knowing and cautious air; and rising from his chair, walked, or rather rolled, to the parlour door. Here he turned round to face his host and hostess; but after various ineffectual attempts to bid them good-night, the words, as they rose, being always choked by a violent hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung to and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he was obliged to depart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by Tom’s wife, who knew well what sort of allurement detained him when he remained out after a certain hour, was in attendance to conduct his master home. I have no doubt that he returned without meeting any material injury, as I know that within the last month he was, to use his own words, “as stout and hearty a man as any of his age in the county Cork.” |
§
The Pudding Bewitched
William Carleton |
“Moll Roe Rafferty was the son — daughter I mane — of ould Jack Rafferty, who was remarkable for a habit he had {186} of always wearing his head undher his hat; but indeed the same family was a quare one, as everybody knew that was acquainted wid them. It was said of them — but whether it was thrue or not I won’t undhertake to say, for ’fraid I’d tell a lie — that whenever they didn’t wear shoes or boots they always went barefooted; but I heard aftherwards that this was disputed, so rather than say anything to injure their character, I’ll let that pass. Now, ould Jack Rafferty had two sons, Paddy and Molly — hut! what are you all laughing at? — I mane a son and daughter, and it was generally believed among the neighbours that they were brother and sisther, which you know might be thrue or it might not: but thats a thing that, wid the help o’ goodness, we have nothing to say to. Troth there was many ugly things put out on them that I don’t wish to repate, such that neither Jack nor his son Paddy ever walked a perch without puttin’ one foot afore the other like a salmon; an’ I know it was whispered about, that whinever Moll Roe slep’, she had an out-of-the-way custom of keepin’ her eyes shut. If she did, however, for that matther the loss was her own; for sure we all know that when one comes to shut their eyes they can’t see as far before them as another.
“Moll Roe was a fine young bouncin’ girl, large and lavish, wid a purty head o’ hair on her like scarlet, that bein’ one of the raisons why she was called Roe , or red; her arms an’ cheeks were much the colour of the hair, an’ her saddle nose was the purtiest thing of its kind that ever was on a face. Her fists — for, thank goodness, she was well sarved wid them too — had a strong simularity to two thumpin’ turnips, reddened by the sun; an’ to keep all right and tight, she had a temper as fiery as her head — for indeed, it was well known that all the Rafferties were warm-hearted. Howandiver, it appears that God gives nothing in vain, and of coorse the same fists, big and red as they were, if all that is said about them is thrue, were not so much given to her for ornament as use. At laist, takin’ them in connection wid her lively temper, we have it upon good authority, that there was no danger of their getting blue-moulded for want of {187} practice. She had a twist, too, in one of her eyes that was very becomin’ in its way, and made her poor husband, when she got him, take it into his head that she could see round a corner. She found him out in many quare things, widout doubt; but whether it was owin’ to that or not, I wouldn’t undertake to say for ‘fraid I’d tell a lie.
“Well, begad, anyhow it was Moll Roe that was the dilsy. [38] It happened that there was a nate vagabone in the neighbourhood, just as much overburdened wid beauty as herself, and he was named Gusty Gillespie. Gusty, the Lord guard us, was what they call a black-mouth Prosbytarian, and wouldn’t keep Christmas-day, the blagard, except what they call ‘ould style’. Gusty was rather good-lookin’ when seen in the dark, as well as Moll herself; and, indeed, it was purty well known that — accordin’ as the talk went — it was in nightly meetings that they had an opportunity of becomin’ detached to one another. The quensequence was, that in due time both families began to talk very seriously as to what was to be done. Moll’s brother, Pawdien O’Rafferty, gave Gusty the best of two choices. What they were it’s not worth spakin’ about; but at any rate one of them was a poser, an’ as Gusty knew his man, he soon came to his senses. Accordianly everything was deranged for their marriage, and it was appointed that they should be spliced by the Rev. Samuel M’Shuttle, the Prosbytarian parson, on the following Sunday.
“Now this was the first marriage that had happened for a long time in the neighbourhood betune a black-mouth an’ a Catholic, an’ of coorse there was strong objections on both sides against it; an’ begad, only for one thing, it would never ’a tuck place at all. At any rate, faix, there was one of the bride’s uncles, ould Harry Connolly, a fairy-man, who could cure all complaints wid a secret he had, and as he didn’t wish to see his niece married upon sich a fellow, he fought bittherly against the match. All Moll’s friends, however, stood up for the marriage barrin’ him, an’ of coorse the {188} Sunday was appointed, as I said, that they were to be dove-tailed together.
“Well, the day arrived, and Moll, as became her, went to mass, and Gusty to meeting, afther which they were to join one another in Jack Rafferty’s, where the priest, Father M’Sorley, was to slip up afther mass to take his dinner wid them, and to keep Misther M’Shuttle, who was to marry them, company. Nobody remained at home but ould Jack Rafferty an’ his wife, who stopped to dress the dinner, for, to tell the truth, it was to be a great let-out entirely. Maybe, if all was known, too, that Father M’Sorley was to give them a cast of his office over an’ above the ministher, in regard that Moll’s friends were not altogether satisfied at the kind of marriage which M’Shuttle could give them. The sorrow may care about that — splice here — splice there — all I can say is, that when Mrs. Rafferty was goin’ to tie up a big bag pudden, in walks Harry Connolly, the fairy-man, in a rage, and shouts out, — ‘Blood and blunderbushes, what are yez here for?’
“‘Arrah why, Harry? Why, avick?’
“‘Why, the sun’s in the suds and the moon in the high Horicks; there’s a clipstick comin’ an, an’ there you’re both as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether. Go out and cross yourselves three times in the name o’ the four Mandromarvins, for as prophecy says: Fill the pot, Eddy, supernaculum — a blazing star’s a rare spectaculum. Go out both of you and look at the sun, I say, an’ ye’ll see the condition he’s in — off!’
“Begad, sure enough, Jack gave a bounce to the door, and his wife leaped like a two-year-ould, till they were both got on a stile beside the house to see what was wrong in the sky.
“‘Arrah, what is it, Jack,’ said she; ‘can you see anything?’
“‘No,’ says he, ‘sorra the full o’ my eye of anything I can spy, barrin’ the sun himself, that’s not visible in regard of the clouds. God guard us! I doubt there’s something to happen.’ {189}
“‘If there wasn’t, Jack, what ’ud put Harry, that knows so much, in the state he’s in?’
“‘I doubt it’s this marriage,’ said Jack: ‘betune ourselves, it’s not over an’ above religious for Moll to marry a black-mouth, an’ only for —; but it can’t be helped now, though you see not a taste o’ the sun willin’ to show his face upon it.’
“‘As to that,’ says the wife, winkin’ wid both her eyes, ‘if Gusty’s satisfied wid Moll, it’s enough. I know who’ll carry the whip hand, anyhow; but in the manetime let us ax Harry ’ithin what ails the sun.’
“Well, they accordianly went in an’ put the question to him:
“‘Harry, what’s wrong, ahagur? What is it now, for if anybody alive knows, ‘tis yourself?’
“‘Ah!’ said Harry, screwin’ his mouth wid a kind of a dhry smile, ‘the sun has a hard twist o’ the cholic; but never mind that, I tell you you’ll have a merrier weddin’ than you think, that’s all;’ and havin’ said this, he put on his hat and left the house.
“Now, Harry’s answer relieved them very much, and so, afther calling to him to be back for the dinner, Jack sat down to take a shough o’ the pipe, and the wife lost no time in tying up the pudden and puttin’ it in the pot to be boiled.
“In this way things went on well enough for a while, Jack smokin’ away, an’ the wife cookin’ and dhressin’ at the rate of a hunt. At last, Jack, while sittin’, as I said, contentedly at the fire, thought he could persave an odd dancin’ kind of motion in the pot that puzzled him a good deal.
“‘Katty,’ said he, ‘what the dickens is in this pot on the fire?’
“‘Nerra thing but the big pudden. Why do you ax?’ says she.
“‘Why,’ said he, ‘if ever a pot tuck it into its head to dance a jig, and this did. Thundher and sparbles, look at it!’
“Begad, it was thrue enough; there was the pot bobbin’ up an’ down and from side to side, jiggin’ it away as merry {190} as a grig; an’ it was quite aisy to see that it wasn’t the pot itself, but what was inside of it, that brought about the hornpipe.
“‘Be the hole o’ my coat,’ shouted Jack, ‘there’s something alive in it, or it would never cut sich capers!’
“‘Be gorra, there is, Jack; something sthrange entirely has got into it. Wirra, man alive, what’s to be done?’
“Jist as she spoke, the pot seemed to cut the buckle in prime style, and afther a spring that ’ud shame a dancin’-masther, off flew the lid, and out bounced the pudden itself, hoppin’, as nimble as a pea on a drum-head, about the floor. Jack blessed himself, and Katty crossed herself. Jack shouted, and Katty screamed. ‘In the name of goodness, keep your distance; no one here injured you!’
“The pudden, however, made a set at him, and Jack lepped first on a chair and then on the kitchen table to avoid it. It then danced towards Katty, who was now repatin’ her prayers at the top of her voice, while the cunnin’ thief of a pudden was hoppin’ and jiggin’ it round her, as if it was amused at her distress.
“‘If I could get the pitchfork,’ said Jack, ‘I’d dale wid it — by goxty I’d thry its mettle.’
“‘No, no,’ shouted Katty, thinkin’ there was a fairy in it; ‘let us spake it fair. Who knows what harm it might do? Aisy now,’ said she to the pudden, ‘aisy, dear; don’t harm honest people that never meant to offend you. It wasn’t us — no, in troth, it was ould Harry Connolly that bewitched you; pursue him if you wish, but spare a woman like me; for, whisper, dear, I’m not in a condition to be frightened — troth I’m not.’ The pudden, bedad, seemed to take her at her word, and danced away from her towards Jack, who, like the wife believin’ there was a fairy in it, an’ that spakin’ it fair was the best plan, thought he would give it a soft word as well as her.
“‘Plase your honour,’ said Jack, ‘she only spaiks the truth; an’, upon my voracity, we both feels much oblaiged to your honour for your quietness. Faith, it’s quite clear {191} that if you weren’t a gentlemanly pudden all out, you’d act otherwise. Ould Harry, the rogue, is your mark; he’s jist gone down the road there, and if you go fast you’ll overtake him. Be me song, your dancin’ masther did his duty, anyhow. Thank your honour! God speed you, an’ may you never meet wid a parson or alderman in your thravels!’
“Jist as Jack spoke the pudden appeared to take the hint, for it quietly hopped out, and as the house was directly on the road-side, turned down towards the bridge, the very way that ould Harry went. It was very natural, of coorse, that Jack and Katty should go out to see how it intended to thravel; and, as the day was Sunday, it was but natural, too, that a greater number of people than usual were passin’ the road. This was a fact; and when Jack and his wife were seen followin’ the pudden, the whole neighbourhood was soon up and afther it.
“‘Jack Rafferty, what is it? Katty, ahagur, will you tell us what it manes?’
“‘Why,’ replied Katty, ‘it’s my big pudden that’s bewitched, an’ it’s now hot foot pursuin’ —;’ here she stopped, not wishin’ to mention her brother’s name — ‘some one or other that surely put pishrogues an it.’ [39]
“This was enough; Jack, now seein’ that he had assistance, found his courage comin’ back to him; so says he to Katty, ‘Go home,’ says he, an, lose no time in makin’ another pudden as good, an’ here’s Paddy Scanlan’s wife, Bridget, says she’ll let you boil it on her fire, as you’ll want our own to dress the rest o’ the dinner: and Paddy himself will lend me a pitchfork, for purshuin to the morsel of that same pudden will escape till I let the wind out of it, now that I’ve the neighbours to back an’ support me,’ says Jack.
“This was agreed to, and Katty went back to prepare a fresh pudden, while Jack an’ half the townland pursued the other wid spades, graips, pitchforks, scythes, flails, and all possible description of instruments. On the pudden went, however, at the rate of about six Irish miles an hour, an’ sich a chase never was seen. Catholics, Prodestants, an’ {192} Prosbytarians, were all afther it, armed, as I said, an’ bad end to the thing but its own activity could save it. Here it made a hop, and there a prod was made at it; but off it went, an’ some one, as eager to get a slice at it on the other side, got the prod instead of the pudden. Big Frank Farrell, the miler of Ballyboulteen, got a prod backwards that brought a hullabaloo out of him you might hear at the other end of the parish. One got a slice of a scythe, another a whack of a flail, a third a rap of a spade that made him look nine ways at wanst.
“‘Where is it goin’?’ asked one. ‘My life for you, it’s on it’s way to Meeting. Three cheers for it if it turns to Camtaul.’ ‘Prod the sowl out of it, if it’s a Prodestan’,’ shouted the others; ‘if it turns to the left, slice it into pancakes. We’ll have no Prodestan’ puddens here.’
“Begad, by this time the people were on the point of beginnin’ to have a regular fight about it, when, very fortunately, it took a short turn down a little by-lane that led towards the Methodist praichin-house, an’ in an instant all parties were in an uproar against it as a Methodist pudden. ‘It’s a Wesleyan,’ shouted several voices; ‘an’ by this an’ by that, into a Methodist chapel it won’t put a foot today, or we’ll lose a fall. Let the wind out of it. Come boys, where’s your pitchforks?’
“The divle purshuin to the one of them, however, ever could touch the pudden, an’ jist when they thought they had it up against the gavel of the Methodist chapel, begad it gave them the slip, and hops over to the left, clane into the river, and sails away before all their eyes as light as an egg-shell.
“Now, it so happened that a little below this place, the demesne-wall of Colonel Bragshaw was built up to the very edge of the river on each side of its banks; and so findin’ there was a stop put to their pursuit of it; they went home again, every man, woman, and child of them, puzzled to think what the pudden was at all, what it meant, or where it was goin’! Had Jack Rafferty an’ his wife been willin’ to, let out the opinion they held about Harry Connolly bewitchin’ it, there is no doubt of it but poor Harry might {193} be badly trated by the crowd, when their blood was up. They had sense enough, howandiver, to keep that to themselves, for Harry bein’ an’ ould bachelor, was a kind friend to the Raffertys. So, of coorse, there was all kinds of talk about it — some guessin’ this, and some guessin’ that — one party sayin’ the pudden was of there side, another party denyin’ it, an’ insistin’ it belonged to them, an’ so on.
“In the manetime, Katty Rafferty, for ’fraid the dinner might come short, went home and made another pudden much about the same size as the one that had escaped, and bringin’ it over to their next neighbour, Paddy Scanlan’s, it was put into a pot and placed on the fire to boil, hopin’ that it might be done in time, espishilly as they were to have the ministher, who loved a warm slice of a good pudden as well as e’er a gintleman in Europe.
“Anyhow, the day passed; Moll and Gusty were made man an’ wife, an’ no two could be more lovin’. Their friends that had been asked to the widdin’ were saunterin’ about in pleasant little groups till dinner-time, chattin’ an’ laughin’; but, above all things, sthrivin’ to account for the figaries of the pudden; for, to tell the truth, its adventures had now gone through the whole parish.
“Well, at any rate, dinner-time was dhrawin’ near, and Paddy Scanlan was sittin’ comfortably wid his wife at the fire, the pudden boilen before their eyes, when in walks Harry Connolly, in a flutter, shoutin’ — ‘Blood an’ blunderbushes, what are yez here for?’
“‘Arra, why Harry — why, avick?’ said Mrs. Scanlan.
“‘Why,’ said Harry, ‘the sun’s in the suds an’ the moon in the high Horicks! Here’s a clipstick comin’ an, an’ there you sit as unconsarned as if it was about to rain mether! Go out both of you, an’ look at the sun, I say, and ye’ll see the condition he’s in — off!’
“‘Ay, but, Harry, what’s that rowled up in the tail of your cothamore? [40]’
“‘Out wid yez,’ said Harry, ‘an’ pray against the clipstick — the sky’s fallin’!’ {194}
“Begad, it was hard to say whether Paddy or the wife got out first, they were so much alarmed by Harry’s wild thin face an’ piercin’ eyes; so out they went to see what was wondherful in the sky, an’ kep’ lookin’ an’ lookin’ in every direction, but not a thing was to be seen, barrin’ the sun shinin’ down wid great good-humour, an’ not a single cloud in the sky.
“Paddy an’ the wife now came in laughin’, to scould Harry, who, no doubt, was a great wag in his way when he wished. ‘Musha, bad scran to you, Harry —.’ They had time to say no more, howandiver, for, as they were goin’ into the door, they met him comin’ out of it wid a reek of smoke out of his tail like a lime-kiln.
“‘Harry,’ shouted Bridget, ‘my sowl to glory, but the tail of your cothamore’s a-fire — you’ll be burned. Don’t you see the smoke that’s out of it?’
“‘Cross yourselves three times,’ said Harry, widout stoppin, or even lookin’ behind him, ‘for, as the prophecy says — Fill the pot, Eddy —.’ They could hear no more, for Harry appeared to feel like a man that carried something a great deal hotter than he wished, as anyone might see by the liveliness of his motions, and the quare faces he was forced to make as he went along.
“‘What the dickens is he carryin’ in the skirts of his big coat?’ asked Paddy.
“‘My sowl to happiness, but maybe he has stole the pudden,’ said Bridget, ‘for it’s known that many a sthrange thing he does.’
“They immediately examined the pot, but found that the pudden was there as safe as tuppence, an’ this puzzled them the more, to think what it was he could be carryin’ about wid him in the manner he did. But little they knew what he had done while they were sky-gazin!
“Well, anyhow, the day passed and the dinner was ready, an’ no doubt but a fine gatherin’ there was to partake of it. The Prosbytarian ministher met the Methodist praicher — a divilish stretcher of an appetite he had, in throth — on their way to Jack Rafferty’s, an’ as he knew he {195} could take the liberty, why he insisted on his dinin’ wid him; for, afther all, begad, in thim times the clargy of all descriptions lived upon the best footin’ among one another, not all as one as now — but no matther. Well, they had nearly finished their dinner, when Jack Rafferty himself axed Katty for the pudden; but, jist as he spoke, in it came as big as a mess-pot.
“‘Gintlemen,’ said he, ‘I hope none of you will refuse tastin’ a bit of Katty’s pudden; I don’t mane the dancin’ one that tuck to its thravels today, but a good solid fellow that she med since.’
“‘To be sure we won’t,’ replied the priest; ‘so, Jack, put a thrifle on them three plates at your right hand, and send then, over here to the clargy, an’ maybe,’ he said, laughin’ — for he was a droll good — humoured man — ‘maybe, Jack, we won’t set you a proper example.’
“‘Wid a heart an’ a half, yer reverence an’ gintlemen; in troth, it’s not a bad example ever any of you set us at the likes, or ever will set us, I’ll go bail. An’ sure I only wish it was betther fare I had for you; but we’re humble people, gintlemen, and so you can’t expect to meet here what you would in higher places.’
“‘Betther a male of herbs,’ said the Methodist praicher, ‘where pace is —.’ He had time to go no farther, however; for much to his amazement, the priest and the ministher started up from the table jist as he was goin’ to swallow the first spoonful of the pudden, and before you could say Jack Robinson, started away at a lively jig down the floor.
“At this moment a neighbour’s son came runnin’ in, an’ tould them that the parson was comin’ to see the new-married couple, an’ wish them all happiness; an’ the words were scarcely out of his mouth when he made his appearance. What to think he knew not, when he saw the ministher footing it away at the rate of a weddin’. He had very little time, however, to think; for, before he could sit down, up starts the Methodist praicher, and clappin’ his two fists in his sides chimes in in great style along wid him. {196}
“‘Jack Rafferty,’ says he — and, by the way, Jack was his tenant — ‘what the dickens does all this mane?’ says he; ‘I’m amazed!’
“‘The not a particle o’ me can tell you,’ says Jack; ‘but will your reverence jist taste a morsel o’ pudden, merely that the young couple may boast that you ait at their weddin’; for sure if you wouldn’t, who would?’
“‘Well,’ says he, ‘to gratify them I will; so just a morsel. But, Jack, this bates Bannagher,’ says he again, puttin’ the spoonful o’ pudden into his mouth, ‘has there been dhrink here?’
“‘Oh, the divle a spudh,’ says Jack, ‘for although there’s plinty in the house, faith, it appears the gintlemen wouldn’t wait for it. Unless they tuck it elsewhere, I can make nothin’ of this.’
“He had scarcely spoken, when the parson, who was an active man, cut a caper a yard high, an’ you could bless yourself, the three clargy were hard at work dancin’, as if for a wager. Begad, it would be unpossible for me to tell you the state the whole meetin’ was in when they seen this. Some were hoarse wid laughin’; some turned up their eyes wid wondher; many thought them mad, an’ others thought they had turned up their little fingers a thrifle too often.
“‘Be gory, it’s a burnin’ shame,’ said one, ‘to see three black-mouth clargy in sich a state at this early hour!’ ‘Thundher an’ ounze, what’s over them at all?’ says others; ‘why, one would think they’re bewitched. Holy Moses, look at the caper the Methodist cuts! An’ as for the Recther, who would think he could handle his feet at such a rate! Be this an’ be that, he cuts the buckle, and does the threblin’ step aiquil to Paddy Horaghan, the dancin’-masther himself? An’ see! Bad cess to the morsel of the parson that’s not hard at Peace upon a trancher , an’ it of a Sunday too! Whirroo, gintlemen, the fun’s in yez afther all — whish! more power to yez!’
“The sorra’s own fun they had, an’ no wondher; but judge of what they felt, when all at once they saw ould Jack {197} Rafferty himself bouncin’ in among them, and footing it away like the best o’ them. Bedad, no play could come up to it, an’ nothin, could be heard but laughin’, shouts of encouragement, and clappin’ of hands like mad. Now the minute Jack Rafferty left the chair where he had been carvin’ the pudden, ould Harry Connolly comes over and claps himself down in his place, in ordher to send it round, of coorse; an’ he was scarcely sated, when who should make his appearance but Barney Hartigan, the piper. Barney, by the way, had been sent for early in the day, but bein’ from home when the message for him went, he couldn’t come any sooner.
“‘Begorra,’ said Barney, ‘you’re airly at the work, gintlemen! but what does this mane? But, divle may care, yez; shan’t want the music while there’s a blast in the pipes, anyhow!’ So sayin’ he gave them Jig Polthogue, an’ after that Kiss my Lady, in his best style.
“In the manetime the fun went on thick an’ threefold, for it must be remimbered that Harry, the ould knave, was at the pudden; an’ maybe he didn’t sarve it about in double quick time too. The first he helped was the bride, and, before you could say chopstick, she was at it hard an’ fast before the Methodist praicher, who gave a jolly spring before her that threw them into convulsions. Harry liked this, and made up his mind soon to find partners for the rest; so he accordianly sent the pudden about like lightnin’; an’ to make a long story short, barrin’ the piper himself, there wasn’t a pair o’ heels in the house but was as busy at the dancin’ as if their lives depinded on it.
“‘Barney,’ says Harry, ‘just taste a morsel o’ this pudden; divle the such a bully of a pudden ever you ett; here, your sowl! thry a snig of it — it’s beautiful.’
“‘To be sure I will,’ says Barney. ‘I’m not the boy to refuse a good thing; but Harry, be quick, for you know my hands is engaged, an’ it would be a thousand pities not to keep them in music, an’ they so well inclined. Thank you, Harry; begad that is a famous pudden; but blood an’ turnips, what’s this for?’ {198}
“The word was scarcely out of his mouth when he bounced up, pipes an’ all, an dashed into the middle of the party. ‘Hurroo, your sowls, let us make a night of it! The Ballyboulteen boys for ever! Go it, your reverence — turn your partner — heel an’ toe, ministher. Good! Well done again — Whish! Hurroo! Here’s for Ballyboulteen an’ the sky over it! ‘
“Bad luck to the sich a set was seen together in this world, or will again, I suppose. The worst, however, wasn’t come yet, for jist as they were in the very heat an’ fury of the dance, what do you think comes hoppin’ in among them but another pudden, as nimble an’ merry as the first! That was enough; they all had heard of — the ministhers among the rest — an’ most o’ them had seen the other pudden, and knew that there must be a fairy in it, sure enough. Well, as I said, in it comes to the thick o’ them; but the very appearance of it was enough. Off the three clargy danced, and off the whole weddiners danced afther them, every one makin’ the best of their way home; but not a sowl of them able to break out of step, if they were to be hanged for it. Throth it wouldn’t lave a laugh in you to see the parson dancin’ down the road on his way home, and the ministher and Methodist praicher cuttin’ the buckle as they went along in the opposite direction. To make short work of it, they all danced home at last, wid scarce a puff of wind in them; the bride and bridegroom danced away to bed; an’ now, boys, come an’ let us dance the Horo Lheig in the barn ’idout. But you see, boys, before we go, an’ in ordher that I may make everything plain, I had as good tell you that Harry, in crossing the bridge of Ballyboulteen, a couple of miles below Squire Bragshaw’s demesne-wall, saw the pudden floatin’ down the river — the truth is he was waitin’ for it; but be this as it may, he took it out, for the wather had made it as clane as a new pin, and tuckin’ it up in the tail of his big coat, contrived, as you all guess, I suppose, to change it while Paddy Scanlan an’ the wife were examinin’ the sky; an’ for the other, he contrived to bewitch it in the same manner, by gettin’ a fairy to go {199} into it, for, indeed, it was purty well known that the same Harry was hand an’ glove wid the good people. Others will tell you that it was half a pound of quicksilver he put into it; but that doesn’t stand to raison. At any rate, boys, I have tould you the adventures of the Mad Pudden of Ballyboulteen; but I don’t wish to tell you many other things about it that happened — for ’fraid I’d tell a lie.” [41]
Notes
19. In Connaught called a “mweeal” cow — i.e., a cow without horns. Irish maol, literally, blunt. When the new hammerless breech-loaders came into use two or three years ago, Mr. Douglas Hyde heard a Connaught gentleman speak of them as the “mweeal” guns, because they had no cocks.
20. Dublin University Magazine, 1839.
21. Dublin University Magazine (1839) Dublin University Magazine (1839)
22. Aghavoe — “the field of kine” — a beautiful and romantic village near Borris-in-Ossory, in the Queen’s County. It was once a place of considerable importance, and for centuries the episcopal seat of the diocese of Ossory, but for ages back it has gone to decay, and is now remarkable for nothing but the magnificent ruins of a priory of the Dominicans, erected here at an early period by St. Canice, the patron saint of Ossory.
23. It was once a common practice in Ireland to nail a piece of horseshoe on the threshold of the door, its a preservative against the influence of the fairies, who, it is thought, dare not enter any house thus guarded. This custom, however, is much on the wane, but still it is prevalent in some of the more uncivilised districts of the country.
24. Red-haired people are thought to possess magic power.
25. Lady Wilde, Ancient Legends of Ireland
26. Sliábh-na-mban — i.e., mountains of the women.
27. Fictions of the Irish Celts.
28. Irish, Séumus Ruadh. The Celtic organs are unable to pronounce the letter j, hence they make Shon or Shawn of John, or Shamus of James, etc.
29. Ir., Birreud — i.e., a cap.
30. Irish, caipín dearg — i.e., red cap.
31. Bohereen, or bogheen, i.e., a green lane.
32. Berrin, burying.
33. Shamous, James.
34. ’Cute, acute.
35. Inch, low meadow ground near a river.
36. Worse, more.
37. Daoine maithe, i.e., the good people.
38. Perhaps from Irish dilse — i.e., love.
39. Put it under fairy influence.
40. big coat-Irish, cóta mór.
41. Some will insist that a fairy-man or fairy-woman has the power to bewitch a pudding by putting a fairy into it; whilst others maintain that a competent portion of quicksilver will make it dance over half the parish. |
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