|
W. B. Yeats, ed. & sel., Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry (1888) [9]
[See Contents, supra.]
| {214} |
| SAINTS, PRIESTS |
Everywhere in Ireland are the holy wells. People as they pray by them make little piles of stones, that will be counted at the last day and the prayers reckoned up. Sometimes they tell stories. These following are their stories. They deal with the old times, whereof King Alfred of Northumberland wrote —
“I found in Innisfail the fair,
In Ireland, while in exile there,
Women of worth, both grave and gay men,
Many clericks and many laymen.
Gold and silver I found, and money,
Plenty of wheat, and plenty of honey;
I found God’s people rich in pity,
Found many a feast, and many a city.”
There are no martyrs in the stories. That ancient chronicler Giraldus taunted the Archbishop of Cashel because no one in Ireland had received the crown of martyrdom. “Our people may be barbarous,” the prelate answered, “but they have never lifted their hands against God’s saints; but now that a people have come amongst us who know how to make them (it was just after the English invasion), we shall have martyrs plentifully.”
The bodies of saints are fastidious things. At a place called Four-mile-Water, in Wexford, there is an old graveyard full of saints. Once it was on the other side of the river, but they buried a rogue there, and the whole graveyard moved across in the night, leaving the rogue-corpse in solitude. It would have been easier to move merely the rogue-corpse, but they were saints, and had to do things in style. |
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| {215} |
The Priest’s Soul 52
Lady Wilde |
In former days there were great schools in Ireland, where every sort of learning was taught to the people, and even the poorest had more knowledge at that time than many a gentleman has now. But as to the priests, their learning was above all, so that the fame of Ireland went over the whole world, and many kings from foreign lands used to send their sons all the way to Ireland to be brought up in the Irish schools.
Now, at this time there was a little boy learning at one of them who was a wonder to everyone for his cleverness. His parents were only labouring people, and of course poor; but young as he was, and as poor as he was, no king’s or lord’s son could come up to him in learning. Even the masters were put to shame; for when they were trying to teach him he would tell them something they never heard of before, and show them their ignorance. One of his great triumphs was in argument; and he would go on till he proved to you that black was white, and then when you gave in, for no one could beat him in talk, he would turn round and show you that white was black, or maybe that there was no colour at all in the world. When he grew up his poor father and mother were so proud of him that they resolved to make him a priest, which they did at last, though they nearly starved themselves to get the money. Well, such another learned man was not in Ireland, and he was as great in argument as ever, so that no one could stand before him. Even the bishops tried to talk to him, but he showed them at once they knew nothing at all.
Now, there were no schoolmasters in those times, but it was the priests taught the people; and as this man was the cleverest in Ireland, all the foreign kings sent their sons to him, as long as he had house-room to give them. So he {216} grew very proud, and began to forget how low he had been, and worst of all, even to forget God, who had made him what he was. And the pride of arguing got hold of him, so that from one thing to another he went on to prove that there was no Purgatory, and then no Hell, and then no Heaven, and then no God; and at last that men had no souls, but were no more than a dog or a cow, and when they died there was an end of them. “Whoever saw a soul?” he would say. “If you can show me one, I will believe.” No one could make any answer to this; and at last they all came to believe that as there was no other world, everyone might do what they liked in this; the priest setting the example, for he took a beautiful young girl to wife. But as no priest or bishop in the whole land could be got to marry them, he was obliged to read the service over for himself. It was a great scandal, yet no one dared to say a word, for all the king’s sons were on his side, and would have slaughtered anyone who tried to prevent his wicked goings-on. Poor boys; they all believed in him, and thought every word he said was the truth. In this way his notions began to spread about, and the whole world was going to the bad, when one night an angel came down from Heaven, and told the priest he had but twenty-four hours to live. He began to tremble, and asked for a little more time.
But the angel was stiff, and told him that could not be.
“What do you want time for, you sinner?” he asked.
“Oh, sir, have pity on my poor soul!” urged the priest.
“Oh, no! You have a soul, then,” said the angel. “Pray, how did you find that out?”
“It has been fluttering in me ever since you appeared,” answered the priest. “What a fool I was not to think of it before.”
“A fool, indeed,” said the angel. “What good was all your learning, when it could not tell you that you had a soul?”
“Ah, my lord,” said the priest, “If I am to die, tell me how soon I may be in Heaven?” {217}
“Never,” replied the angel. “You denied there was a Heaven.”
“Then, my lord, may I go to Purgatory?”
“You denied Purgatory also; you must go straight to Hell,” said the angel.
“But, my lord, I denied Hell also,” answered the priest, “so you can’t send me there either.”
The angel was a little puzzled.
“Well,” said he, “I’ll tell you what I can do for you. You may either live now on earth for a hundred years, enjoying every pleasure, and then be cast into Hell for ever; or you may die in twenty-four hours in the most horrible torments, and pass through Purgatory, there to remain till the Day of Judgment, if only you can find some one person that believes, and through his belief mercy will be vouchsafed to you, and your soul will be saved.”
The priest did not take five minutes to make up his mind.
“I will have death in the twenty-four hours,” he said, “so that my soul may be saved at last.”
On this the angel gave him directions as to what he was to do, and left him.
Then immediately the priest entered the large room where all the scholars and the kings’ sons were seated, and called out to them —
“Now, tell me the truth, and let none fear to contradict me; tell me what is your belief — have men souls?”
“Master,” they answered, “once we believed that men had souls; but thanks to your teaching, we believe so no longer. There is no Hell, and no Heaven, and no God. This is our belief, for it is thus you taught us.”
Then the priest grew pale with fear, and cried out — “Listen! I taught you a lie. There is a God, and man has an immortal soul. I believe now all I denied before.”
But the shouts of laughter that rose up drowned the priest’s voice, for they thought he was only trying them for argument.
“Prove it, master,” they cried. “Prove it. Who has ever seen God? Who has ever seen the soul?” {218} And the room was stirred with their laughter.
The priest stood up to answer them, but no word could he utter. All his eloquence, all his powers of argument had gone from him; and he could do nothing but wring his hands and cry out, “There is a God! there is a God! Lord have mercy on my soul!”
And they all began to mock him! and repeat his own words that he had taught them —
“Show him to us; show us your God.” And he fled from them, groaning with agony, for he saw that none believed; and how, then, could his soul be saved?
But he thought next of his wife. “She will believe,” he said to himself; “women never give up God.”
And he went to her; but she told him that she believed only what he taught her, and that a good wife should believe in her husband first and before and above all things in Heaven or earth.
Then despair came on him, and he rushed from the house, and began to ask every one he met if they believed. But the same answer came from one and all — “We believe only what you have taught us,” for his doctrine had spread far and wide through the country.
Then he grew half mad with fear, for the hours were passing, and he flung himself down on the ground in a lonesome spot, and wept and groaned in terror, for the time was coming fast when he must die.
Just then a little child came by. “God save you kindly,” said the child to him.
The priest started up.
“Do you believe in God?” he asked.
“I have come from a far country to learn about him,” said the child. “Will your honour direct me to the best school they have in these parts?”
“The best school and the best teacher is close by,” said the priest, and he named himself.
“Oh, not to that man,” answered the child, “for I am told he denies God, and Heaven, and Hell, and even that {219} man has a soul, because he cannot see it; but I would soon put him down.”
The priest looked at him earnestly. “How?” he inquired.
“Why,” said the child, “I would ask him if he believed he had life to show me his life.”
“But he could not do that, my child,” said the priest. “Life cannot be seen; we have it, but it is invisible.”
“Then if we have life, though we cannot see it, we may also have a soul, though it is invisible,” answered the child.
When the priest heard him speak these words, he fell down on his knees before him, weeping for joy, for now he knew his soul was safe; he had met one at last that believed. And he told the child his whole story — all his wickedness, and pride, and blasphemy against the great God; and how the angel had come to him, and told him of the only way in which he could be saved, through the faith and prayers of someone that believed.
“Now, then,” he said to the child, “take this penknife and strike it into my breast, and go on stabbing the flesh until you see the paleness of death on my face. Then watch — for a living thing will soar up from my body as I die, and you will then know that my soul has ascended to the presence of God. And when you see this thing, make haste and run to my school, and call on all my scholars to come and see that the soul of their master has left the body, and that all he taught them was a lie, for that there is a God who punishes sin, and a Heaven, and a Hell, and that man has an immortal soul destined for eternal happiness or misery.”
“I will pray,” said the child, “to have courage to do this work.”
And he kneeled down and prayed. Then when he rose up he took the penknife and struck it into the priest’s heart, and struck and struck again till all the flesh was lacerated; but still the priest lived, though the agony was horrible, for he could not die until the twenty-four hours had expired.
At last the agony seemed to cease, and the stillness of {220} death settled on his face. Then the child, who was watching, saw a beautiful living creature, with four snow-white wings, mount from the dead man’s body into the air and go fluttering round his head.
So he ran to bring the scholars; and when they saw it, they all knew it was the soul of their master; and they watched with wonder and awe until it passed from sight into the clouds.
And this was the first butterfly that was ever seen in Ireland; and now all men know that the butterflies are the souls of the dead, waiting for the moment when they may enter Purgatory, and so pass through torture to purification and peace.
But the schools of Ireland were quite deserted after that time, for people said, What is the use of going so far to learn, when the wisest man in all Ireland did not know if he had a soul till he was near losing it, and was only saved at last through the simple belief of a little child. |
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“The Priest of Coloony”
W. B. Yeats |
Good Father John O’Hart
In penal days rode out
To a shoneen in his freelands, [53]
With his snipe marsh and his trout.
In trust took he John’s lands,
— Sleiveens were all his race — [54]
And he gave them as dowers to his
daughters,
And they married beyond their place.
But Father John went up,
And Father John went down;
And he wore small holes in his shoes,
And he wore large holes in his gown. {221}
All loved him, only the shoneen,
Whom the devils have by the hair,
From their wives and their cats and their
children,
To the birds in the white of the air.
The birds, for he opened their cages,
As he went up and down;
|
And he said with a smile, “Have peace,
now,”
And went his way with a frown.
But if when anyone died,
Came keeners hoarser than rooks,
He bade them give over their keening,
For he was a man of books.
And these were the works of John,
When weeping score by score,
People came into Coloony,
For he’d died at ninety-four.
There was no human keening;
The birds from Knocknarea,
And the world round Knocknashee,
Came keening in that day, —
Keening from Innismurry,
Nor stayed for bit or sup;
This way were all reproved
Who dig old customs up. |
[Coloony is a few miles south of the town of Sligo. Father O’Hart lived there in the last century, and was greatly beloved. These lines accurately record the tradition. No one who has held the stolen land has prospered. It has changed owners many times.]
|
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| {222} |
The Story of the Little Bird 55
T. Crofton Croker |
Many years agothere was a very religious and holy man, one of the monks of a convent, and he was one day kneeling at his prayers in the garden of his monastery, when he heard a little bird singing in one of the rose-trees of the garden, and there never was anything that he had heard in the world so sweet as the song of that little bird.
And the holy man rose up from his knees where he was kneeling at his prayers to listen to its song; for he thought he never in all his life heard anything so heavenly.
And the little bird, after singing for some time longer on the rose-tree, flew away to a grove at some distance from the monastery, and the holy man followed it to listen to its singing, for he felt as if he would never be tired of listening to the sweet song it was singing out of its throat.
And the little bird after that went away to another distant tree, and sung there for a while, and then to another tree, and so on in the same manner, but ever further and further away from the monastery, and the holy man still following it farther, and farther, and farther, still listening delighted to its enchanting song.
But at last he was obliged to give up, as it was growing late in the day, and he returned to the convent; and as he approached it in the evening, the sun was setting in the west with all the most heavenly colours that were ever seen in the world, and when he came into the convent, it was nightfall.
And he was quite surprised at everything he saw, for they were all strange faces about him in the monastery that he had never seen before, and the very place itself, and everything about it, seemed to be strangely altered; and, altogether, it seemed entirely different from what it was when he had left in the morning; and the garden was not {223} like the garden where he had been kneeling at his devotion when he first heard the singing of the little bird.
And while he was wondering at all he saw, one of the monks of the convent came up to him, and the holy man questioned him, “Brother, what is the cause of all these strange changes that have taken place here since the morning?”
And the monk that he spoke to seemed to wonder greatly at his question, and asked him what he meant by the change since morning? for, sure, there was no change; that all was just as before. And then he said, “Brother, why do you ask these strange questions, and what is your name? for you wear the habit of our order, though we have never seen you before.”
So upon this the holy man told his name, and said that he had been at mass in the chapel in the morning before he had wandered away from the garden listening to the song of a little bird that was singing among the rose-trees, near where he was kneeling at his prayers.
And the brother, while he was speaking, gazed at him very earnestly, and then told him that there was in the convent a tradition of a brother of his name, who had left it two hundred years before, but that what was become of him was never known.
And while he was speaking, the holy man said, “My hour of death is come; blessed be the name of the Lord for all his mercies to me, through the merits of his only-begotten Son.”
And he kneeled down that very moment, and said, “Brother, take my confession, for my soul is departing.”
And he made his confession, and received his absolution, and was anointed, and before midnight he died.
The little bird, you see, was an angel, one of the cherubims or seraphims; and that was the way the Almighty was pleased in His mercy to take to Himself the soul of that holy man. |
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| {224} |
| Conversion of King Laoghaire’s Daughters |
Once when Patrick and his clericks were sitting beside a well in the Rath of Croghan, with books open on their knees, they saw coming towards them the two young daughters of the King of Connaught. ’Twas early morning, and they were going to the well to bathe.
The young girls said to Patrick, “Whence are ye, and whence come ye?” and Patrick answered, “It were better for you to confess to the true God than to inquire concerning our race.”
“Who is God?” said the young girls, “and where is God, and of what nature is God, and where is His dwelling-place? Has your God sons and daughters, gold and silver? Is he everlasting? Is he beautiful? Did Mary foster her son? Are His daughters dear and beauteous to men of the world? Is He in heaven, or on earth, in the sea, in rivers, in mountainous places, in valleys?”
Patrick answered them, and made known who God was, and they believed and were baptised, and a white garment put upon their heads; and Patrick asked them would they live on, or would they die and behold the face of Christ? They chose death, and died immediately, and were buried near the well Clebach. |
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King O’Toole and His Goose
Samuel Lover |
“By Gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o’ King O’Toole — well, well, but the darkness of mankind is ontellible! Well, sir, you must know, as you didn’t hear it afore, that there was a king, called King O’Toole, who was {225} a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that owned the churches in the early days. The king, you see, was the right sort; he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin’ in partic’lar; and from the risin’ o’ the sun, up he got, and away he wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer; and the fine times them wor.
“Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in coorse of time the king grew ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got sthriken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o’ divarshin, bekase he couldn’t go a huntin’ no longer; and, by dad, the poor king was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him. Oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it’s truth I’m tellin’ you; and the way the goose divarted him was this-a-way: You see, the goose used for to swim acrass the lake, and go divin’ for throut, and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, divartin’ the poor king. All went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthriken in years like her master, and couldn’t divart him no longer, and then it was that the poor king was lost complate. The king was walkin’ one mornin’ by the edge of the lake, lamentin’ his cruel fate, and thinkin’ o’ drownin’ himself, that could get no divarshun in life, when all of a suddint, turnin’ round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin’ up to him.
“‘God save you,’ says the king to the young man.
“‘God save you kindly, King O’Toole,’ says the young man. ‘Thrue for you,’ says the king. ‘I am King O’Toole,’ says he, ‘prince and plennypennytinchery o’ these parts,’ says he; ‘but how kem ye to know that?’ says he. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says St. Kavin.
“You see it was Saint Kavin, sure enough — the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says he, ‘I know more than that. May I make bowld to ax how is your goose, King O’Toole?’ says he. ‘Blur-an-agers, how kem ye to know about my goose?’ says {226} the king. ‘Oh, no matther; I was given to understand it,’ says Saint Kavin. After some more talk the king says, ‘What are you?’ ‘I’m an honest man,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘Well, honest man,’ says the king, ‘and how is it you make your money so aisy?’ ‘By makin’ ould things as good as new,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘Is it a tinker you are?’ says the king. ‘No,’ says the saint; ‘I’m no tinker by thrade, King O’Toole; I’ve a betther thrade than a tinker,’ says he — ‘what would you say,’ says he, ‘if I made your ould goose as good as new?’
“My dear, at the word o’ making his goose as good as new, you’d think the poor ould king’s eyes was ready to jump out iv his head. With that the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin’ up to the poor cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, ‘I’ll do the job for you,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole.’ ‘By Jaminee!’ says King O’Toole, ‘if you do, bud I’ll say you’re the cleverest fellow in the sivin parishes.’ ‘Oh, by dad,’ says St. Kavin, ‘you must say more nor that — my horn’s not so soft all out,’ says he, ‘as to repair your ould goose for nothin’; what’ll you gi’ me if I do the job for you? — that’s the chat,’ says St. Kavin. ‘I’ll give you whatever you ax,’ says the king; ‘isn’t that fair?’ ‘Divil a fairer,’ says the saint; ‘that’s the way to do business. Now,’ says he, ‘this is the bargain I’ll make with you, King O’Toole: will you gi’ me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, afther I make her as good as new?’ ‘I will,’ says the king. ‘You won’t go back o’ your word?’ says St. Kavin. ‘Honor bright!’ says King O’Toole, howldin’ out his fist. ‘Honor bright!’ says St. Kavin, back agin, ‘it’s a bargain. Come here!’ says he to the poor ould goose — ‘come here, you unfort’nate ould cripple, and it’s I that’ll make you the sportin’ bird.’ With that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings — ‘Criss o’ my crass an you,’ says he, markin’ her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute — and throwin’ her up in the air, ‘whew,’ says he, jist givin’ her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk to her {227} heels, flyin’ like one o’ the aigles themselves, and cuttin’ as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.
“Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin’ with his mouth open, lookin’ at his poor ould goose flyin’ as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was: and when she lit at his fut, patted her an the head, and, ‘Ma vourneen,’ says he, ‘but you are the darlint o’ the world.’ ‘And what do you say to me,’ says Saint Kavin, ‘for makin’ her the like?’ ‘By gor,’ says the king, ‘I say nothin’ bates the art o’ man, barrin’ the bees.’ ‘And do you say no more nor that?’ says Saint Kavin. ‘And that I’m behoulden to you,’ says the king. ‘But will you gi’e me all the ground the goose flew over?’ says Saint Kavin. ‘I will,’ says King O’Toole, ‘and you’re welkim to it,’ says he, ‘though it’s the last acre I have to give.’ ‘But you’ll keep your word thrue?’ says the saint. ‘As thrue as the sun,’ says the king. ‘It’s well for you, King O’Toole, that you said that word,’ says he; ‘for if you didn’t say that word, the devil receave the bit o’ your goose id ever fly agin.’ Whin the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was plazed with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the king. ‘And,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole, you’re a decent man, for I only kem here to thry you. You don’t know me,” says he, “bekase I’m disguised.’ ‘Musha! thin,’ says the king, ‘who are you?’ ‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ said the saint, blessin’ himself. ‘Oh, queen iv heaven!’ says the king, makin’ the sign ‘o the crass betune his eyes, and fallin’ down on his knees before the saint; ‘is it the great Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘that I’ve been discoorsin’ all this time without knowin’ it,’ says he, ‘all as one as if he was a lump iv a gossoon? — and so you’re a saint?’ says the king. ‘I am,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘By gor, I thought I was only talking to a dacent boy,’ says the king. ‘Well, you know the differ now,’ says the saint. ‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘the greatest of all the saints.’ And so the king had his goose as good as new, to divart him as long as he lived: and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould {228} you, until the day iv his death — and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin’ a throut one Friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made — and instead of a throut, it was a thievin’ horse-eel; and by gor, instead iv the goose killin’ a throut for the king’s supper, — by dad, the eel killed the king’s goose — and small blame to him; but he didn’t ate her, bekase he darn’t ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on.” |
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| {229} |
| THE DEVIL |
| |
The Demon Cat 56
Lady Wilde |
There was a woman in Connemara, the wife of a fisherman; as he had always good luck, she had plenty of fish at all times stored away in the house ready for market. But, to her great annoyance, she found that a great cat used to come in at night and devour all the best and finest fish. So she kept a big stick by her, and determined to watch.
One day, as she and a woman were spinning together, the house suddenly became quite dark; and the door was burst open as if by the blast of the tempest, when in walked a huge black cat, who went straight up to the fire, then turned round and growled at them.
“Why, surely this is the devil,” said a young girl, who was by, sorting fish.
“I’ll teach you how to call me names,” said the cat; and, jumping at her, he scratched her arm till the blood came. “There, now,” he said, “you will be more civil another time when a gentleman comes to see you.” And with that he walked over to the door and shut it close, to prevent any of them going out, for the poor young girl, while crying loudly from fright and pain, had made a desperate rush to get away.
Just then a man was going by, and hearing the cries, he pushed open the door and tried to get in; but the cat stood {230} on the threshold, and would let no one pass. On this the man attacked him with his stick, and gave him a sound blow; the cat, however, was more than a match in the fight, for it flew at him and tore his face and hands so badly that the man at last took to his heels and ran away as fast as he could.
“Now, it’s time for my dinner,” said the cat, going up to examine the fish that was laid out on the tables. “I hope the fish is good to-day. Now, don’t disturb me, nor make a fuss; I can help myself.” With that he jumped up, and began to devour all the best fish, while he growled at the woman.
“Away, out of this, you wicked beast,” she cried, giving it a blow with the tongs that would have broken its back, only it was a devil; “out of this; no fish shall you have to-day.”
But the cat only grinned at her, and went on tearing and spoiling and devouring the fish, evidently not a bit the worse for the blow. On this, both the women attacked it with sticks, and struck hard blows enough to kill it, on which the cat glared at them, and spit fire; then, making a leap, it tore their heads and arms till the blood came, and the frightened women rushed shrieking from the house.
But presently the mistress returned, carrying with her a bottle of holy water; and, looking in, she saw the cat still devouring the fish, and not minding. So she crept over quietly and threw holy water on it without a word. No sooner was this done than a dense black smoke filled the place, through which nothing was seen but the two red eyes of the cat, burning like coals of fire. Then the smoke gradually cleared away, and she saw the body of the creature burning slowly till it became shrivelled and black like a cinder, and finally disappeared. And from that time the fish remained untouched and safe from harm, for the power of the evil one was broken, and the demon cat was seen no more. |
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The Long Spoon 57
Patrick Kennedy |
| The devil and the hearth-money collector for Bantry set out one summer morning to decide a bet they made the night before over a jug of punch. They wanted to see which would have the best load at sunset, and neither was to pick up anything that wasn’t offered with the good-will of the giver. They passed by a house, and they heard the poor ban-a-t’yee [58] cry out to her lazy daughter, “Oh, musha, — take you for a lazy sthronsuch [59] of a girl! do you intend to get up to-day?” “Oh, oh,” says the taxman, “there’s a job for you, Nick.” “Ovock,” says the other, “it wasn’t from her heart she said it; we must pass on.” The next cabin they were passing, the woman was on the bawn-ditch [50] crying out to her husband that was mending one of his brogues inside: “Oh, tattheration to you, Nick! you never rung them pigs, and there they are in the potato drills rootin’ away; the — run to Lusk with them.” “Another windfall for you,” says the man of the ink-horn, but the old thief only shook his horns and wagged his tail. So they went on, and ever so many prizes were offered to the black fellow without him taking one. Here it was a gorsoon playing marvels when he should be using his clappers in the corn-field; and then it was a lazy drone of a servant asleep with his face to the sod when he ought to be weeding. No one thought of offering the hearth-money man even a drink of buttermilk, and at last the sun was within half a foot of the edge of Cooliagh. They were just then passing Monamolin, and a poor woman that was straining her supper in a skeeoge outside her cabin-door, seeing the two standing at the bawn gate, bawled out, “Oh, here’s the hearth-money man — run away wid him.” “Got a bite at {232} last,” says Nick. “Oh, no, no! it wasn’t from her heart,” says the collector. “Indeed, an’ it was from the very foundation-stones it came. No help for misfortunes; in with you,” says he, opening the mouth of his big black bag; and whether the devil was ever after seen taking the same walk or not, nobody ever laid eyes on his fellow-traveller again. |
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| The Countess Kathleen O’Shea 61 |
A very long time ago, there suddenly appeared in old Ireland two unknown merchants of whom nobody had ever heard, and who nevertheless spoke the language of the country with the greatest perfection.
Their locks were black, and bound round with gold, and their garments were of rare magnificence.
Both seemed of like age; they appeared to be men of fifty, for their foreheads were wrinkled and their beards tinged with grey.
In the hostelry where the pompous traders alighted it was sought to penetrate their designs; but in vain - they led a silent and retired life. And whilst they stopped there, they did nothing but count over and over again out of their money-bags pieces of gold, whose yellow brightness could be seen through the windows of their lodging.
“Gentlemen,” said the landlady one day, “how is it that you are so rich, and that, being able to succour the public misery, you do no good works?”
“Fair hostess,” replied one of them, “we didn’t like to present alms to the honest poor, in dread we might be deceived by make-believe paupers. Let want knock at our door, we shall open it.”
The following day, when the rumour spread that two rich strangers had come, ready to lavish their gold, a crowd besieged their dwelling; but the figures of those who came {233} out were widely different. Some carried pride in their mien; others were shame-faced.
The two chapmen traded in souls for the demon. The souls of the aged was worth twenty pieces of gold, not a penny more; for Satan had had time to make his valuation. The soul of a matron was valued at fifty, when she was handsome, and a hundred when she was ugly. The soul of a young maiden fetched an extravagant sum; the freshest and purest flowers are the dearest.
At that time there lived in the city an angel of beauty, the Countess Kathleen O’Shea. She was the idol of the people and the providence of the indigent. As soon as she learned that these miscreants profited to the public misery to steal away hearts from God, she called to her butler.
“Patrick,” said she to him, “how many pieces of gold in my coffers?”
“A hundred thousand.”
“How many jewels?”
“The money’s worth of the gold.”
“How much property in castles, forests, and lands?”
“Double the rest.”
“Very well, Patrick; sell all that is not gold; and bring me the account. I only wish to keep this mansion and the demesne that surrounds it.”
Two days afterwards the orders of the pious Kathleen were executed, and the treasure was distributed to the poor in proportion to their wants. This, says the tradition, did not suit the purposes of the Evil Spirit, who found no more souls to purchase. Aided by an infamous servant, they penetrated into the retreat of the noble dame, and purloined from her the rest of her treasure. In vain she struggled with all her strength to save the contents of her coffers; the diabolical thieves were the stronger. If Kathleen had been able to make the sign of the Cross, adds the legend, she would have put them to flight, but her hands were captive. The larceny was effected.
Then the poor called for aid to the plundered Kathleen, {234} alas, to no good: she was able to succour their misery no longer; she had to abandon them to the temptation.
Meanwhile, but eight days had to pass before the grain and provender would arrive in abundance from the western lands. Eight such days were an age. Eight days required an immense sum to relieve the exigencies of the dearth, and the poor should either perish in the agonies of hunger, or, denying the holy maxims of the Gospel, vend, for base lucre, their souls, the richest gift from the bounteous hand of the Almighty. And Kathleen hadn’t anything, for she had given up her mansion to the unhappy. She passed twelve hours in tears and mourning, rending her sun-tinted hair, and bruising her breast, of the whiteness of the lily; afterwards she stood up, resolute, animated by a vivid sentiment of despair.
She went to the traders in souls.
“What do you want?” they said.
“You buy souls?”
“Yes, a few still, in spite of you. Isn’t that so, saint, with the eyes of sapphire?”
“To-day I am come to offer you a bargain,” replied she.
“What?”
“I have a soul to sell, but it is costly.”
“What does that signify if it is precious? The soul, like the diamond, is appraised by its transparency.”
“It is mine.”
The two emissaries of Satan started. Their claws were clutched under their gloves of leather; their grey eyes sparkled; the soul, pure, spotless, virginal of Kathleen — it was a priceless acquisition!
“Beauteous lady, how much do you ask?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand pieces of gold.”
“It’s at your service,” replied the traders, and they tendered Kathleen a parchment sealed with black, which she signed with a shudder.
The sum was counted out to her.
As soon as she got home she said to the butler, “Here, distribute this: with this money that I give you the poor {235} can tide over the eight days that remain, and not one of of their souls will be delivered to the demon.”
Afterwards she shut herself up in her room, and gave orders that none should disturb her.
Three days passed; she called nobody, she did not come out.
When the door was opened, they found her cold and stiff; she was dead of grief.
But the sale of this soul, so adorable in its charity, was declared null by the Lord; for she had saved her fellow-citizens from eternal death.
After the eight days had passed, numerous vessels brought into famished Ireland immense provisions in grain. Hunger was no longer possible. As to the traders, they disappeared from their hotel without anyone knowing what became of them. But the fishermen of the Blackwater pretend that they are enchained in a subterranean prison by order of Lucifer, until they shall be able to render up the soul of Kathleen, which escaped from them.
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Notes
53. Shoneen — i.e., upstart.
54. Sleiveen — i.e., mean fellow.
55. Amulet, 1827T. C. Croker wrote this, he says, word for word as he heard it from an old woman at a holy well.
56. Ancient Legends of Ireland.
57. from Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts
58. Woman of the house.
59. Ir. stroinse — i.e., a lazy thing.
60. Ir. bádhun — i.e., enclosure, or wall round a house. From ba, cows, and dún, a fortress. Properly, cattle-fortress.
61. This was quoted in a London-Irish newspaper. I am unable to find out the original source.
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