It is no use for me to be saying it,Seeing your kinship with Donough-of-the-priestAnd with Owen-of-the-cards his father,With the people who used to cut off headsTo put them into leather bags,To bring them down with them to the city,And to bring home the gold they got for them,For sustenance for wives and children.
It is no use for me to be saying it,Seeing your kinship with Donough-of-the-priestAnd with Owen-of-the-cards his father,With the people who used to cut off headsTo put them into leather bags,To bring them down with them to the city,And to bring home the gold they got for them,For sustenance for wives and children.
It is no use for me to be saying it,Seeing your kinship with Donough-of-the-priestAnd with Owen-of-the-cards his father,With the people who used to cut off headsTo put them into leather bags,To bring them down with them to the city,And to bring home the gold they got for them,For sustenance for wives and children.
It will be noticed that it was Mary Mother who put the curing of the Blind into this well, and Owen O Duffy, the poet, says of her that she is
A woman who put a hedge round every country.A woman to whom right inclines.A woman greatest in strength and power,A woman softest (i.e., most generous) about red gold.A woman by whom is quenched the anger of the king.A woman who gives sight to the blind.
A woman who put a hedge round every country.A woman to whom right inclines.A woman greatest in strength and power,A woman softest (i.e., most generous) about red gold.A woman by whom is quenched the anger of the king.A woman who gives sight to the blind.
A woman who put a hedge round every country.A woman to whom right inclines.A woman greatest in strength and power,A woman softest (i.e., most generous) about red gold.A woman by whom is quenched the anger of the king.A woman who gives sight to the blind.
For the Irish text of this story, see "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol. I., p. 111.
The abbey where the holy well broke out was, according to some, founded by Cathal O Conor in 1216, for the Augustinians, and was dedicated to the Holy Trinity.
THE STORY.
Long ago there was a blessed well in Ballintubber (i.e., town of the well), in the county Mayo. There was once a monastery in the place where the well is now, and it was on the spot where stood the altar of the monastery that the well broke out. The monastery was on the side of a hill, but when Cromwell and his band of destroyers came to this country, they overthrew the monastery, and never left stone on top of stone in the altar that they did not throw down.
A year from the day that they threw down the altar—that was Lady Day in spring—the well broke out on the site of the altar, and it is a wonderful thing to say, that there was not one drop of water in the stream that was at the foot of the hill from the day that the well broke out.
There was a poor friar going the road the same day, and he went out of his way to say a prayer upon the site of theblessed altar, and there was great wonder on him when he saw a fine well in its place. He fell on his knees and began to say his paternoster, when he heard a voice saying: "Put off your brogues, you are upon blessed ground, you are on the brink of Mary's Well, and there is the curing of thousands of blind in it; there shall be a person cured by the water of that well for every person who heard mass in front of the altar that was in the place where the well is now, if they be dipped three times in it, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit."
When the friar had his prayers said, he looked up and saw a large white dove upon a fir tree near him. It was the dove who was speaking. The friar was dressed in false clothes, because there was a price on his head, as great as would be on the head of a wild-dog [wolf].
At any rate, he proclaimed the story to the people of the little village, and it was not long till it went out through the country. It was a poor place, and the people in it had nothing [to live in] but huts, and these filled with smoke. On that account there were a great many weak-eyed people amongst them. With the dawn, on the next day, there were above forty people at Mary's Well, and there was never man nor woman of them but came back with good sight.
The fame of Mary's Well went through the country, and it was not long till there were pilgrims from every county coming to it, and nobody went back without being cured; and at the end of a little time even people from other countries used to be coming to it.
There was an unbeliever living near Mary's Well. Itwas a gentleman he was, and he did not believe in the cure. He said there was nothing in it but pishtrogues (charms), and to make a mock of the people he brought a blind ass, that he had, to the well, and he dipped its head under the water. The ass got its sight, but the scoffer was brought home as blind as the sole of your shoe.
At the end of a year it so happened that there was a priest working as a gardener with the gentleman who was blind. The priest was dressed like a workman, and nobody at all knew that it was a priest who was in it. One day the gentleman was sickly, and he asked his servant to take him out into the garden. When he came to the place where the priest was working he sat down. "Isn't it a great pity," says he, "that I cannot see my fine garden?"
The gardener took compassion on him, and said, "I know where there is a man who would cure you, but there is a price on his head on account of his religion."
"I give my word that I'll do no spying on him, and I'll pay him well for his trouble," said the gentleman.
"But perhaps you would not like to go through the mode of curing that he has," says the gardener.
"I don't care what mode he has, if he gives me my sight," said the gentleman.
Now, the gentleman had an evil character, because he betrayed a number of priests before that. Bingham was the name that was on him. However, the priest took courage and said, "Let your coach be ready on to-morrow morning, and I will drive you to the place of the cure; neither coachman nor anyone else may be present butmyself, and do not tell to anyone at all where you are going, or give anyone a knowledge of what is your business."
On the morning of the next day Bingham's coach was ready, and he himself got into it, with the gardener driving him. "Do you remain at home this time," says he to the coachman, "and the gardener will drive me." The coachman was a villain, and there was jealousy on him. He conceived the idea of watching the coach to see what way they were to go. His blessed vestments were on the priest, inside of his other clothes. When they came to Mary's Well the priest said to him, "I am going to get back your sight for you in the place where you lost it." Then he dipped him three times in the well, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, and his sight came to him as well as ever it was.
"I'll give you a hundred pounds," said Bingham, "as soon as I go home."
The coachman was watching, and as soon as he saw the priest in his blessed vestments, he went to the people of the law, and betrayed the priest. He was taken and hanged, without judge, without judgment. The man who was after getting back his sight could have saved the priest, but he did not speak a word in his behalf.
About a month after this another priest came to Bingham, and he dressed like a gardener, and he asked work of Bingham, and got it from him; but he was not long in his service until an evil thing happened to Bingham. He went out one day walking through his fields, and theremet him a good-looking girl, the daughter of a poor man, and he assaulted her and left her half dead. The girl had three brothers, and they took an oath that they would kill him as soon as they could get hold of him. They had not long to wait. They caught him in the same place where he assaulted the girl, and hanged him on a tree, and left him there hanging.
On the morning of the next day millions of flies were gathered like a great hill round about the tree, and nobody could go near it on account of the foul smell that was round the place, and anyone who would go near it the midges would blind them.
Bingham's wife and son offered a hundred pounds to anyone who would bring out the body. A good many people made an effort to do that, but they were not able. They got dust to shake on the flies, and boughs of trees to beat them with, but they were not able to scatter them, nor to go as far as the tree. The foul smell was getting worse, and the neighbours were afraid that the flies and noisome corpse would bring a plague upon them.
The second priest was at this time a gardener with Bingham, but the people of the house did not know that it was a priest who was in it, for if the people of the law or the spies knew, they would take and hang him. The Catholics went to Bingham's wife and told her that they knew a man who would banish the flies. "Bring him to me," said she, "and if he is able to banish the flies, that is not the reward he'll get, but seven times as much."
"But," said they, "if the people of the law knew, they would take him and hang him, as they hung the man who got back the sight of his eyes for him before." "But,"said she, "could not he banish the flies without the knowledge of the people of the law?"
"We don't know," said they, "until we take counsel with him."
That night they took counsel with the priest and told him what Bingham's wife said.
"I have only an earthly life to lose," said the priest, "and I shall give it up for the sake of the poor people, for there will be a plague in the country unless I banish the flies. On to-morrow morning I shall make an attempt to banish them in the name of God, and I have hope and confidence in God that he will save me from my enemies. Go to the lady now, and tell her that I shall be near the tree at sunrise to-morrow morning, and tell her to have men ready to put the corpse in the grave."
They went to the lady and told her all the priest said.
"If it succeeds with him," said she, "I shall have the reward ready for him, and I shall order seven men to be present."
The priest spent that night in prayer, and half an hour before sunrise he went to the place where his blessed vestments were hidden; he put these on, and with a cross in one hand, and with holy-water in the other, he went to the place where were the flies. He then began reading out of his book and scattering holy-water on the flies, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. The hill of flies rose, and flew up into the air, and made the heaven as dark as night. The people did not know where they went, but at the end of half an hour there was not one of them to be seen.
There was great joy on the people, but it was not long till they saw the spy coming, and they called to the priest to run away as quick as it was in him to run. The priest gave to the butts (took to his heels), and the spy followed him, and a knife in each hand with him. When he was not able to come up with the priest he flung the knife after him. As the knife was flying out past the priest's shoulder he put up his left hand and caught it, and without ever looking behind him he flung it back. It struck the man and went through his heart, so that he fell dead and the priest went free.
The people got the body of Bingham and buried it in the grave, but when they went to bury the body of the spy they found thousands of rats round about it, and there was not a morsel of flesh on his bones that they had not eaten. They would not stir from the body, and the people were not able to rout them away, so that they had to leave the bones over-ground.
The priest hid away his blessed vestments and was working in the garden when Bingham's wife sent for him, and told him to take the reward that was for banishing the flies, and to give it to the man who banished them, if he knew him.
"I do know him, and he told me to bring him the reward to-night, because he has the intention of leaving the country before the law-people hang him."
"Here it is for you," said she, as she handed him a purse of gold.
On the morning of the next day the priest went to the brink of the sea, and found a ship that was going to France. He went on board, and as soon as he had leftthe harbour he put his priest's-clothes on him, and gave thanks to God for bringing him safe. We do not know what happened to him from that out.
After that, blind and sore-eyed people used to be coming to Mary's Well, and not a person of them ever returned without being cured. But there never yet was anything good in this country that was not spoilt by somebody, and the well was spoilt in this way.
There was a girl in Ballintubber and she was about to be married, when there came a half-blind old woman to her asking alms in the honour of God and Mary.
"I've nothing to give to an old blind-thing of a hag, it's bothered with them I am," said the girl.
"That the marriage ring may never go on you until you're as blind as myself," says the old woman.
Next day, in the morning, the young girl's eyes were sore, and the morning after that she was nearly blind, and the neighbours said to her that she ought to go to Mary's Well.
In the morning, early, she rose up and went to the well, but what should she see at it but the old woman who asked the alms of her, sitting on the brink, combing her head over the blessed well.
"Destruction on you, you nasty hag, is it dirtying Mary's Well you are?" said the girl. "Get out of that or I'll break your neck."
"You have no honour nor regard for God or Mary, you refused to give alms in honour of them, and for that reason you shall not dip yourself in the well."
The girl caught a hold of the hag trying to pull herfrom the well, and with the dragging that was between them, the two of them fell into the well and were drowned.
From that day to this there has been no cure in the well.
PREFACE.
I heard this story from a workman of the late Mr. Redington Roche, of Rye Hill (in Irish, Druim an tseagail) near Monivea, Co. Galway. It was in Irish prose, but it reminded me so strongly of those strange semi-comic mediæval moralities common at an early date to most European languages—such pieces as Goethe has imitated in his poem of "St. Peter and the Horse Shoe"—that I could not resist the temptation to turn it into rhyme. I have heard a story something like this in the County Tipperary, only that it was told in English. This story is the reason (I think the narrator added) of the well-known proverbial rann:
Four clerks who are not covetousFour Frenchmen who are not yellow,Four shoemakers who are not liars,Those are a dozen who are not in the country.
Four clerks who are not covetousFour Frenchmen who are not yellow,Four shoemakers who are not liars,Those are a dozen who are not in the country.
Four clerks who are not covetousFour Frenchmen who are not yellow,Four shoemakers who are not liars,Those are a dozen who are not in the country.
More than one piece of both English and French literature founded upon the same motif as this story will occur to the reader. The original will be found at p. 161 of "The Religious Songs of Connacht," vol I.
THE STORY
As once our Saviour and St. PeterWere walking over the hills together,In a lonesome place that was by the sea,Beside the border of Galilee,Just as the sun to set beganWhom should they meet but a poor old man!His coat was ragged, his hat was torn,He seemed most wretched and forlorn,Penury stared in his haggard eyeAnd he asked an alms as they passed him by.Peter had only a copper or two,So he looked to see what the Lord would do.The man was trembling—it seemed to him—With hunger and cold in every limb.But, nevertheless, our Lord looked grave,He turned away and he nothing gave.And Peter was vexed awhile at thatAnd wondered what our Lord was at,Because he had thought him much too goodTo ever refuse a man for food.But though he wondered he nothing said,Nor asked the cause, for he was afraid.It happened that the following dayThey both returned that very way,And whom should they meet where the man had beenBut a highway robber gaunt and lean!And in his belt a naked sword—For an alms he, too, besought the Lord."He's a fool," thought Peter, "to cross us thus,He won't get anything from us."But Peter was seized with such surpriseHe scarcely could believe his eyes,When he saw the Master, without a word,Give to the man who had the sword.After the man was gone againHis wonder Peter could not restrainBut turning to our Saviour said:"Master, the man who asked for bread,The poor old man of yesterday,Why did you turn from him away?But to this robber, this shameless thief,Give, when he asked you for relief.I thought it most strange foryouto do;We needn't have feared him, we were two.I have a sword here, as you see,And could have used it as well as he;And I am taller by a span,For he was only a little man.""Peter," said the Lord, "you seeThings but as theyseemto be.Look within and see behind,Know the heart and read the mind,'Tis not long before you knowWhy it was I acted so."After this it chanced one dayOur Lord and Peter went astray.Wandering on a mountain wide.Nothing but waste on every side.Worn with hunger, faint with thirst,Peter followed, the Lord went first.Then began a heavy rain,Lightning gleamed and gleamed again,Another deluge poured from heaven,The slanting hail swept tempest-driven.Then when fainting, frozen, spent,A man came towards them through the bent.And Peter trembled with cold and fright,When he knew again the robber wight.But the robber brought them to his cave,And what he had he freely gave.He brought them wine, he gave them bread,He strewed them rushes for a bed.He lent them both a clean attireAnd dried their clothes before the fire,And when they rose the following dayHe gave them victuals for the way,And never left them till he showedAnd put them on the straightest road."The Master was right," thought Peter then,"The robber is better than better men.There's many an honest man," thought he,"Who never did as much for me."They had not left the robber's groundAbove an hour, when, lo, they foundA man upon the mountain trackLying dead upon his back.And Peter soon, with much surprise,The beggarman did recognize."Ochone!" thought Peter, "we had no rightTo refuse him alms the other night.He's dead from the cold and want of food,And we're partly guilty of his blood.""Peter," said our Lord, "go nowFeel his pockets and let us knowWhat he has within his coat."Peter turned them inside out,And found within the lining plentyOf silver coins, and of gold ones twenty."My Lord," said Peter, "now I knowWhy it was you acted so.Whatever you say or do with men,I never will think you wrong again.""Peter," said our Saviour, "takeAnd throw those coins in yonder lake,That none may fish them up again,For money is often the curse of men."Peter gathered the coins together.And crossed to the lake through bog and heather.But he thought in his mind "It's a real sinTo be flinging this lovely money in.We're often hungry, we're often cold,And money is money—I'll keep the goldTo spend on the Master, he needs the pelf,For he's very neglectful of himself."Then down with a splash does Peter throwThesilvercoins to the lake below,And hopes our Lord from the splash would thinkHe had thrown the whole from off the brink.And then before our Lord he stoodAnd looked as innocent as he could.Our Lord said: "Peter, regard your soul;Are you sure you have now thrown in the whole?""Yes, all," said Peter, "is gone below,But a few gold pieces I wouldn't throw,Since I thought we might find them very goodFor a sup to drink, or a bite of food.Because our own are nearly out,And they're inconvenient to do without.But, if you wish it, of course I'll goAnd fling the rest of the lot below.""Ah, Peter, Peter," said our Lord,"You should have obeyed me at my word.For a greedy man you are I see,And a greedy man you will ever be;A covetous man you are of gain,And a covetous man you will remain."So that's the reason, as I've been told,All clergy are since so fond of gold.
As once our Saviour and St. PeterWere walking over the hills together,In a lonesome place that was by the sea,Beside the border of Galilee,Just as the sun to set beganWhom should they meet but a poor old man!His coat was ragged, his hat was torn,He seemed most wretched and forlorn,Penury stared in his haggard eyeAnd he asked an alms as they passed him by.Peter had only a copper or two,So he looked to see what the Lord would do.The man was trembling—it seemed to him—With hunger and cold in every limb.But, nevertheless, our Lord looked grave,He turned away and he nothing gave.And Peter was vexed awhile at thatAnd wondered what our Lord was at,Because he had thought him much too goodTo ever refuse a man for food.But though he wondered he nothing said,Nor asked the cause, for he was afraid.It happened that the following dayThey both returned that very way,And whom should they meet where the man had beenBut a highway robber gaunt and lean!And in his belt a naked sword—For an alms he, too, besought the Lord."He's a fool," thought Peter, "to cross us thus,He won't get anything from us."But Peter was seized with such surpriseHe scarcely could believe his eyes,When he saw the Master, without a word,Give to the man who had the sword.After the man was gone againHis wonder Peter could not restrainBut turning to our Saviour said:"Master, the man who asked for bread,The poor old man of yesterday,Why did you turn from him away?But to this robber, this shameless thief,Give, when he asked you for relief.I thought it most strange foryouto do;We needn't have feared him, we were two.I have a sword here, as you see,And could have used it as well as he;And I am taller by a span,For he was only a little man.""Peter," said the Lord, "you seeThings but as theyseemto be.Look within and see behind,Know the heart and read the mind,'Tis not long before you knowWhy it was I acted so."After this it chanced one dayOur Lord and Peter went astray.Wandering on a mountain wide.Nothing but waste on every side.Worn with hunger, faint with thirst,Peter followed, the Lord went first.Then began a heavy rain,Lightning gleamed and gleamed again,Another deluge poured from heaven,The slanting hail swept tempest-driven.Then when fainting, frozen, spent,A man came towards them through the bent.And Peter trembled with cold and fright,When he knew again the robber wight.But the robber brought them to his cave,And what he had he freely gave.He brought them wine, he gave them bread,He strewed them rushes for a bed.He lent them both a clean attireAnd dried their clothes before the fire,And when they rose the following dayHe gave them victuals for the way,And never left them till he showedAnd put them on the straightest road."The Master was right," thought Peter then,"The robber is better than better men.There's many an honest man," thought he,"Who never did as much for me."They had not left the robber's groundAbove an hour, when, lo, they foundA man upon the mountain trackLying dead upon his back.And Peter soon, with much surprise,The beggarman did recognize."Ochone!" thought Peter, "we had no rightTo refuse him alms the other night.He's dead from the cold and want of food,And we're partly guilty of his blood.""Peter," said our Lord, "go nowFeel his pockets and let us knowWhat he has within his coat."Peter turned them inside out,And found within the lining plentyOf silver coins, and of gold ones twenty."My Lord," said Peter, "now I knowWhy it was you acted so.Whatever you say or do with men,I never will think you wrong again.""Peter," said our Saviour, "takeAnd throw those coins in yonder lake,That none may fish them up again,For money is often the curse of men."Peter gathered the coins together.And crossed to the lake through bog and heather.But he thought in his mind "It's a real sinTo be flinging this lovely money in.We're often hungry, we're often cold,And money is money—I'll keep the goldTo spend on the Master, he needs the pelf,For he's very neglectful of himself."Then down with a splash does Peter throwThesilvercoins to the lake below,And hopes our Lord from the splash would thinkHe had thrown the whole from off the brink.And then before our Lord he stoodAnd looked as innocent as he could.Our Lord said: "Peter, regard your soul;Are you sure you have now thrown in the whole?""Yes, all," said Peter, "is gone below,But a few gold pieces I wouldn't throw,Since I thought we might find them very goodFor a sup to drink, or a bite of food.Because our own are nearly out,And they're inconvenient to do without.But, if you wish it, of course I'll goAnd fling the rest of the lot below.""Ah, Peter, Peter," said our Lord,"You should have obeyed me at my word.For a greedy man you are I see,And a greedy man you will ever be;A covetous man you are of gain,And a covetous man you will remain."So that's the reason, as I've been told,All clergy are since so fond of gold.
As once our Saviour and St. PeterWere walking over the hills together,In a lonesome place that was by the sea,Beside the border of Galilee,Just as the sun to set beganWhom should they meet but a poor old man!
His coat was ragged, his hat was torn,He seemed most wretched and forlorn,Penury stared in his haggard eyeAnd he asked an alms as they passed him by.
Peter had only a copper or two,So he looked to see what the Lord would do.The man was trembling—it seemed to him—With hunger and cold in every limb.But, nevertheless, our Lord looked grave,He turned away and he nothing gave.And Peter was vexed awhile at thatAnd wondered what our Lord was at,Because he had thought him much too goodTo ever refuse a man for food.But though he wondered he nothing said,Nor asked the cause, for he was afraid.
It happened that the following dayThey both returned that very way,And whom should they meet where the man had beenBut a highway robber gaunt and lean!And in his belt a naked sword—For an alms he, too, besought the Lord."He's a fool," thought Peter, "to cross us thus,He won't get anything from us."But Peter was seized with such surpriseHe scarcely could believe his eyes,When he saw the Master, without a word,Give to the man who had the sword.
After the man was gone againHis wonder Peter could not restrainBut turning to our Saviour said:"Master, the man who asked for bread,The poor old man of yesterday,Why did you turn from him away?But to this robber, this shameless thief,Give, when he asked you for relief.I thought it most strange foryouto do;We needn't have feared him, we were two.I have a sword here, as you see,And could have used it as well as he;And I am taller by a span,For he was only a little man."
"Peter," said the Lord, "you seeThings but as theyseemto be.Look within and see behind,Know the heart and read the mind,'Tis not long before you knowWhy it was I acted so."
After this it chanced one dayOur Lord and Peter went astray.Wandering on a mountain wide.Nothing but waste on every side.Worn with hunger, faint with thirst,Peter followed, the Lord went first.Then began a heavy rain,Lightning gleamed and gleamed again,Another deluge poured from heaven,The slanting hail swept tempest-driven.Then when fainting, frozen, spent,A man came towards them through the bent.And Peter trembled with cold and fright,When he knew again the robber wight.But the robber brought them to his cave,And what he had he freely gave.He brought them wine, he gave them bread,He strewed them rushes for a bed.He lent them both a clean attireAnd dried their clothes before the fire,And when they rose the following dayHe gave them victuals for the way,And never left them till he showedAnd put them on the straightest road.
"The Master was right," thought Peter then,"The robber is better than better men.There's many an honest man," thought he,"Who never did as much for me."
They had not left the robber's groundAbove an hour, when, lo, they foundA man upon the mountain trackLying dead upon his back.And Peter soon, with much surprise,The beggarman did recognize."Ochone!" thought Peter, "we had no rightTo refuse him alms the other night.He's dead from the cold and want of food,And we're partly guilty of his blood.""Peter," said our Lord, "go nowFeel his pockets and let us knowWhat he has within his coat."Peter turned them inside out,And found within the lining plentyOf silver coins, and of gold ones twenty."My Lord," said Peter, "now I knowWhy it was you acted so.Whatever you say or do with men,I never will think you wrong again.""Peter," said our Saviour, "takeAnd throw those coins in yonder lake,That none may fish them up again,For money is often the curse of men."
Peter gathered the coins together.And crossed to the lake through bog and heather.But he thought in his mind "It's a real sinTo be flinging this lovely money in.We're often hungry, we're often cold,And money is money—I'll keep the goldTo spend on the Master, he needs the pelf,For he's very neglectful of himself."Then down with a splash does Peter throwThesilvercoins to the lake below,And hopes our Lord from the splash would thinkHe had thrown the whole from off the brink.And then before our Lord he stoodAnd looked as innocent as he could.
Our Lord said: "Peter, regard your soul;Are you sure you have now thrown in the whole?""Yes, all," said Peter, "is gone below,But a few gold pieces I wouldn't throw,Since I thought we might find them very goodFor a sup to drink, or a bite of food.Because our own are nearly out,And they're inconvenient to do without.But, if you wish it, of course I'll goAnd fling the rest of the lot below."
"Ah, Peter, Peter," said our Lord,"You should have obeyed me at my word.For a greedy man you are I see,And a greedy man you will ever be;A covetous man you are of gain,And a covetous man you will remain."
So that's the reason, as I've been told,All clergy are since so fond of gold.
PREFACE.
This story was told by my friend, Mr. Peter McGinley, who printed it in 1897 in the "Gaelic Journal" of that year. He told me that though the story came from the Irish speaking part of the country it was in English it was first repeated to him when he was a young boy, and he retold it in Irish, without any change in the story itself. He says that he feels sure it is just as he heard it. The story comes from Gleann Domhain, which is near Gartan, in Donegal, celebrated as the birthplace of Colmcille, and Cnoc Mhaoilruandha is near at hand, and the lake is a little below it. The proverb, "as I have burned the candle I'll burn the inch," does not, he says, always signify impenitence, but means rather to hold out in any course, good or evil, until the last. The name Maolruanadha, which I have shortened into Mulruana, is variously anglicised Mulroney and Moroney. This story may remind the reader a little of Lewis's "Monk."
THE STORY.
On this side of Glen Domhain, there is a little hill whose name is Mulroney's Hill, and this is the reason why it was given that name.
In old times there was a man living in a little house on the side of the hill, and Mulruana was his name. He was a pious holy man, and hated the world's vanitiesso much that he became a hermit, and he was always alone in that house, without anyone in his neighbourhood. He used to be always praying and subduing himself. He used to drink nothing but water, and used to eat nothing but berries and the wild roots which he used to get in the mountains and throughout the glens. His fame and reputation were going through the country for the holy earnest life that he was living.
However, great jealousy seized the Adversary at the piety of this man, and he sent many evil spirits to put temptations on him. But on account of all his prayers and piety it failed those evil-spirits to get the victory over him, so that they all returned back to hell with the report of the steadfastness and loyalty of Mulruana in the service of God.
Then great anger seized Satan, so that he sent further demons, each more powerful than the other, to put temptation on Mulruana. Not one of them succeeded in even coming near the hut of the holy man. Nor did it fare any better with them whenever he came outside, for he used always to be attentive to his prayers and ever musing on holy things. Then every evil-spirit of them used to go back to hell and used to tell the devil that there was no use contending with Mulruana, for that God himself and His angels were keeping him and giving him help.
That account made Satan mad entirely, so that he determined at last to go himself, hoping to destroy Mulruana, and to draw him out of the proper path. Accordingly he came one evening at nightfall, in the guise of a young woman, and asked the good man for lodging. Mulruanarudely refused the pretended woman, and banished her away from his door, although he felt a compassion for her because the night was wet and stormy, and he thought that the girl was without house and shelter from the rain and cold. But what the woman did was to go round to the back of the house and play music, and it was the sweetest and most melancholy music that man ever heard.
Because Mulruana had had a pity for the poor girl at the first, he listened now to her music, and took great delight in it, and had much joy of it, but he did not allow her into his hut. At the hour of midnight the devil went back to hell, but he had a shrewd notion that he had won the game and that he had caught the holy man. Mulruana had quiet during the remainder of the night, but instead of continuing at his prayers, as was his custom, he spent the end of the night, almost till the dawn of day, thinking of the beauty of the girl and of the sweetness of her music.
The day after that the devil came at the fall of night in the same likeness, and again asked lodging of Mulruana. Mulruana refused that, although he did not like to do it, but he remembered the vow he had made never to let a woman or a girl into his hut. The pretended woman went round to the back of the house, and she was playing music that was like fairy music until it was twelve o'clock, when she had to go away with herself to hell. The man inside was listening to the playing and taking great delight in it, and when she ceased there came over him melancholy and trouble of mind. He never slept a wink that night, and he never said a word of his prayers either,but eagerly thinking[17]of the young woman, and his heart going astray with the beauty of her form and the sweetness of her voice.
On the morning of the next day Mulruana rose from his bed, and it is likely that it was the whisper of an angel he heard, because he remembered that it was not right for him to pay such heed to a girl and to forget his prayers. He bowed his knees and began to pray strongly and earnestly, and made a firm resolve that he would not think more about the girl, and that he would not listen to her music. But, after all, he did not succeed in obtaining a complete victory over his thoughts concerning the young woman, and consequently he was between two notions until the evening came.
When the night was well dark the Adversary came again in the shape of the girl, and she even more beautiful and more lovely than she was before, and asked the man for a night's lodging. He remembered his vow and the resolve he had made that day in the morning, and he refused her, and threatened her that she should not come again to trouble him, and he drove her away with rough sharp words, and with a stern, churlish countenance, as though there were a great anger on him. He went into his hut and the girl remained near the hut outside, and she weeping and lamenting and shedding tears.
When Mulruana saw the girl weeping and keening piteously he conceived a great pity for her, and compassion for her came to him, and desire, and he did not free his heart from those evil inclinations, since he hadnot made his prayers on that day with a heart as pure as had been his wont, and he listened willingly and gladly. It was not long until he came out, himself, in spite of his vow and his good resolutions, and invited the pretended woman to come into his hut. Small delay she made in going in!
It was then the King of Grace took pity at this man being lost without giving him time to amend himself, since he had ever been truly pious, diligent, humane, well disposed and of good works, until this great temptation came over him. For that reason God sent an angel to him with a message to ask him to repent. The angel came to Mulruana's house and went inside. Then the devil leapt to his feet, uttered a fearful screech, changed his colour, his shape, and his appearance. His own devilish form and demoniac appearance came upon him. He turned away from the angel like a person blinded with a great shining or blaze of light, and went out of the hut.
His senses nearly departed from Mulruana with the terror that overcame him. When he came to himself again the angel made clear to him how great was the sin to which he had given way, and how God had sent him to him to ask him to repent. But Mulruana never believed a word he said. He knew that it was the devil who had been in his company in the guise of a young woman. He remembered the sin to which he had consented, so that he considered himself to be so guilty that it would be impossible for him ever to obtain forgiveness from God. He thought that it was deceiving him the angel was, when he spoke of repentance and forgiveness.The angel was patient with him and spoke gently. He told him of the love and friendship of God and how He would never refuse forgiveness to the truly penitent, no matter how heavy his share of sins. Mulruana did not listen to him, but a drowning-man's-cry issued out of his mouth always, that he was lost, and he ever-cursing God, the devil and himself. The angel never ceased, but entreating and beseeching him to turn to God and make repentance—but it was no use for him. Mulruana was as hard and as stubborn as he was before, all the time taking great oaths and blaspheming God.
All the time the angel was speaking he had the appearance of a burning candle in his hand. At long last, when the candle was burnt all but about an inch, a gloom fell over the countenance of the angel and he stood out from Mulruana, and threatened him, and told him that his term of grace was almost expired, and, said he, unless you make repentance before this inch of candle is burnt away, God will grant you no more respite, and you will be damned for ever.
Then there came silence on Mulruana for a while, as though he were about to follow the advice of the angel. But then on the spot he thought of the sin that he had done. On that, despair seized him, and the answer he gave the angel was, "as I have burned the candle I'll burn the inch." Then the angel spoke to him with a loud and terrible voice, announcing to him that he was now indeed accursed of God, and, said he, "thou shalt die to-morrow of thirst." Mulruana answered him with no submission, and said, "O lying angel, I know now that you are deceiving me. Itis impossible that I should die of thirst in this place, and so much water round about me. There is, outside there, a well of spring water that was never dry, and there is a stream beside the gable of the house which would turn the wheel of a great mill no matter how dry the summer day, and down there is Loch Beithe on which a fleet of ships might float. It is a great folly for you to say that anybody could die of thirst in this place." But the angel departed from him without an answer.
Mulruana went to lie down after that, but, if he did, he never slept a wink through great trouble of spirit. Next morning, on his rising early, the sharpest thirst that man ever felt came upon him. He leapt out of his bed and went to the stoap [pail] for water, but there was not a drop in it. Out with him then to the well, but he did not find a drop there either. He turned on his foot towards the stream that was beside the house, but it was dry before him down to the gravel. The banks and the pebbles in the middle of it were as dry as though they had never seen a drop of water for a year. Mulruana remembered then the prophecy of the angel and he started. A quaking of terror came upon him, and his thirst was growing every moment. He went running at full speed to Loch Beithe, but when he came to the brink of the lake he uttered one awful cry and fell in a heap on the ground. Loch Beithe too was dry before him.
That is how a cowherd found him the next day, lying on the brink of the lake, his eyes starting out of his head, his tongue stretched out of his throat, and a lump of white froth round his mouth. His awful appearance was such that fear would not let the people go near him to buryhim, and his body was left there until birds of prey and wild dogs took it away with them.
That is how it happened Mulruana as a consequence of his sin, his impenitence, and his despair, and that is the reason why it is not right for any one to use the old saying, "As I've burnt the candle I'll burn the inch," and yonder is "Cnoc Mhaoilruanadha," Mulruana's Hill, as a witness to the truth of this story.
PREFACE.
The Stone of Truth is as old as the times of the Druids. The celebrated Lia Fail was a stone of truth. Certain stones were oracles in old times. There was a stone in Oriel, and a celebrated stone called Cloeh Labhrais in the south which were oracular. A man who suspected his wife made her stand upon the southern stone to swear that she had not wronged him. She spied a man she knew too well far away upon the mountain, and swore she had never done anything she ought not to have done—no more than with that man on the skyline. The heart of the stone was broken with this equivocation, and it burst asunder exclaiming[uncial: bionn an fírinne féin searbh], "even truth itself is bitter."
The idea is Pagan, but this story is motivated in a Christian manner, by alleging that the stone derived its miraculous power from St. Patrick's having knelt on it in prayer. I got this story from Francis O'Conor. For the original Irish, see "Religious Songs of Connacht," vol. II., p. 230.
THE STORY.
There was a man in it, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, whose name was Páidin[18]O Ciarbháin [Keerwaun, or Kerwin] and he was living close to Cong in West Connacht. Páidin was a strange man; he did not believe in God or in anything about him. It's often the priest thought to bringhim to Mass, but it was no use for him, for Páidin would not take the advice of priest or bishop. He believed that man was like the beast, and he believed that when man died there was no more about him.
Páidin lived an evil life; he used to be going from house to house by day, and stealing in the night.
Now, at the time that St. Patrick was in West Connacht seeking to make Christians of the Pagans, he went down one day upon his knees, on a great flag stone, to utter prayers, and he left after him a great virtue in the same stone, for anybody who might speak above that stone, it was necessary for him to tell the clear truth, he could not tell a lie, and for that reason the people gave the name to that flag of the Stone of Truth.
Páidin used always to have a great fear of this stone, and it's often he intended to steal it. One night when he found an opportunity he hoisted the stone on his back, took it away with him, and threw it down into a great valley between two hills, seven miles from the place where it used to be, and the rogue thought that he was all right; but the stone was back in its old place that same night without his knowing.
Another night after that he stole the geese of the parish priest, and as the people doubted him, they said that they would bring him to the Stone of Truth. Páidin was laughing in his own mind, for he knew that he had the stone stolen; but great was the surprise that was on him when he saw the stone before him in its own place. When he was put above the stone he was obliged to tell that he had stolen the geese, and he got a great beating from the priest. He made a firm resolution then that if he gotan opportunity at the stone again, he would put it in a place that it would never come out of.
A couple of nights after that he got his opportunity again, and stole the stone a second time. He threw it down into a great deep hole, and he went home rejoicing in himself. But he did not go a quarter of a mile from the place until he heard a great noise coming after him. He looked behind him and he saw a lot of little people, and they dressed in clothes as white as snow. There came such fear over Páidin that he was not able to walk one step, until the little people came up with him, and they carrying the Stone of Truth with them. A man of them spoke to him and said: "O accursed Páidin, carry this stone back to the place where you got it, or you shall pay dearly for it."
"I will and welcome," said Páidin.
They put the stone upon his back and they returned the road on which they had come. But as the devil was putting temptation upon Páidin, he went and threw the stone into a hole that was deeper than the first hole, a hole which the people made to go hiding in when the war would be coming. The stone remained in that hole for more than seven years, and no one knew where it was but Páidin only.
At the end of that time Páidin was going by the side of the churchyard, when he looked up at a cross that was standing there, and he fell into a faint. When he came to himself, there was a man before him and he clothed as white as the snow. He spoke to him and said: "O accursed Páidin, you are guilty of the seven deadly sins, and unless you do penance you shall go to hell. I aman angel from God, and I will put a penance on you. I will put seven bags upon you and you must carry them for one and twenty years. After that time go before the great cross that shall be in the town of Cong, and say three times, 'My soul to God and Mary,' spend a pious life until then, and you will go to heaven. Go to the priest now, if you are obedient (and ready) to receive my counsel."
"I am obedient," said Páidin, "but the people will be making a mock of me."
"Never mind the mock, it won't last long," said the angel.
After this conversation a deep sleep fell upon Páidin, and when he awoke there were seven bags upon him, and the angel was gone away. There were two bags on his right side, two bags on his left side, and three others on his back, and they were stuck so fast upon him that he thought that it was growing on him they were. They were the colour of his own skin, and there was skin on them. Next day when Páidin went among the people he put wonder on them, and they called him the Merchant of the Seven Bags, and that name stuck to him until he died.
Páidin began a new life now. He went to the priest, and he showed him the seven bags that were on him, and he told him the reason that they were put on him. The priest gave him good advice and a great coat to cover the seven bags with; and after that Páidin used to be going from house to house and from village to village asking alms, and there used never be a Sunday or holiday that he would not be at Mass, and there used to be a welcome before him in every place.
About seven years after that Páidin was going by the side of the hole into which he had thrown the Stone of Truth. He came to the brink of the hole, went down on his two knees and asked God to send him up the stone. When his prayer was ended he saw the stone coming up, and hundreds of white doves round about it. The stone was rising and ever rising until it came into Páidin's presence on the ground, and then the doves went back again. The next day he went to the priest and told him everything about the Stone of Truth, and the way it came up out of the hole. "I will go with you," said the priest, "until I see this great wonder." The priest went with him to the hole and he saw the Stone of Truth. And he saw another thing which put great wonder on him; thousands and thousands of doves flying round about the mouth of the hole, going down into it and coming up again. The priest called the place Poll na gColum or the Dove's Hole, and that name is on it until the present day. The blessed stone was brought into Cong, and it was not long until a grand cross was erected over it, and from that day to this people come from every place to look at the Dove's Hole, and the old people believed that they were St. Patrick's angels who were in those doves.
The Stone of Truth was for years after that in Cong, and it is certain that it did great good, for it kept many people from committing crimes. But it was stolen at last, and there is no account of it from that out.
Páidin lived until he was four score years of age, and bore his share of penance piously. When the one and twenty years that the angel gave him were finished, and he carrying the seven bags throughout that time, there camea messenger in a dream to say to him that his life in this world was finished, and that he must go the next day before the Cross of Cong and give himself up to God and Mary. Early in the morning he went to the priest and told him the summons he had got in the night. People say that the priest did not believe him, but at all events he told Páidin to do as the messenger had bidden him.
Páidin departed, and left his blessing with his neighbours and relations, and when the clock was striking twelve, and the people saying the Angelical Salutation, Páidin came before the cross and said three times, "My soul to God and to Mary," and on the spot he fell dead.
That cross was in the town of Cong for years. A bishop, one of the O'Duffy's, went to Rome, and he got a bit of the true Cross and put it into the Cross of Cong. It was there until the foreigners came and threw it to the ground. The Cross of Cong is still in Ireland, and the people have an idea that it will yet be raised up in the town of Cong with the help of God.
PREFACE.
The following interesting story, which, so far as I know, has never been noted, has come down to us in a late Middle Irish text from which I now translate it for the first time. My attention was first called to it years ago by my friend, Dr. Nicholas O'Donnell of Melbourne, an Australian born and bred, but a good Irish scholar, who made a transcript of the story for me from an Irish MS. which he picked up in Australia. It may well have been taken from a vellum, for the initial letter is omitted and a great space left for the scribe to insert it in colours later on. I have carefully compared the copy of the Australian text with four other copies which I find in the Royal Irish Academy, the oldest of which however only dates from 1788, but I found virtually no difference between them, and it is evident that they are all drawn from the same original. There seems to be no variant known. There is an ancient poem of great interest bearing on this story, called the Colloquy between Fintan and the Hawk of Achill. It is in Egerton, 1782, and the text was published in "Anecdota from Irish MSS." vol. I., p. 24, but has never been translated. Fintan, who survived the flood, holds colloquy with the bird, which asked him about his life, and Fintan asks the bird's age. "O hawk from cold Achill take a benison and a victory, from the time you were born of an egg, tell the number of [the years of] your life."
"I am of the same age as thou, O Fintan, son of Bochra." The Bird asks Fintan "since he was a poet and a prophet"to tell him the greatest evils he had ever experienced. We learn from the answer that the ancient salmon in our story was really a rebirth of Fintan himself, and it is exceedingly interesting to find the wily old crow[19]who ate Léithin's young ones, appear upon the scene again, as a leading personage in another drama. Fintan tells how the Creator placed him in the cold streams in the shape of a salmon, how he frequented the Boyne, the Bush, the Bann, the Suck, the Suir, the Shannon, the Slaney, the Liffey, etc., etc. At last he came to Assaroe.
"A night I was on the wave in the north and I at seal-frequented Assaroe. I never experienced a night like that from the beginning to the end of my time.[20]
"I could not remain in the waterfall. I give a leap—it was no luck for me—the ice comes like blue glass between me and the pool of the son of Modharn.
"There comes a crow out of cold Achill, above the inver of Assaroe, I shall not hide it, though it is a thing to keep as a secret. He swept away with him one of my eyes.
"The Goll or Blind One of Assaroe has clung to me [as a name] from that night. Rough the deed. I am ever since without my eye. No wonder for me to be aged."
The Bird.
"It was I who swallowed thy eye, O Fintan. I am the grey Hawk, who be's alone in the waist of Achill."
Fintan demands eric [recompense] for his eye, but the implacable old crow answers:
"Little eric would I give thee, O Fintan, son of Bochra the soft, but that one remaining eye in the withered head quickly would I swallow it of one morsel."
The bird goes on to tell Fintan about the various battles it had seen in Ireland. As for the battle of Moytura in Cong:
"It was there thy twelve sons fell; to see them, awsome was the blow, and I gnawed off each fresh body[21]either a hand or one foot or one eye."
The old crow it was who carried off the hand of Nuadh covered with rings, which had been lopped off in the slaughter, and which was replaced later on by a silver hand, whence the King of the Tuatha De Danann received the cognomen of Nuadh of the silver hand, but his real hand was the plaything of the crows' young for seven years. He recounts all the eyes he had picked out of heroes' heads after famous fights. It was he too who perched upon Cuchulainn's shoulder, when, dying, he had bound himself to the standing stone,[22]but though his life had almost departed from him the hero pierced him with hiscletin curador hero's little quill. "I came above the hero as his countenance was darkening in death to eat his eyes, it was not an errand of luck, I stoop my head. He feels me on his face, he raises up his weakening hand, he puts his hero's little quill through my body at the first effort (?) I take a troubled flight to Innis Geidh across the valleyed sea and draw forth from myself, rough the task, the hard tough shaft of the dartlet. The head remains in my body. It tortured my heart sorely: sound I am not since that day, and I conceal it not since I am old. It was I who slew, great the tidings, the solitary crane that was in Moy Leana and the eagle of Druim Breac, who fell by me at the famous ford.
It was I who slew, pleasant the supper, the solitary crane of blue Innis Géidh.It was I who chewed beneath my comb the two full-fat birds of Leithin.It was I who slew, royal the rout,the slender Blackfootof Slieve Fuaid; theBlackbirdof Drum Seghsa of the streams died in the talons of my daughter."
It is plain then that this ancient poem, found in Egerton 1782, and in the Book of Fermoy, actually presupposes our story, and has a close connection with it.
THE STORY.
A gentle, noble, renowned patron there was of a time in the land of Ireland, whose exact name was Ciaran of Cluan.[23]A good faith had he in the mighty Lord.
One day Ciaran bade his clerics to go look for thatch for his church, on a Saturday of all days,[24]and those to whom he spake were Sailmin, son of Beogan, and Maolan, son of Naoi, for men submissive to God were they twain, so far as their utmost diligence went, and many miracles were performed for Maolan, as Ciaran said in the stanza,