“The hero valiant, renowned, and learned;White-tooth’d, graceful, magnanimous, and active.”
“The hero valiant, renowned, and learned;White-tooth’d, graceful, magnanimous, and active.”
The hag Grana was never heard of more; but the stone remains, and deeply imprinted in it, is still to be seen the mark of the hag’s fingers. That stone is far taller than the tallest man, and the power of forty men would fail to move it from the spot where it fell.
The grass may wither around it, the spade and plough destroy dull heaps of earth, the walls of castles fall and perish, but the fame of the Finnii of Erin endures with the rocks themselves, andClough-a-Regaunis a monument fitting to preserve the memory of the deed!
Above all the islands in the lakes of Killarney give me Innisfallen—“sweet Innisfallen,” as the melodious Moore calls it. It is, in truth, a fairy isle, although I have no fairy story to tell you about it; and if I had, these are such unbelieving times, and people of late have grown so skeptical, that they only smile at my stories, and doubt them.
However, none will doubt that a monastery once stood upon Innisfallen island, for its ruins may still be seen; neither, that within its walls dwelt certain pious and learned persons called Monks. A very pleasant set of fellows they were, I make not the smallest doubt; and I am sure of this, that they had a very pleasant spot to enjoy themselves in after dinner—the proper time, believe me, and I am no bad judge of such matters, for the enjoyment of a fine prospect.
Out of all the monks you could not pick a better fellow nor a merrier soul than Father Cuddy; he sung a good song, he told a good story, and had a jolly, comfortable-looking paunch of his own, that was a credit to any refectory table. He was distinguished above all the rest by the name of “the fat father.” Now there are many that will take huff at a name; but Father Cuddy had no nonsense of that kind about him; he laughed at it—and well able he was to laugh, for his mouth nearly reached from one ear to the other: his might, in truth, be called an open countenance. As his paunch was no disgrace to his food, neither was his nose to his drink. ’Tis a doubt to me if there were not more carbuncles upon it than ever were seen at the bottom of the lake, which is said to be full of them. His eyes had a right merry twinkle in them, like moonshine dancing on the water; and his cheeks had the roundness and crimson glow of ripe arbutus berries.
“He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept.—What then?He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept again!”
“He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept.—What then?He ate, and drank, and prayed, and slept again!”
Such was the tenor of his simple life: but when he prayed a certain drowsiness would come upon him, which, it must be confessed, never occurred when a well-filled “blackjack” stood before him. Hence his prayers were short and his draughts were long. The world loved him, and he saw no good reason why he should not in return love its venison and usquebaugh. But, as times went, he must have been a pious man, or else what befell him never would have happened.
Spiritual affairs—for it was respecting the importation of a tun of wine into the island monastery—demanded the presence of one of the brotherhood of Innisfallen at the abbey of Irelagh, now called Mucruss. The superintendence of this important matter was committed to Father Cuddy, who felt too deeply interested in the future welfare of any community of which he was a member, to neglect or delay such mission. With the morning’s light he was seen guiding his shallop across the crimson waters of the lake towards the peninsula of Mucruss; and having moored his little bark in safety beneath the shelter of a wave-worn rock, he advanced with becoming dignity towards the abbey.
The stillness of the bright and balmy hour was broken by the heavy footsteps of the zealous father. At the sound the startled deer, shaking the dew from their sides, sprung up from their lair, and as they bounded off—“Hah!” exclaimed Cuddy, “what a noble haunch goes there!—how delicious it would look smoking upon a goodly platter!”
As he proceeded, the mountain-bee hummed his tune of gladness around the holy man, save when he buried in the foxglove bell, or revelling upon a fragrant bunch of thyme; and even then the little voice murmured out happiness in low and broken tones of voluptuous delight. Father Cuddy derived no small comfort from the sound, for it presaged a good metheglin season, and metheglin he regarded, if well manufactured, to be no bad liquor, particularly when there was no stint of usquebaugh in the brewing.
Arrived within the abbey garth, he was received with due respect by the brethren of Irelagh, and arrangements for the embarkation of the wine were completed to his entiresatisfaction. “Welcome, Father Cuddy,” said the prior: “grace be on you.”
“Grace before meat, then,” said Cuddy, “for a long walk always makes me hungry, and I am certain I have not walked less than half a mile this morning, to say nothing of crossing the water.”
A pasty of choice flavour felt the truth of this assertion, as regarded Father Cuddy’s appetite. After such consoling repast, it would have been a reflection on monastic hospitality to depart without partaking of the grace-cup; moreover, Father Cuddy had a particular respect for the antiquity of that custom. He liked the taste of the grace-cup well:—he tried another,—it was no less excellent; and when he had swallowed the third he found his heart expand, and put forth its fibres, willing to embrace all mankind. Surely, then, there is Christian love and charity in wine!
I said he sung a good song. Now though psalms are good songs, and in accordance with his vocation, I did not mean to imply that he was a mere psalm-singer. It was well known to the brethren, that wherever Father Cuddy was, mirth and melody were with him; mirth in his eye and melody on his tongue; and these, from experience, are equally well known to be thirsty commodities; but he took good care never to let them run dry. To please the brotherhood, whose excellent wine pleased him, he sung, and as “in vino veritas” his song will well become this veritable history.
CANTAT MONACHUS.I.Hoc erat in votis,Et bene sufficerit totisSi dum porto sacculumBonum esset ubique jentaculum!Et si parvisIn arvisNullamInvenero pullam,Ovum gentiliter preæbebit recensPuella decens.Manu nec dabis invitâFlos vallium harum,Decus puellarum,Candida Marguerita!
CANTAT MONACHUS.
I.Hoc erat in votis,Et bene sufficerit totisSi dum porto sacculumBonum esset ubique jentaculum!Et si parvisIn arvisNullamInvenero pullam,Ovum gentiliter preæbebit recensPuella decens.Manu nec dabis invitâFlos vallium harum,Decus puellarum,Candida Marguerita!
THE FRIAR’S SONG.I.My vows I can never fulfil,UntilI have breakfasted, one way or other;And I freely protest,That I never can rest‘Till I borrow or begAn egg,Unless I can come at the ould hen, its mother.But Maggy, my dear,While you’re here,I don’t fearTo want eggs that have just been laid newly;For och! you’re a pearlOf a girl,And you’re called so inLatinmost truly.II.Me hora jucunda cœnæDilectat bene,Et rerum sine dubio grandiumMaxima est prandium:Sed mihi crede,In hâc æde,Multo magis gaudeo,Cum gallicantum audio,In sinu tuoVidens ova duo.Oh semper me tractes ita!Panibus de hordeo factis,Et copiâ lactis,Candida Margarita!III.There is most to my mind something that is still upperThan supper,Though it must be admitted I feel no way thinnerAfter dinner:But soon as I hear the cock crowIn the morning,That eggs you are bringing full surely I know,By that warning,While your buttermilk helps me to floatDown my throatThose sweet cakes made of oat.I don’t envy an earl,Sweet girl,Och, ’tis you are a beautiful pearl.
THE FRIAR’S SONG.
I.
My vows I can never fulfil,UntilI have breakfasted, one way or other;And I freely protest,That I never can rest‘Till I borrow or begAn egg,Unless I can come at the ould hen, its mother.But Maggy, my dear,While you’re here,I don’t fearTo want eggs that have just been laid newly;For och! you’re a pearlOf a girl,And you’re called so inLatinmost truly.
II.
Me hora jucunda cœnæDilectat bene,Et rerum sine dubio grandiumMaxima est prandium:Sed mihi crede,In hâc æde,Multo magis gaudeo,Cum gallicantum audio,In sinu tuoVidens ova duo.Oh semper me tractes ita!Panibus de hordeo factis,Et copiâ lactis,Candida Margarita!
III.
There is most to my mind something that is still upperThan supper,Though it must be admitted I feel no way thinnerAfter dinner:But soon as I hear the cock crowIn the morning,That eggs you are bringing full surely I know,By that warning,While your buttermilk helps me to floatDown my throatThose sweet cakes made of oat.I don’t envy an earl,Sweet girl,Och, ’tis you are a beautiful pearl.
Such was his song. Father Cuddy smacked his lips at the recollection of Margery’s delicious fried eggs, which always imparted a peculiar relish to his liquor. The very idea provoked Cuddy to raise the cup to his mouth, and with one hearty pull thereat he finished its contents.
This is, and ever was a censorious world, often construing what is only a fair allowance into an excess: but I scorn to reckon up any man’s drink, like an unrelenting host; therefore, I cannot tell how many brimming draughts of wine, bedecked withthe venerable Bead, Father Cuddy emptied into his “soul-case,” so he figuratively termed the body.
His respect for the goodly company of the monks of Irelagh detained him until their adjournment to vespers, when he set forward on his return to Innisfallen. Whether his mind was occupied in philosophic contemplation or wrapped in pious musings, I cannot declare, but the honest father wandered on in a different direction from that in which his shallop lay. Far be it from me to insinuate that the good liquor, which he had so commended caused him to forget his road, or that his track was irregular and unsteady. Oh no!—he carried his drink bravely, as became a decent man and a good Christian; yet somehow, he thought he could distinguish two moons. “Bless my eyes,” said Father Cuddy, “every thing is changing now-a-days!—the very stars are not in the same places they used to be; I thinkCamceachta(the Plough) is driving on at a rate I never saw it before to-night; but I suppose the driver is drunk, for there are blackguards every where.”
Cuddy had scarcely uttered these words, when he saw, or fancied he saw, the form of a young woman, who, holding up a bottle, beckoned him towards her. The night was extremely beautiful, and the white dress of the girl floated gracefully in the moonlight, as with gay step she tripped on before the worthy father, archly looking back upon him over her shoulder.
“Ah, Margery, merry Margery!” cried Cuddy, “you tempting little rogue!
‘Flos vallium harum,Decus puellarum,Candida Margarita.’
‘Flos vallium harum,Decus puellarum,Candida Margarita.’
“I see you, I see you and the bottle! let me but catch you, Candida Margarita!” and on he followed, panting and smiling, after this alluring apparition.
At length his feet grew weary, and his breath failed, which obliged him to give up the chase; yet such was his piety, that unwilling to rest in any attitude but that of prayer, down dropped Father Cuddy on his knees. Sleep, as usual, stole upon his devotions; and the morning was far advanced, when he awoke from dreams, in which tables groaned beneath their load of viands, and wine poured itself free and sparkling as the mountain spring.
Rubbing his eyes, he looked about him, and the more he looked the more he wondered at the alteration which appeared in the face of the country. “Bless my soul and body!” said the good father, “I saw the stars changing last night, but here is a change!” Doubting his senses, he looked again. The hills bore the same majestic outline as on the preceding day, and the lake spread itself beneath his view in the same tranquil beauty, and studded with the same number of islands; but every smaller feature in the landscape was strangely altered. What had been naked rocks were now clothed with holly and arbutus. Whole woods had disappeared, and waste places had become cultivated fields; and, to complete the work of enchantment, the very season itself seemed changed. In the rosy dawn of a summer’s morning he had left the monastery of Innisfallen, and he now felt in every sight and sound the dreariness of winter. The hard ground was covered with withered leaves; icicles depended from leafless branches; he heard the sweet low note of the robin, who familiarly approached him; and he felt his fingers numbed from the nipping frost. Father Cuddy found it rather difficult to account for such sudden transformations, and to convince himself it was not the illusion of a dream, he was about to rise, when lo! he discovered that both his knees were buried at least six inches in the solid stone; for, notwithstanding all these changes, he had never altered his devout position.
Cuddy was now wide awake, and felt, when he got up, his joints sadly cramped, which it was only natural they should be, considering the hard texture of the stone, andthe depth his knees had sunk into it. But the great difficulty was to explain how, in one night, summer had become winter, whole woods had been cut down, and well-grown trees had sprouted up. The miracle, nothing else could he conclude it to be, urged him to hasten his return to Innisfallen, where he might learn some explanation of these marvellous events.
Seeing a boat moored within reach of the shore, he delayed not, in the midst of such wonders, to seek his own bark, but, seizing the oars, pulled stoutly towards the island; and here new wonders awaited him.
Father Cuddy waddled, as fast as cramped limbs could carry his rotund corporation, to the gate of the monastery, where he loudly demanded admittance.
“Holloa! whence come you, master monk, and what’s your business?” demanded a stranger who occupied the porter’s place.
“Business!—my business!” repeated the confounded Cuddy,—“why, do you not know me? Has the wine arrived safely?”
“Hence, fellow!” said the porter’s representative, in a surly tone; “nor think to impose on me with your monkish tales.”
“Fellow!” exclaimed the father: “mercy upon us, that I should be so spoken to at the gate of my own house!—Scoundrel!” cried Cuddy, raising his voice, “do you not see my garb—my holy garb?”
“Ay, fellow,” replied he of the keys—“the garb of laziness and filthy debauchery, which has been expelled from out these walls. Know you not, idle knave, of the suppression of this nest of superstition, and that the abbey lands and possessions were granted in August last to Master Robert Collam, by our Lady Elizabeth, sovereign queen of England, and paragon of all beauty—whom God preserve!”
“Queen of England!” said Cuddy; “there never was a sovereign queen of England—this is but a piece with the rest. I saw how it was going with the stars last night—the world’s turned upside down. But surely this is Innisfallen island, and I am the Father Cuddy who yesterdaymorning went over to the abbey of Irelagh, respecting the tun of wine. Do you not know me now?”
“Know you!—how should I know you?” said the keeper of the abbey. “Yet, true it is, that I have heard my grandmother, whose mother remembered the man, often speak of the fat Father Cuddy of Innisfallen, who made a profane and godless ballad in praise of fresh eggs, of which he and his vile crew knew more than they did of the word of God; and who, being drunk, it is said, tumbled into the lake one night, and was drowned; but that must have been a hundred, ay, more than a hundred years since.”
“’Twas I who composed that song in praise of Margery’s fresh eggs, which is no profane and godless ballad—no other Father Cuddy than myself ever belonged to Innisfallen,” earnestly exclaimed the holy man. “A hundred years!—what was your great-grandmother’s name?”
“She was a Mahony of Dunlow—Margaret ni Mahony; and my grandmother—”
“What! merry Margery of Dunlow your great-grandmother!” shouted Cuddy. “St. Brandon help me!—the wicked wench, with that tempting bottle!—why, ’twas only last night—a hundred years!—your great-grandmother, said you?—There has, indeed, been a strange torpor over me; I must have slept all this time!”
That Father Cuddy had done so, I think is sufficiently proved by the changes which occurred during his nap. A reformation, and a serious one it was for him, had taken place. Pretty Margery’s fresh eggs were no longer to be had in Innisfallen; and with a heart as heavy as his footsteps, the worthy man directed his course towards Dingle, where he embarked in a vessel on the point of sailing for Malaga. The rich wine of that place had of old impressed him with a high respect for its monastic establishments, in one of which he quietly wore out the remainder of his days.
The stone impressed with the mark of Father Cuddy’s knees may be seen to this day. Should any incredulous persons doubt my story, I request them to go to Killarney, where Clough na Cuddy—so is the stone called—remains in Lord Kenmare’s park, an indisputable evidence of thefact. Spillane, the bugle-man, will be able to point it out to them, as he did so to me; and here is my sketch by which they may identify it.
On the road between Passage and Cork there is an old mansion called Ronayne’s Court. It may be easily known from the stack of chimneys and the gable ends, which are to be seen, look at it which way you will. Here it was that Maurice Ronayne and his wife Margaret Gould kept house, as may be learned to this day from the great old chimney-piece, on which is carved their arms. They were a mighty worthy couple, and had but one son, who was called Philip, after no less a person than the king of Spain.
Immediately on his smelling the cold air of this world the child sneezed; and it was naturally taken to be a good sign of having a clear head; but the subsequent rapidity of his learning was truly amazing; for on the very first day a primer was put into his hand, he tore out the A, B, C page and destroyed it, as a thing quite beneath his notice. No wonder then that both father and mother were proud of their heir, who gave such indisputable proofs of genius, or, as they call it in that part of the world, “genus.”
One morning, however, Master Phil, who was then just seven years old, was missing, and no one could tell whathad become of him: servants were sent in all directions to seek him, on horseback and on foot; but they returned without any tidings of the boy, whose disappearance altogether was most unaccountable. A large reward was offered, but it produced them no intelligence, and years rolled away without Mr. and Mrs. Ronayne having obtained any satisfactory account of the fate of their lost child.
There lived, at this time, near Carigaline, one Robert Kelly, a blacksmith by trade. He was what is termed a handy man, and his abilities were held in much estimation by the lads and the lasses of the neighbourhood: for, independent of shoeing horses which he did to great perfection, and making plough-irons, he interpreted dreams for the young women, sung Arthur O’Bradley at their weddings, and was so good-natured a fellow at a christening, that he was gossip to half the country round.
Now it happened that Robin had a dream himself, and young Philip Ronayne appeared to him in it at the dead hour of the night. Robin thought he saw the boy mounted upon a beautiful white horse, and that he told him how he was made a page to the giant Mahon Mac Mahon, who had carried him off, and who held his court in the hard heart of the rock. “The seven years—my time of service,—are clean out, Robin,” said he, “and if you release me this night, I will be the making of you for ever after.”
“And how will I know,” said Robin—cunning enough, even in his sleep—“but this is all a dream?”
“Take that,” said the boy, “for a token”—and at the word the white horse struck out with one of his hind legs, and gave poor Robin such a kick in the forehead, that thinking he was a dead man, he roared as loud as he could after his brains, and woke up calling a thousand murders. He found himself in bed, but he had the mark of the blow, the regular print of a horse-shoe upon his forehead as red as blood; and Robin Kelly, who never before found himself puzzled at the dream of any other person, did not know what to think of his own.
Robin was well acquainted with the Giant’s Stairs, as, indeed, who is not that knows the harbour? They consist of great masses of rock, which, piled one above another, rise like a flight of steps, from very deep water, against thebold cliff of Carrigmahon. Nor are they badly suited for stairs to those who have legs of sufficient length to stride over a moderate-sized house, or to enable them to clear the space of a mile in a hop, step, and jump. Both these feats the giant Mac Mahon was said to have performed in the days of Finnian glory; and the common tradition of the country placed his dwelling within the cliff up whose side the stairs led.
Such was the impression which the dream made on Robin, that he determined to put its truth to the test. It occurred to him, however, before setting out on this adventure, that a plough-iron may be no bad companion, as, from experience, he knew it was an excellent knock-down argument, having, on more occasions than one, settled a little disagreement very quietly: so, putting one on his shoulder, off he marched in the cool of the evening through Glaun a Thowk (the Hawk’s Glen) to Monkstown. Here an old gossip of his (Tom Clancey by name) lived, who, on hearing Robin’s dream, promised him the use of his skiff, and moreover offered to assist in rowing it to the Giant’s Stairs.
After a supper which was of the best, they embarked. It was a beautiful still night, and the little boat glided swiftly along. The regular dip of the oars, the distant song of the sailor, and sometimes the voice of a belated traveller at the ferry of Carrigaloe, alone broke the quietness of the land and sea and sky. The tide was in their favour, and in a few minutes Robin and his gossip rested on their oars in the dark shadow of the Giant’s Stairs. Robin looked anxiously for the entrance to the Giant’s Palace, which, it was said, may be found by any one seeking it at midnight; but no such entrance could he see. His impatience had hurried him there before that time, and after waiting a considerable space in a state of suspense not to be described, Robin, with pure vexation, could not help exclaiming to his companion, “’Tis a pair of fools we are, Tom Clancey, for coming here at all on the strength of a dream.”
“And whose doing is it,” said Tom, “but your own?”
At the moment he spoke they perceived a faint glimmering light to proceed from the cliff, which gradually increased until a porch big enough for a king’s palace unfoldeditself almost on a level with the water. They pulled the skiff directly towards the opening, and Robin Kelly, seizing his plough-iron, boldly entered with a strong hand and a stout heart. Wild and strange was that entrance; the whole of which appeared formed of grim and grotesque faces, blending so strangely each with the other that it was impossible to define any: the chin of one formed the nose of another: what appeared to be a fixed and stern eye, if dwelt upon, changed to a gaping mouth; and the lines of the lofty forehead grew into a majestic and flowing beard. The more Robin allowed himself to contemplate the forms around him, the more terrific they became; and the stony expression of this crowd of faces assumed a savage ferocity as his imagination converted feature after feature into a different shape and character. Losing the twilight in which these indefinite forms were visible, he advanced through a dark and devious passage, whilst a deep and rumbling noise sounded as if the rock was about to close upon him and swallow him up alive for ever. Now, indeed, poor Robin felt afraid.
“Robin, Robin,” said he, “if you were a fool for coming here, what in the name of fortune are you now?” But, as before, he had scarcely spoken, when he saw a small light twinkling through the darkness of the distance, like a star in the midnight sky. To retreat was out of the question; for so many turnings and windings were in the passage, that he considered he had but little chance of making his way back. He therefore proceeded towards the bit of light, and came at last into a spacious chamber, from the roof of which hung the solitary lamp that had guided him. Emerging from such profound gloom, the single lamp afforded Robin abundant light to discover several gigantic figures seated round a massive stone table as if in serious deliberation, but no word disturbed the breathless silence which prevailed. At the head of this table sat Mahon Mac Mahon himself, whose majestic beard had taken root, and in the course of ages grown into the stone slab. He was the first who perceived Robin; and instantly starting up, drew his long beard from out the huge lump of rock in such haste and with so sudden a jerk, that it was shattered into a thousand pieces.
“What seek you?” he demanded in a voice of thunder.
“I come,” answered Robin, with as much boldness as he could put on—for his heart was almost fainting within him—“I come,” said he, “to claim Philip Ronayne, whose time of service is out this night.”
“And who sent you here?” said the giant.
“’Twas of my own accord I came,” said Robin.
“Then you must single him out from among my pages,” said the giant; “and if you fix on the wrong one your life is the forfeit. Follow me.” He led Robin into a hall of vast extent and filled with lights; along either side of which were rows of beautiful children all apparently seven years old, and none beyond that age, dressed in green, and every one exactly dressed alike.
“Here,” said Mahon, “you are free to take Philip Ronayne, if you will; but, remember, I give but one choice.”
Robin was sadly perplexed; for there were hundreds upon hundreds of children; and he had no very clear recollection of the boy he sought. But he walked along the hall, by the side of Mahon, as if nothing was the matter, although his great iron dress clanked fearfully at every step, sounding louder than Robin’s own sledge battering on his anvil.
They had nearly reached the end of the hall without speaking, when Robin, seeing that the only means he had was to make friends with the giant, determined to try what effect a few soft words might have upon him.
“’Tis a fine wholesome appearance the poor children carry,” remarked Robin, “although they have been here so long shut out from the fresh air and the blessed light of heaven. ’Tis tenderly your honour must have reared them!”
“Ay,” said the giant, “that is true for you; so give me your hand; for you are, I believe, a very honest fellow for a blacksmith.”
Robin at the first look did not much like the huge size of the hand, and therefore presented his plough-iron, which the giant seizing, twisted in his grasp round and round again as if it had been a potato-stalk; on seeing this all the children set up a shout of laughter. In the midst of their mirth Robin thought he heard his name called; and,all ear and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he fancied had spoken, crying out at the same time, “Let me live or die for it, but this is young Phil Ronayne.”
“It is Philip Ronayne—happy Philip Ronayne,” said his young companions; and in an instant the hall became dark. Crashing noises were heard, and all was in strange confusion: but Robin held fast his prize, and found himself lying in the gray dawn of the morning at the head of the Giant’s Stairs, with the boy clasped in his arms.
Robin had plenty of gossips to spread the story of his wonderful adventure—Passage, Monkstown, Ringaskiddy, Seamount, Carrigaline—the whole barony of Kerricurrihy rung with it.
“Are you quite sure, Robin, it is young Phil Ronayne, you have brought back with you?” was the regular question; for although the boy had been seven years away, his appearance now was just the same as on the day he was missed. He had neither grown taller nor older in look, and he spoke of things which had happened before he was carried off as one awakened from sleep, or as if they had occurred yesterday.
“Am I sure? Well, that’s a queer question,” was Robin’s reply; “seeing the boy has the blue eyes of the mother, with the foxy hair of the father, to say nothing of thepurlywart on the right side of his little nose.”
However Robin Kelly may have been questioned, the worthy couple of Ronayne’s court doubted not that he was the deliverer of their child from the power of the giant Mac Mahon; and the reward they bestowed upon him equalled their gratitude.
Philip Ronayne lived to be an old man; and he was remarkable to the day of his death for his skill in working brass and iron, which it was believed he had learned during his seven years’ apprenticeship to the giant Mahon Mac Mahon.
And now, farewell! the fairy dream is o’er;The tales my infancy had loved to hear,Like blissful visions fade and disappear.Such tales Momonia’s peasant tells no more!Vanish’d areMERMAIDSfrom the sea beat shore;Check’d is theHeadless Horseman’sstrange career;Fir Darrig’svoice no longer mocks the ear,NorROCKSbear wondrous imprints as of yore!Such is “the march of mind.” But did the fays(Creatures of whim—the gossamers of will)In Ireland work such sorrow and such illAs stormier spirits of our modern days?Oh land beloved! no angry voice I raise:My constant prayer—“may peace be with thee still!”
And now, farewell! the fairy dream is o’er;The tales my infancy had loved to hear,Like blissful visions fade and disappear.Such tales Momonia’s peasant tells no more!Vanish’d areMERMAIDSfrom the sea beat shore;Check’d is theHeadless Horseman’sstrange career;Fir Darrig’svoice no longer mocks the ear,NorROCKSbear wondrous imprints as of yore!Such is “the march of mind.” But did the fays(Creatures of whim—the gossamers of will)In Ireland work such sorrow and such illAs stormier spirits of our modern days?Oh land beloved! no angry voice I raise:My constant prayer—“may peace be with thee still!”
LETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO THE AUTHOR OF THE IRISH FAIRY LEGENDS.
Sir,
I have been obliged by the courtesy which sent me your very interesting work on Irish superstitions, and no less by the amusement which it has afforded me, both from the interest of the stories, and the lively manner in which they are told. You are to consider this, Sir, as a high compliment from one, who holds him on the subject of elves, ghosts, visions, &c. nearly as strong as William Churne of Staffordshire—
“Who every year can mend your cheerWith tales both old and new.”
“Who every year can mend your cheerWith tales both old and new.”
The extreme similarity of your fictions to ours in Scotland, is very striking. The Cluricaune (which is an admirable subject for a pantomime) is not known here. I suppose the Scottish cheer was not sufficient to tempt to the hearth either him, or that singular demon called by Heywood the Buttery Spirit, which diminished the profits of an unjust landlord by eating up all that he cribbed for his guests.
The beautiful superstition of the banshee seems in a great measure peculiar to Ireland, though in some Highland families there is such a spectre, particularly in that of Mac Lean of Lochbuy; but I think I could match all your other tales with something similar.
I can assure you, however, that the progress of philosophy has not even yet entirely “pulled the old woman out of our hearts,” as Addison expresses it. Witches are still held in reasonable detestation, although we no longer burn or evenscore above the breath. As for the water bull, they live who will take their oaths to having seen him emerge from a small lake on the boundary of my property here, scarce large enough to have held him, I should think. Sometraits in his description seem to answer the hippopotamus, and these are always mentioned both in highland and lowland story: strange if we could conceive there existed, under a tradition so universal, some shadowy reference to those fossil bones of animals which are so often found in the lakes and bogs.
But to leave antediluvian stories for the freshest news from fairy land, I cannot resist the temptation to send you an account of King Oberon’s court, which was verified before me as a magistrate, with all the solemnities of a court of justice, within this fortnight past. A young shepherd, a lad of about eighteen years of age, well brought up, and of good capacity, and, that I may be perfectly accurate, in the service of a friend, a most respectable farmer, at Oakwood, on the estate of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden, made oath and said, that going to look after some sheep which his master had directed to be put upon turnips, and passing in the gray of the morning a small copse-wood adjacent to the river Etterick, he was surprised at the sight of four or five little personages, about two feet or thirty inches in height, who were seated under the trees, apparently in deep conversation. At this singular appearance he paused till he had refreshed his noble courage with a prayer and a few recollections of last Sunday’s sermon, and then advanced to the little party. But observing that, instead of disappearing, they seemed to become yet more magnificently distinct than before, and now doubting nothing, from their foreign dresses and splendid decorations, that they were the choice ornaments of the fairy court, he fairly turned tail and went “to raise the water,” as if the South’ron had made a raid. Others came to the rescue, and yet the fairycortegeawaited their arrival in still and silent dignity. I wish I could stop here, for the devil take all explanations, they stop duels and destroy the credit of apparitions, neither allow ghosts to be made in an honourable way, or to be believed in (poor souls!) when they revisit the glimpses of the moon.
I must however explain, like other honourable gentlemen, elsewhere. You must know, that, like our neighbours, we have a school of arts for our mechanics at G——, a small manufacturing town in this country, and that the tree of knowledge there as elsewhere produces its usual crop of good and evil. The day before this avatar of Oberon was a fair day at Selkirk, and amongst other popular divertisements, was one which, in former days, I would have called a puppet-show, and its master a puppet-showman. He has put me right, however, by informing me, that he writes himselfartist from Vauxhall, and that he exhibitsfantoccini; call them what you will, it seems they gave great delight to the unwashed artificers of G——. Formerly they would have been contented to wonder and applaud, but not so were they satisfied in our modern days of investigation, for they broke into Punch’s sanctuary forcibly, after he had been laid aside for the evening, made violent seizure of his person, and carried off him, his spouse, and heaven knows what captives besides, in their plaid nooks, to be examined at leisure. Allthis they literally did (forcing a door to accomplish their purpose) in the spirit of science alone, or but slightly stimulated by that of malt whisky, with which last we have been of late deluged. Cool reflection came as they retreated by the banks of the Etterick; they made the discovery that they could no more make Punch move than Lord —— could make him speak; and recollecting, I believe, that there was such a person as the Sheriff in the world, they abandoned their prisoners, in hopes, as they pretended, that they would be found and restored in safety to their proper owner.
It is only necessary to add that the artist had his losses made good by a subscription, and the scientific inquirers escaped with a small fine, as a warning not to indulge such an irregular spirit of research in future.
As this somewhat tedious story contains the very last news from fairy land, I hope you will give it acceptance, and beg you to believe me very much
Your obliged and thankful servant,
Walter Scott.
27th April, 1825.Abbotsford, Melrose.
THE END.
Footnotes[1]Knocksheogowna signifies “The Hill of the Fairy Calf.”[2]“Called by the people of the country ‘Knock Dhoinn Firinne,’ the mountain of Donn of Truth. This mountain is very high, and may be seen for several miles round; and when people are desirous to know whether or not any day will rain, they look at the top of Knock Firinne, and if they see a vapour or mist there, they immediately conclude that rain will soon follow, believing that Donn (the lord or chief) of that mountain and his aërial assistants are collecting the clouds, and that he holds them there for some short time, to warn the people of the approaching rain. As the appearance of mist on that mountain in the morning is considered an infallible sign that that day will be rainy, Donn is called ‘Donn Firinne,’ Donn of Truth.”—Mr. Edward O’Reilly.[3]Literally, the great herb—Digitalis purpurea.[4]Correctly written,Dia Luain,Dia Mairt,agus Dia Ceadaoine, i. e. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.[5]And Wednesday and Thursday.[6]Act ii. sc. 1.[7]Book i. canto 10.[8]The term “fairy struck” is applied to paralytic affections, which are supposed to proceed from a blow given by the invisible hand of an offended fairy; this belief, of course, creates fairy doctors, who by means of charms and mysterious journeys profess to cure the afflicted. It is only fair to add, that the term has also a convivial acceptation, the fairies being not unfrequently made to bear the blame of the effects arising from too copious a sacrifice to Bacchus.The importance attached to the manner and place of burial by the peasantry is almost incredible; it is always a matter of consideration and often of dispute whether the deceased shall be buried with his or her “own people.”[9]A peculiar class of beggars resembling the Gaberlunzie man of Scotland.[10]Inch—low meadow ground near a river.[11]A ford of the river Funcheon (the Fanchin of Spenser,) on the road leading from Fermoy to Araglin.[12]i. e.“In the time of a crack of a whip,” he took off his shoes and stockings.[13]About two hundred yards off the Dublin mail-coach road, nearly mid-way between Kilworth and Fermoy.[14]“Kilmallock seemed to me like the court of the Queen of Silence.”—O’Keefe’s Recollections.[15]“Nulla manus,Tam liberalisAtque generalisAtque universalisQuam Sullivanis.”[16]In the county of Galway.[17]In the county of Limerick.[18]Spancelled—fettered.[19]“The neighbouring inhabitants,” says Dr. Smith, in his History of Kerry, speaking of Ballyheigh, “show some rocks visible in this bay only at low tides, which, they say, are the remains of an island, that was formerly the burial-place of the family of Cantillon, the ancient proprietors of Ballyheigh.” p. 210.[20]The remains of Dunkerron Caslle are distant about a mile from the village of Kenmare, in the county of Kerry. It is recorded to have been built in 1596, by Owen O’Sullivan More.—[More, is merely an epithet signifyingthe Great.][21]This is almost a literal translation of a Rann in the well-known song of Deardra.[22]My little girl.[23]A monotonous song; a drowsy humming noise.[24]Give me a kiss, my young girl.[25]Faced, so written by the Chantrey of Kilcrea, for “fecit.”[26]A splinter, or slip of bog-deal, which, being dipped in tallow, is used as a candle.[27]Siesteen is a low block-like seat, made of straw bands firmly sewed or bound together.[28]See Weld’s Killarney, 8vo ed. p. 228.[29]Orslaib; mire on the sea strand or river’s bank.—O’Brien.[30]Labbig—bed, fromLeaba.—VideO’BrienandO’Reilly.[31]“I’non mori, e non rimasi vivo:Pensa oramai per te, s’hai fior d’ingegnoQual io divenni d’uno e d’altro privo.”Dante,Inferno, canto 34.[32]An English shilling was thirteen pence, Irish currency.[33]Children.[34]Tighearna—a lord. VideO’Brien.
Footnotes
[1]Knocksheogowna signifies “The Hill of the Fairy Calf.”
[1]Knocksheogowna signifies “The Hill of the Fairy Calf.”
[2]“Called by the people of the country ‘Knock Dhoinn Firinne,’ the mountain of Donn of Truth. This mountain is very high, and may be seen for several miles round; and when people are desirous to know whether or not any day will rain, they look at the top of Knock Firinne, and if they see a vapour or mist there, they immediately conclude that rain will soon follow, believing that Donn (the lord or chief) of that mountain and his aërial assistants are collecting the clouds, and that he holds them there for some short time, to warn the people of the approaching rain. As the appearance of mist on that mountain in the morning is considered an infallible sign that that day will be rainy, Donn is called ‘Donn Firinne,’ Donn of Truth.”—Mr. Edward O’Reilly.
[2]“Called by the people of the country ‘Knock Dhoinn Firinne,’ the mountain of Donn of Truth. This mountain is very high, and may be seen for several miles round; and when people are desirous to know whether or not any day will rain, they look at the top of Knock Firinne, and if they see a vapour or mist there, they immediately conclude that rain will soon follow, believing that Donn (the lord or chief) of that mountain and his aërial assistants are collecting the clouds, and that he holds them there for some short time, to warn the people of the approaching rain. As the appearance of mist on that mountain in the morning is considered an infallible sign that that day will be rainy, Donn is called ‘Donn Firinne,’ Donn of Truth.”—Mr. Edward O’Reilly.
[3]Literally, the great herb—Digitalis purpurea.
[3]Literally, the great herb—Digitalis purpurea.
[4]Correctly written,Dia Luain,Dia Mairt,agus Dia Ceadaoine, i. e. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.
[4]Correctly written,Dia Luain,Dia Mairt,agus Dia Ceadaoine, i. e. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.
[5]And Wednesday and Thursday.
[5]And Wednesday and Thursday.
[6]Act ii. sc. 1.
[6]Act ii. sc. 1.
[7]Book i. canto 10.
[7]Book i. canto 10.
[8]The term “fairy struck” is applied to paralytic affections, which are supposed to proceed from a blow given by the invisible hand of an offended fairy; this belief, of course, creates fairy doctors, who by means of charms and mysterious journeys profess to cure the afflicted. It is only fair to add, that the term has also a convivial acceptation, the fairies being not unfrequently made to bear the blame of the effects arising from too copious a sacrifice to Bacchus.The importance attached to the manner and place of burial by the peasantry is almost incredible; it is always a matter of consideration and often of dispute whether the deceased shall be buried with his or her “own people.”
[8]The term “fairy struck” is applied to paralytic affections, which are supposed to proceed from a blow given by the invisible hand of an offended fairy; this belief, of course, creates fairy doctors, who by means of charms and mysterious journeys profess to cure the afflicted. It is only fair to add, that the term has also a convivial acceptation, the fairies being not unfrequently made to bear the blame of the effects arising from too copious a sacrifice to Bacchus.
The importance attached to the manner and place of burial by the peasantry is almost incredible; it is always a matter of consideration and often of dispute whether the deceased shall be buried with his or her “own people.”
[9]A peculiar class of beggars resembling the Gaberlunzie man of Scotland.
[9]A peculiar class of beggars resembling the Gaberlunzie man of Scotland.
[10]Inch—low meadow ground near a river.
[10]Inch—low meadow ground near a river.
[11]A ford of the river Funcheon (the Fanchin of Spenser,) on the road leading from Fermoy to Araglin.
[11]A ford of the river Funcheon (the Fanchin of Spenser,) on the road leading from Fermoy to Araglin.
[12]i. e.“In the time of a crack of a whip,” he took off his shoes and stockings.
[12]i. e.“In the time of a crack of a whip,” he took off his shoes and stockings.
[13]About two hundred yards off the Dublin mail-coach road, nearly mid-way between Kilworth and Fermoy.
[13]About two hundred yards off the Dublin mail-coach road, nearly mid-way between Kilworth and Fermoy.
[14]“Kilmallock seemed to me like the court of the Queen of Silence.”—O’Keefe’s Recollections.
[14]“Kilmallock seemed to me like the court of the Queen of Silence.”—O’Keefe’s Recollections.
[15]“Nulla manus,Tam liberalisAtque generalisAtque universalisQuam Sullivanis.”
[15]
“Nulla manus,Tam liberalisAtque generalisAtque universalisQuam Sullivanis.”
“Nulla manus,Tam liberalisAtque generalisAtque universalisQuam Sullivanis.”
[16]In the county of Galway.
[16]In the county of Galway.
[17]In the county of Limerick.
[17]In the county of Limerick.
[18]Spancelled—fettered.
[18]Spancelled—fettered.
[19]“The neighbouring inhabitants,” says Dr. Smith, in his History of Kerry, speaking of Ballyheigh, “show some rocks visible in this bay only at low tides, which, they say, are the remains of an island, that was formerly the burial-place of the family of Cantillon, the ancient proprietors of Ballyheigh.” p. 210.
[19]“The neighbouring inhabitants,” says Dr. Smith, in his History of Kerry, speaking of Ballyheigh, “show some rocks visible in this bay only at low tides, which, they say, are the remains of an island, that was formerly the burial-place of the family of Cantillon, the ancient proprietors of Ballyheigh.” p. 210.
[20]The remains of Dunkerron Caslle are distant about a mile from the village of Kenmare, in the county of Kerry. It is recorded to have been built in 1596, by Owen O’Sullivan More.—[More, is merely an epithet signifyingthe Great.]
[20]The remains of Dunkerron Caslle are distant about a mile from the village of Kenmare, in the county of Kerry. It is recorded to have been built in 1596, by Owen O’Sullivan More.—[More, is merely an epithet signifyingthe Great.]
[21]This is almost a literal translation of a Rann in the well-known song of Deardra.
[21]This is almost a literal translation of a Rann in the well-known song of Deardra.
[22]My little girl.
[22]My little girl.
[23]A monotonous song; a drowsy humming noise.
[23]A monotonous song; a drowsy humming noise.
[24]Give me a kiss, my young girl.
[24]Give me a kiss, my young girl.
[25]Faced, so written by the Chantrey of Kilcrea, for “fecit.”
[25]Faced, so written by the Chantrey of Kilcrea, for “fecit.”
[26]A splinter, or slip of bog-deal, which, being dipped in tallow, is used as a candle.
[26]A splinter, or slip of bog-deal, which, being dipped in tallow, is used as a candle.
[27]Siesteen is a low block-like seat, made of straw bands firmly sewed or bound together.
[27]Siesteen is a low block-like seat, made of straw bands firmly sewed or bound together.
[28]See Weld’s Killarney, 8vo ed. p. 228.
[28]See Weld’s Killarney, 8vo ed. p. 228.
[29]Orslaib; mire on the sea strand or river’s bank.—O’Brien.
[29]Orslaib; mire on the sea strand or river’s bank.—O’Brien.
[30]Labbig—bed, fromLeaba.—VideO’BrienandO’Reilly.
[30]Labbig—bed, fromLeaba.—VideO’BrienandO’Reilly.
[31]“I’non mori, e non rimasi vivo:Pensa oramai per te, s’hai fior d’ingegnoQual io divenni d’uno e d’altro privo.”Dante,Inferno, canto 34.
[31]
“I’non mori, e non rimasi vivo:Pensa oramai per te, s’hai fior d’ingegnoQual io divenni d’uno e d’altro privo.”Dante,Inferno, canto 34.
“I’non mori, e non rimasi vivo:Pensa oramai per te, s’hai fior d’ingegnoQual io divenni d’uno e d’altro privo.”Dante,Inferno, canto 34.
[32]An English shilling was thirteen pence, Irish currency.
[32]An English shilling was thirteen pence, Irish currency.
[33]Children.
[33]Children.
[34]Tighearna—a lord. VideO’Brien.
[34]Tighearna—a lord. VideO’Brien.