“howsoever, you often saw him, and he does not live far from this. But
I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him at first, may be I’d
have now some of them that’s gone, and so Shamous often told me. Well,
sir, I went to this man, and he came with me to the house. By course,
I did every thing as he bid me. According to his order, I took the
little boy out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he was, and
made a bed for him and myself in the cow-house. Well, sir, I lay down
by his side, in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell asleep.
He got into a perspiration, saving your presence, as if he was drawn
through the river, and breathed hard, with a great _impression_
(oppression) on his chest, and was very bad—very bad entirely through
the night. I thought about twelve o’clock he was going at last, and I
was just getting up to go call the man I told you of; but there was no
occasion. My friends were getting the better of them that wanted to
take him away from me. There was nobody in the cow-house but the child
and myself. There was only one halfpenny candle lighting, and that
was stuck in the wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough
of light where we were laying to see a person walking or standing near
us: and there was no more noise than if it was a churchyard, except
the cows chewing the fodder in the stalls. Just as I was thinking of
getting up, as I told you—I wont belie my father, sir—he was a good
father to me—I saw him standing at the bed-side, holding out his
right hand to me, and leaning his other hand on the stick he used to
carry when he was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me, all
as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I would not lose the
child. ‘Is that you, father?’ says I. He said nothing. ‘If that’s
you,’ says I again, ‘for the love of them that’s gone, let me catch
your hand.’ And so he did, sir; and his hand was as soft as a child’s.
He stayed about as long as you’d be going from this to the gate below
at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In less than a week the
child was as well as if nothing ever ailed him; and there isn’t
to-night a healthier boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the
town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth mountains.”
“But I think, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “it appears as if you are more
indebted to your father than to the man recommended to you by Shamous;
or do you suppose it was he who made favour with your enemies among
the good people, and that then your father——”
“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Bourke, interrupting him; “but don’t
call them my enemies. ’Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to
sit by when they are called so. No offence to you, sir.—Here’s
wishing you a good health and long life.”
“I assure you,” returned Mr. Martin, “I meant no offence, Tom; but was
it not as I say?”
“I can’t tell you that, sir,” said Bourke; “I’m bound down, sir.
Howsoever, you may be sure the man I spoke of, and my father, and
those they know, settled it between them.”
There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took advantage to inquire of
Tom, whether something remarkable had not happened about a goat and a
pair of pigeons, at the time of his son’s illness—circumstances often
mysteriously hinted at by Tom.
“See that now,” said he, returning to Mr. Martin, “how well she
remembers it! True for you, ma’am. The goat I gave the mistress your
mother, when the doctors ordered her goats’ whey.”
Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke continued—“Why, then, I’ll
tell you how that was. The goat was as well as e’er a goat ever was,
for a month after she was sent to Killaan to your father’s. The
morning after the night I just told you of, before the child woke, his
mother was standing at the gap leading out of the barn-yard into the
road, and she saw two pigeons flying from the town of Kilworth, off
the church, down towards her. Well, they never stopped, you see, till
they came to the house on the hill at the other side of the river,
facing our farm. They pitched upon the chimney of that house, and
after looking about them for a minute or two, they flew straight
across the river, and stopped on the ridge of the cow-house where the
child and I were lying. Do you think they came there for nothing,
sir?”
“Certainly not, Tom,” returned Mr. Martin.
“Well, the woman came in to me, frightened, and told me. She began to
cry.—‘Whisht, you fool!’ says I: ‘’tis all for the better.’ ’Twas
true for me. What do you think, ma’am; the goat that I gave your
mother, that was seen feeding at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin,
as merry as a bee, dropped down dead, without any body knowing why,
before Jack’s face; and at that very moment he saw two pigeons fly
from the top of the house out of the town, towards the Lismore road.
’Twas at the same time my woman saw them, as I just told you.”
“’Twas very strange, indeed, Tom,” said Mr. Martin; “I wish you could
give us some explanation of it.”
“I wish I could, sir,” was Tom Bourke’s answer; “but I’m bound down. I
can’t tell but what I’m allowed to tell, any more than a sentry is let
walk more than his rounds.”
“I think you said something of having had some former knowledge of the
man that assisted in the cure of your son,” said Mr. Martin.
“So I had, sir,” returned Bourke. “I had a trial of that man. But
that’s neither here nor there. I can’t tell you any thing about that,
sir. But would you like to know how he got his skill?”
“Oh! very much indeed,” said Mr. Martin.
“But you can tell us his Christian name, that we may know him the
better through the story,” added Mrs. Martin. Tom Bourke paused for a
minute to consider this proposition.
“Well, I believe I may tell you that, any how; his name is Patrick. He
was always a smart, active, ’cute boy, and would be a great clerk if
he stuck to it. The first time I knew him, sir, was at my mother’s
wake. I was in great trouble, for I did not know where to bury her.
Her people and my father’s people—I mean their friends, sir, among
the _good people_, had the greatest battle that was known for many a
year, at Dunmanwaycross, to see to whose churchyard she’d be taken.
They fought for three nights, one after another, without being able to
settle it. The neighbours wondered how long I was before I buried my
mother; but I had my reasons, though I could not tell them at that
time. Well, sir, to make my story short, Patrick came on the fourth
morning and told me he settled the business, and that day we buried
her in Kilcrumper churchyard with my father’s people.”
“He was a valuable friend, Tom,” said Mrs. Martin, with difficulty
suppressing a smile. “But you were about to tell how he became so
skilful.”
“So I will, and welcome,” replied Bourke. “Your health, ma’am. I am
drinking too much of this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never
tasted the like of it: it goes down one’s throat like sweet oil. But
what was I going to say?—Yes—well—Patrick, many a long year ago,
was coming home from a _berrin_ late in the evening, and walking by
the side of the river opposite the big inch,[10] near Ballyhefaan
ford.[11] He had taken a drop, to be sure; but he was only a little
merry, as you may say, and knew very well what he was doing. The moon
was shining, for it was in the month of August, and the river was as
smooth and as bright as a looking-glass. He heard nothing for a long
time but the fall of the water at the mill wier about a mile down the
river, and now and then the crying of the lambs on the other side of
the river. All at once, there was a noise of a great number of people,
laughing as if they’d break their hearts, and of a piper playing among
them. It came from the inch at the other side of the ford, and he saw,
through the mist that hung over the river, a whole crowd of people
dancing on the inch. Patrick was as fond of a dance as he was of a
glass, and that’s saying enough for him; so he whipped[12] off his
shoes and stockings, and away with him across the ford. After putting
on his shoes and stockings at the other side of the river, he walked
over to the crowd, and mixed with them for some time without being
minded. He thought, sir, that he’d show them better dancing than any
of themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and good right he
had, for there was not a boy in the same parish could foot a double or
treble with him. But pwah!—his dancing was no more to theirs than
mine would be to the mistress there. They did not seem as if they had
a bone in their bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could tire
them. Patrick was ’shamed within himself, for he thought he had not
his fellow in all the country round; and was going away when a little
old man, that was looking at the company for some time bitterly as if
he did not like what was going on, came up to him. ‘Patrick,’ says he.
Patrick started, for he did not think any body there knew him.
‘Patrick,’ says he, ‘you’re discouraged, and no wonder for you. But
you have a friend near you. I’m your friend, and your father’s friend,
and I think worse (more) of your little finger than I do of all that
are here, though they think no one is as good as themselves. Go into
the ring and call for a lilt. Don’t be afeard. I tell you the best of
them did not do as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.’
Patrick felt something within him as if he ought not to gainsay the
old man. He went into the ring, and called the piper to play up the
best double he had. And, sure enough, all that the others were able
for was nothing to him! He bounded like an eel, now here and now
there, as light as a feather, although the people could hear the music
answered by his steps, that beat time to every turn of it, like the
left foot of the piper. He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then
they got a table, and he danced a treble on it that drew down shouts
from the whole company. At last he called for a trencher; and when
they saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top, they did not
know what to make of him. Some praised him for the best dancer that
ever entered a ring; others hated him because he was better than
themselves; although they had good right to think themselves better
than him or any other man that never went the long journey.”
[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.
“And what was the cause of his great success?” inquired Mr. Martin.
“He could not help it, sir,” replied Tom Bourke. “They that could make
him do more than that made him do it. Howsomever, when he had done,
they wanted him to dance again, but he was tired, and they could not
persuade him. At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving your
presence, that he would not dance a step more; and the word was hardly
out of his mouth, when he found himself all alone, with nothing but a
white cow grazing by his side.”
“Did he ever discover why he was gifted with these extraordinary
powers in the dance, Tom?” said Mr. Martin.
“I’ll tell you that too, sir,” answered Bourke, “when I come to it.
When he went home, sir, he was taken with a shivering, and went to
bed; and the next day they found he got the fever, or something like
it, for he raved like as if he was mad. But they couldn’t make out
what it was he was saying, though he talked constant. The doctors gave
him over. But it’s little they know what ailed him. When he was, as
you may say, about ten days sick, and every body thought he was going,
one of the neighbours came in to him with a man, a friend of his, from
Ballinlacken, that was keeping with him some time before. I can’t tell
you his name either, only it was Darby. The minute Darby saw Patrick,
he took a little bottle, with the juice of herbs in it, out of his
pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it. He did the same every day for
three weeks, and then Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as
hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a long time before he
came to himself; and he used to walk the whole day sometimes by the
ditch side, talking to himself, like as if there was some one along
with him. And so there was surely, or he wouldn’t be the man he is
to-day.
“I suppose it was from some such companion he learned his skill,” said
Mr. Martin.
“You have it all now, sir,” replied Bourke. “Darby told him his
friends were satisfied with what he did the night of the dance; and
though they couldn’t hinder the fever, they’d bring him over it, and
teach him more than many knew beside him. And so they did. For you see
all the people he met on the inch that night were friends of a
different faction; only the old man that spoke to him; he was a friend
of Patrick’s family, and it went again’ his heart, you see, that the
others were so light, and active, and he was bitter in himself to hear
’em boasting how they’d dance with any set in the whole country round.
So he gave Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave him the
skill that makes him the wonder of all that know him. And to be sure
it was only learning he was that time when he was wandering in his
mind after the fever.”
“I have heard many strange stories about that inch near Ballyhefaan
ford,” said Mr. Martin. “’Tis a great place for the good people, isn’t
it, Tom?”
“You may say that, sir,” returned Bourke. “I could tell you a great
deal about it. Many a time I sat for as good as two hours by
moonlight, at th’ other side of the river, looking at ’em playing goal
as if they’d break their hearts over it; with their coats and
waistcoats off, and white handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and
red ones on th’ other, just as you’d see on a Sunday in Mr. Simming’s
big field. I saw ’em one night play till the moon set, without one
party being able to take the ball from th’ other. I’m sure they were
going to fight, only, ’twas near morning. I’m told your grandfather,
ma’am, used to see ’em, there, too,” said Bourke, turning to Mrs.
Martin.
“So I have been told, Tom,” replied Mrs. Martin. “But don’t they say
that the churchyard of Kilcrumper[13] is just as favourite a place
with the good people as Ballyhefaan inch.”
[13] About two hundred yards off the Dublin mail-coach road,
nearly mid-way between Kilworth and Fermoy.
“Why, then, may be, you never heard, ma’am, what happened to Davy
Roche in that same churchyard,” said Bourke; and turning to Mr.
Martin, added, “’twas a long time before he went into your service,
sir. He was walking home of an evening, from the fair of Kilcummer, a
little merry, to be sure, after the day, and he came up with a berrin.
So he walked along with it, and thought it very queer, that he did not
know a mother’s soul in the crowd, but one man, and he was sure that
man was dead many years afore. Howsomever, he went on with the berrin,
till they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and then he went in and staid
with the rest, to see the corpse buried. As soon as the grave was
covered, what should they do but gather about a piper, that come along
with ’em, and fall to dancing as if it was a wedding. Davy longed to
be among ’em (for he hadn’t a bad foot of his own, that time, whatever
he may now;) but he was loath to begin, because they all seemed
strange to him, only the man I told you that he thought was dead.
Well, at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came up to him.
‘Davy,’ says he, ‘take out a partner, and show what you can do, but
take care and don’t offer to kiss her.’ ‘That I won’t,’ says Davy,
‘although her lips were made of honey.’ And with that he made his bow
to the _purtiest_ girl in the ring, and he and she began to dance.
’Twas a jig they danced, and they did it to th’ admiration, do you
see, of all that were there. ’Twas all very well till the jig was
over; but just as they had done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was
warm with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his partner,
according to custom. The smack was no sooner off his lips, you see,
than he was left alone in the churchyard, without a creature near him,
and all he could see was the tall tombstones. Davy said they seemed as
if they were dancing too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that
happened him, and he being a little in drink. Howsomever, he found it
was a great many hours later than he thought it; ’twas near morning
when he came home; but they couldn’t get a word out of him till the
next day, when he woke out of a dead sleep about twelve o’clock.”
When Tom had finished the account of Davy Roche and the berrin, it
became quite evident that spirits of some sort were working too strong
within him to admit of his telling many more tales of the good people.
Tom seemed conscious of this.—He muttered for a few minutes broken
sentences concerning churchyards, river-sides, leprechauns, and _dina
magh_, which were quite unintelligible, perhaps to himself, certainly
to Mr. Martin and his lady. At length he made a slight motion of the
head upwards, as if he would say, “I can talk no more;” stretched his
arm on the table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler slowly, and
with the most knowing and cautious air; and rising from his chair,
walked, or rather rolled, to the parlour door. Here he turned round to
face his host and hostess; but after various ineffectual attempts to
bid them good night, the words, as they rose, being always choked by a
violent hiccup, while the door, which he held by the handle, swung to
and fro, carrying his unyielding body along with it, he was obliged to
depart in silence. The cow-boy, sent by Tom’s wife, who knew well what
sort of allurement detained him, when he remained out after a certain
hour, was in attendance to conduct his master home. I have no doubt
that he returned without meeting any material injury, as I know that
within the last month, he was, to use his own words, “As stout and
hearty a man as any of his age in the county Cork.”
FAIRIES OR NO FAIRIES.
VIII.
John Mulligan was as fine an old fellow as ever threw a Carlow spur
into the sides of a horse. He was, besides, as jolly a boon companion
over a jug of punch as you would meet from Carnsore Point to Bloody
Farland. And a good horse he used to ride; and a stiffer jug of punch
than his was not in nineteen baronies. May be he stuck more to it than
he ought to have done—but that is nothing whatever to the story I am
going to tell.
John believed devoutly in fairies; and an angry man was he if you
doubted them. He had more fairy stories than would make, if properly
printed in a rivulet of print running down a meadow of margin, two
thick quartos for Mr. Murray, of Albemarle street; all of which he
used to tell on all occasions that he could find listeners. Many
believed his stories—many more did not believe them—but nobody, in
process of time, used to contradict the old gentleman, for it was a
pity to vex him. But he had a couple of young neighbours who were just
come down from their first vacation in Trinity College to spend the
summer months with an uncle of theirs, Mr. Whaley, an old Cromwellian,
who lived at Ballybegmullinahone, and they were too full of logic to
let the old man have his own way undisputed.
Every story he told they laughed at, and said that it was
impossible—that it was merely old woman’s gabble, and other such
things. When he would insist that all his stories were derived from
the most credible sources—nay, that some of them had been told him by
his own grandmother, a very respectable old lady, but slightly
affected in her faculties, as things that came under her own
knowledge—they cut the matter short by declaring that she was in her
dotage, and at the best of times had a strong propensity to pulling a
long bow.
“But,” said they, “Jack Mulligan did you ever see a fairy yourself?”
“Never,” was the reply.—“Never, as I am a man of honour and credit.”
“Well, then,” they answered, “until you do, do not be bothering us
with any more tales of my grandmother.”
Jack was particularly nettled at this, and took up the cudgels for his
grandmother; but the younkers were too sharp for him, and finally he
got into a passion, as people generally do who have the worst of an
argument. This evening it was at their uncle’s, an old crony of his,
with whom he had dined—he had taken a large portion of his usual
beverage, and was quite riotous. He at last got up in a passion,
ordered his horse, and, in spite of his host’s entreaties, galloped
off, although he had intended to have slept there; declaring that he
would not have any thing more to do with a pair of jackanapes puppies,
who, because they had learned how to read good-for-nothing books in
cramp writing, and were taught by a parcel of wiggy, red-snouted,
prating prigs, (“not,” added he, “however, that I say a man may not be
a good man and have a red nose,”) they imagined they knew more than a
man who had held buckle and tongue together facing the wind of the
world for five dozen years.
He rode off in a fret, and galloped as hard as his horse Shaunbuie
could powder away over the limestone. “Yes, indeed!” muttered he, “the
brats had me in one thing—I never did see a fairy; and I would give
up five as good acres as ever grew apple-potatoes to get a glimpse of
one—and by the powers! what is that?”
He looked, and saw a gallant spectacle. His road lay by a noble
demesne, gracefully sprinkled with trees, not thickly planted as in a
dark forest, but disposed, now in clumps of five or six, now standing
singly, towering over the plain of verdure around them as a beautiful
promontory arising out of the sea. He had come right opposite the
glory of the wood. It was an oak, which in the oldest title-deeds of
the county, and they were at least five hundred years old, was called
the old oak of Ballinghassig. Age had hollowed its centre, but its
massy boughs still waved with their dark serrated foliage. The moon
was shining on it bright. If I were a poet, like Mr. Wordsworth, I
should tell you how the beautiful light was broken into a thousand
different fragments—and how it filled the entire tree with a glorious
flood, bathing every particular leaf, and showing forth every
particular bough; but, as I am not a poet, I shall go on with my
story. By this light Jack saw a brilliant company of lovely little
forms dancing under the oak with an unsteady and rolling motion. The
company was large. Some spread out far beyond the farthest boundary of
the shadow of the oak’s branches—some were seen glancing through the
flashes of light shining through its leaves—some were barely visible,
nestling under the trunk—some, no doubt, were entirely concealed from
his eyes. Never did man see any thing more beautiful. They were not
three inches in height, but they were white as the driven snow, and
beyond number numberless. Jack threw the bridle over his horse’s neck,
and drew up to the low wall which bounded the demesne, and leaning
over it, surveyed with infinite delight, their diversified gambols. By
looking long at them, he soon saw objects which had not struck him at
first; in particular that in the middle was a chief of superior
stature, round whom the group appeared to move. He gazed so long that
he was quite overcome with joy, and could not help shouting out:
“Bravo! little fellow,” said he, “well kicked and strong.” But the
instant he uttered the words the night was darkened, and the fairies
vanished with the speed of lightning.
“I wish,” said Jack, “I had held my tongue; but no matter now. I shall
just turn bridle about and go back to Ballybegmullinahone Castle, and
beat the young Master Whaleys, fine reasoners as they think
themselves, out of the field clean.”
No sooner said than done: and Jack was back again as if upon the wings
of the wind. He rapped fiercely at the door, and called aloud for the
two collegians.
“Halloo!” said he, “young Flatcaps, come down, if you dare. Come down,
if you dare, and I shall give you _oc-oc-_ocular demonstration of the
truth of what I was saying.”
Old Whaley put his head out of the window, and said, “Jack Mulligan,
what brings you back so soon?”
“The fairies,” shouted Jack; “the fairies!”
“I am afraid,” muttered the Lord of Ballybegmullinahone, “the last
glass you took was too little watered; but, no matter—come in and
cool yourself over a tumbler of punch.”
He came in and sat down again at table. In great spirits he told his
story;—how he had seen thousands and tens of thousands of fairies
dancing about the old oak of Ballinghassig; he described their
beautiful dresses of shining silver; their flat-crowned hats,
glittering in the moonbeams; and the princely stature and demeanour of
the central figure. He added, that he heard them singing and playing
the most enchanting music; but this was merely imagination. The young
men laughed, but Jack held his ground. “Suppose,” said one of the
lads, “we join company with you on the road, and ride along to the
place, where you saw that fine company of fairies?”
“Done!” cried Jack; “but I will not promise that you will find them
there, for I saw them scudding up in the sky like a flight of bees,
and heard their wings whizzing through the air.” This, you know, was a
bounce, for Jack had heard no such thing.
Off rode the three, and came to the demesne of Oakwood. They arrived
at the wall flanking the field where stood the great oak; and the
moon, by this time, having again emerged from the clouds, shone bright
as when Jack had passed. “Look there,” he cried, exultingly: for the
same spectacle again caught his eyes, and he pointed to it with his
horsewhip; “look, and deny if you can.”
“Why,” said one of the lads, pausing, “true it is that we do see a
company of white creatures; but were they fairies ten times over, I
shall go among them;” and he dismounted to climb over the wall.
“Ah, Tom! Tom,” cried Jack, “stop, man, stop! what are you doing? The
fairies—the good people, I mean—hate to be meddled with. You will be
pinched or blinded; or your horse will cast its shoe; or—look! a
wilful man will have his way. Oh! oh! he is almost at the oak—God
help him! for he is past the help of man.”
By this time Tom was under the tree, and burst out laughing. “Jack,”
said he, “keep your prayers to yourself. Your fairies are not bad at
all. I believe they will make tolerably good catsup.”
“Catsup,” said Jack, who, when he found that the two lads (for the
second had followed his brother) were both laughing in the middle of
the fairies, had dismounted and advanced slowly—“What do you mean by
catsup?”
“Nothing,” replied Tom, “but that they are mushrooms (as indeed they
were:) and your Oberon is merely this overgrown puff-ball.”