horse without saying a word, and rode home in a hard gallop, never
looking behind him. Many a long day was it before he ventured to face
the laughers at Ballybegmullinahone; and to the day of his death the
people of the parish, ay, and five parishes round called him nothing
but musharoon Jack, such being their pronunciation of mushroom.
I should be sorry if all my fairy stories ended with so little
dignity: but—
“These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air—into thin air.”
The name SHEFRO, by which the foregoing section is
distinguished, literally signifies a fairy house or mansion,
and is adopted as a general name for the Elves who are supposed
to live in troops or communities, and were popularly supposed
to have castles or mansions of their own.—See _Stewart’s
Popular Superstitions of the Highlands_, 1823, pp. 90, 91, &c.
_Sia_, _sigh_, _sighe_, _sigheann_, _siabhra_, _siachaire_,
_siogidh_, are Irish words, evidently springing from a common
Celtic root, used to express a fairy or goblin, and even a hag
or witch. Thus we have the compounds _Leannan-sighe_, a
familiar, from _Leannan_, a pet, and _Sioghdhraoidheachd_,
enchantment with or by spirits.
_Sigh gàoithe_ or _siaheann-gàoithe_, a whirlwind, is so termed
because it is said to be raised by the fairies. The close of
day called _Sia_, because twilight,
“That sweet hour, when day is almost closing,”
is the time when the fairies are most frequently seen. Again,
_Sigh_ is a hill or hillock, because the fairies are believed
to dwell within. _Sidhe_, _sidheadh_, and _sigh_, are names for
a blast or blight, because it is supposed to proceed from the
fairies.
The term _Shoges_, i.e. _Sigh oges_ (young or little spirits,)
Fairies, is used in a curious poem printed under the name of
“The Irish Hudibras,” 1689, pp. 23, and 81; a copy of which,
entitled “The Fingallian Travesty,” is among the Sloane MSS.
No. 900. In the Third Part of O’Flaherty’s Ogygia, it is
related that St. Patrick and some of his followers, who were
chanting matins beside a fountain, were taken for “_Sidhe_, or
fairies,” by some pagan ladies.
“The Irish,” according to the Rev. James Hely’s translation of
O’Flaherty, “call these _Sidhe_, aërial spirits or phantoms,
because they are seen to come out of pleasant hills, where the
common people imagine they reside, which fictitious habitations
are called by us _Sidhe_ or _Siodha_.”
For a similar extended use of the German word _Alp_, _Elf_, &c.
see Introductory Essay to the Grimms’ _Irische Elfenmärchen_,
pp. 55–62.
LEGENDS OF THE CLURICAUNE.
“————————— That sottish elf
Who quaffs with swollen lips the ruby wine,
Draining the cellar with as free a hand
As if it were his purse which ne’er lacked coin;—
And then, with feign’d contrition ruminates
Upon his wasteful pranks, and revelry,
In some secluded dell or lonely grove
Tinsel’d by Twilight.”—
Δ.
THE HAUNTED CELLAR.
IX.
There are few people who have not heard of the Mac Carthies—one of
the real old Irish families, with the true Milesian blood running in
their veins, as thick as buttermilk. Many were the clans of this
family in the south; as the Mac Carthy-more—and the Mac
Carthy-reagh—and the Mac Carthy of Muskerry; and all of them were
noted for their hospitality to strangers, gentle and simple.
But not one of that name, or of any other, exceeded Justin Mac Carthy,
of Ballinacarthy, at putting plenty to eat and drink upon his table;
and there was a right hearty welcome for every one who would share it
with him. Many a wine-cellar would be ashamed of the name if that at
Ballinacarthy was the proper pattern for one; large as that cellar
was, it was crowded with bins of wine, and long rows of pipes, and
hogsheads, and casks, that it would take more time to count than any
sober man could spare in such a place, with plenty to drink about him,
and a hearty welcome to do so.
There are many, no doubt, who will think that the butler would have
little to complain of in such a house; and the whole country round
would have agreed with them, if a man could be found to remain as Mr.
Mac Carthy’s butler for any length of time worth speaking of; yet not
one who had been in his service gave him a bad word.
“We have no fault,” they would say, “to find with the master; and if
he could but get any one to fetch his wine from the cellar, we might
every one of us have grown gray in the house, and have lived quiet and
contented enough in his service until the end of our days.”
“’Tis a queer thing that, surely,” thought young Jack Leary, a lad who
had been brought up from a mere child in the stables of Ballinacarthy
to assist in taking care of the horses, and had occasionally lent a
hand in the butler’s pantry:—“’tis a mighty queer thing, surely, that
one man after another cannot content himself with the best place in
the house of a good master, but that every one of them must quit, all
through the means, as they say, of the wine-cellar. If the master,
long life to him! would but make me his butler, I warrant never the
word more would be heard of grumbling at his bidding to go to the
wine-cellar.”
Young Leary accordingly watched for what he conceived to be a
favourable opportunity of presenting himself to the notice of his
master.
A few mornings after, Mr. Mac Carthy went into his stable-yard rather
earlier than usual, and called loudly for the groom to saddle his
horse, as he intended going out with the hounds. But there was no
groom to answer, and young Jack Leary led Rainbow out of the stable.
“Where is William?” inquired Mr. Mac Carthy.
“Sir?” said Jack; and Mr. Mac Carthy repeated the question.
“Is it William, please your honour?” returned Jack; “why, then, to
tell the truth, he had just _one_ drop too much last night.”
“Where did he get it?” said Mr. Mac Carthy; “for since Thomas went
away, the key of the wine-cellar has been in my pocket, and I have
been obliged to fetch what was drank myself.”
“Sorrow a know I know,” said Leary, “unless the cook might have given
him the _least taste_ in life of whiskey. But,” continued he,
performing a low bow by seizing with his right hand a lock of hair,
and pulling down his head by it, whilst his left leg which had been
put forward, was scraped back against the ground, “may I make so bold
as just to ask your honour one question?”
“Speak out, Jack,” said Mr. Mac Carthy.
“Why, then, does your honour want a butler?”
“Can you recommend me one,” returned his master, with a smile of good
humour upon his countenance, “and one who will not be afraid of going
to my wine-cellar?”
“Is the wine-cellar all the matter?” said young Leary: “not a doubt
have I of myself then for that.”
“So you mean to offer me your services in the capacity of butler?”
said Mr. Mac Carthy, with some surprise.
“Exactly so,” answered Leary, now for the first time looking up from
the ground.
“Well, I believe you to be a good lad, and have no objection to give
you a trial.”
“Long may your honour reign over us, and the Lord spare you to us!”
ejaculated Leary, with another national bow, as his master rode off;
and he continued for some time to gaze after him with a vacant stare,
which slowly and gradually assumed a look of importance.
“Jack Leary,” said he at length, “Jack—is it Jack?” in a tone of
wonder; “faith, ’tis not Jack now, but Mr. John, the butler;” and with
an air of becoming consequence he strided out of the stable-yard
towards the kitchen.
It is of little purport to my story, although it may afford an
instructive lesson to the reader, to depict the sudden transition of
nobody into somebody. Jack’s former stable companion, a poor
superannuated hound named Bran, who had been accustomed to receive
many an affectionate tap on the head, was spurned from him with a kick
and an “Out of the way, sirrah.” Indeed, poor Jack’s memory seemed
sadly affected by this sudden change of situation. What established
the point beyond all doubt was his almost forgetting the pretty face
of Peggy, the kitchen wench, whose heart he had assailed but the
preceding week by the offer of purchasing a gold ring for the fourth
finger of her right hand, and a lusty imprint of good-will upon her
lips.
When Mr. Mac Carthy returned from hunting, he sent for Jack Leary—so
he still continued to call his new butler. “Jack,” said he, “I believe
you are a trustworthy lad, and here are the keys of my cellar. I have
asked the gentlemen with whom I hunted to-day to dine with me, and I
hope they may be satisfied at the way in which you will wait on them
at table; but, above all, let there be no want of wine after dinner.”
Mr. John having a tolerably quick eye for such things, and being
naturally a handy lad, spread his cloth accordingly, laid his plates
and knives and forks in the same manner he had seen his predecessors
in office perform these mysteries, and really, for the first time, got
through attendance on dinner very well.
It must not be forgotten, however, that it was at the house of an
Irish country squire, who was entertaining a company of booted and
spurred fox-hunters, not very particular about what are considered
matters of infinite importance under other circumstances and in other
societies.
For instance, few of Mr. Mac Carthy’s guests, (though all excellent
and worthy men in their way,) cared much whether the punch produced
after soup was made of Jamaica or Antigua rum; some even would not
have been inclined to question the correctness of good old Irish
whiskey; and, with the exception of their liberal host himself, every
one in company preferred the port which Mr. Mac Carthy put on his
table to the less ardent flavour of claret,—a choice rather at
variance with modern sentiment.
It was waxing near midnight, when Mr. Mac Carthy rang the bell three
times. This was a signal for more wine; and Jack proceeded to the
cellar to procure a fresh supply, but it must be confessed not without
some little hesitation.
The luxury of ice was then unknown in the south of Ireland; but the
superiority of cool wine had been acknowledged by all men of sound
judgment and true taste.
The grandfather of Mr. Mac Carthy, who had built the mansion of
Ballinacarthy upon the site of an old castle which had belonged to his
ancestors, was fully aware of this important fact; and in the
construction of his magnificent wine-cellar had availed himself of a
deep vault, excavated out of the solid rock in former times as a place
of retreat and security. The descent to this vault was by a flight of
steep stone stairs, and here and there in the wall were narrow
passages—I ought rather to call them crevices; and also certain
projections which cast deep shadows, and looked very frightful when
any one went down the cellar stairs with a single light: indeed, two
lights did not much improve the matter, for though the breadth of the
shadows became less, the narrow crevices remained as dark and darker
than ever.
Summoning up all his resolution, down went the new butler, bearing in
his right hand a lantern and the key of the cellar, and in his left a
basket, which he considered sufficiently capacious to contain an
adequate stock for the remainder of the evening; he arrived at the
door without any interruption whatever; but when he put the key, which
was of an ancient and clumsy kind—for it was before the days of
Bramah’s patent,—and turned it in the lock, he thought he heard a
strange kind of laughing within the cellar, to which some empty
bottles that stood upon the floor outside vibrated so violently, that
they struck against each other: in this he could not be mistaken,
although he may have been deceived in the laugh; for the bottles were
just at his feet, and he saw them in motion.
Leary paused for a moment, and looked about him with becoming caution.
He then boldly seized the handle of the key, and turned it with all
his strength in the lock, as if he doubted his own power of doing so;
and the door flew open with a most tremendous crash, that, if the
house had not been built upon the solid rock, would have shook it from
the foundation.
To recount what the poor fellow saw would be impossible, for he seems
not to know very clearly himself: but what he told the cook the next
morning was, that he heard a roaring and bellowing like a mad bull,
and that all the pipes and hogsheads and casks in the cellar went
rocking backwards and forwards with so much force, that he thought
every one would have been staved in, and that he should have been
drowned or smothered in wine.
When Leary recovered, he made his way back as well as he could to the
dining-room, where he found his master and the company very impatient
for his return.
“What kept-you?” said Mr. Mac Carthy in an angry voice; “and where is
the wine? I rung for it half an hour since.”
“The wine is in the cellar, I hope, sir,” said Jack, trembling
violently; “I hope ’tis not all lost.”
“What do you mean, fool?” exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy in a still more
angry tone: “why did you not fetch some with you?”
Jack looked wildly about him, and only uttered a deep groan.
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Mac Carthy to his guests, “this is too much.
When I next see you to dinner, I hope it will be in another house, for
it is impossible I can remain longer in this, where a man has no
command over his own wine-cellar, and cannot get a butler to do his
duty. I have long thought of moving from Ballinacarthy; and I am now
determined, with the blessing of God, to leave it to-morrow. But wine
shall you have, were I to go myself to the cellar for it.” So saying,
he rose from the table, took the key and lantern from his half
stupified servant, who regarded him with a look of vacancy, and
descended the narrow stairs, already described, which led to his
cellar.
When he arrived at the door, which he found open, he thought he heard
a noise, as if of rats or mice scrambling over the casks, and on
advancing perceived a little figure, about six inches in height,
seated astride upon the pipe of the oldest port in the place, and
bearing the spigot upon his shoulder. Raising the lantern, Mr. Mac
Carthy contemplated the little fellow with wonder: he wore a red
nightcap on his head; before him was a short leather apron, which now,
from his attitude, fell rather on one side; and he had stockings of a
light blue colour, so long as nearly to cover the entire of his legs;
with shoes, having huge silver buckles in them, and with high heels
(perhaps out of vanity to make him appear taller). His face was like a
withered winter apple; and his nose, which was of a bright crimson
colour, about the tip wore a delicate purple bloom, like that of a
plum: yet his eyes twinkled
“like those mites
Of candied dew in moony nights—
and his mouth twitched up at one side with an arch grin.
“Ha, scoundrel!” exclaimed Mr. Mac Carthy, “have I found you at last?
disturber of my cellar—what are you doing there?”
“Sure, and master,” returned the little fellow, looking up at him with
one eye, and with the other throwing a sly glance towards the spigot
on his shoulder, “a’n’t we going to move to-morrow? and sure you would
not leave your own little Cluricaune Naggeneen behind you?”
“Oh!” thought Mr. Mac Carthy, “if you are to follow me, Master
Naggeneen, I don’t see much use in quitting Ballinacarthy.” So filling
with wine the basket which young Leary in his fright had left behind
him, and locking the cellar door, he rejoined his guests.
For some years after, Mr. Mac Carthy had always to fetch the wine for
his table himself, as the little Cluricaune Naggeneen seemed to feel a
personal respect towards him. Notwithstanding the labour of these
journeys, the worthy lord of Ballinacarthy lived in his paternal
mansion to a good round age, and was famous to the last for the
excellence of his wine, and the conviviality of his company; but at
the time of his death, that same conviviality had nearly emptied his
wine-cellar; and as it was never so well filled again, nor so often
visited, the revels of Master Naggeneen became less celebrated, and
are now only spoken of amongst the legendary lore of the country. It
is even said that the poor little fellow took the declension of the
cellar so to heart, that he became negligent and careless of himself,
and that he has been sometimes seen going about with hardly a skreed
to cover him.
Some, however, believe that he turned brogue-maker, and assert that
they have seen him at his work, and heard him whistling as merry as a
blackbird on a May morning, under the shadow of a brown jug of foaming
ale, bigger—ay bigger than himself; decently dressed enough, they
say;—only looking mighty old. But still ’tis clear he has his wits
about him, since no one ever had the luck to catch him, or to get hold
of the purse he has with him, which they call _spré-na-skillinagh_,
and ’tis said is never without a shilling in it.
MASTER AND MAN.
X.
Billy Mac Daniel was once as likely a young man as ever shook his
brogue at a patron, emptied a quart, or handled a shillelagh: fearing
for nothing but the want of drink; caring for nothing but who should
pay for it; and thinking of nothing but how to make fun over it: drunk
or sober, a word and a blow was ever the way with Billy Mac Daniel;
and a mighty easy way it is of either getting into or ending a
dispute. More is the pity, that through the means of his drinking, and
fearing and caring for nothing, this same Billy Mac Daniel fell into
bad company; for surely the good people are the worst of all company
any one could come across.
It so happened that Billy was going home one clear frosty night not
long after Christmas; the moon was round and bright; but although it
was as fine a night as heart could wish for, he felt pinched with the
cold. “By my word,” chattered Billy, “a drop of good liquor would be
no bad thing to keep a man’s soul from freezing in him; and I wish I
had a full measure of the best.”
“Never wish it twice, Billy,” said a little man in a three-cornered
hat, bound all about with gold lace, and with great silver buckles in
his shoes, so big that it was a wonder how he could carry them, and he
held out a glass as big as himself, filled with as good liquor as ever
eye looked on or lip tasted.
“Success, my little fellow,” said Billy Mac Daniel, nothing daunted,
though well he knew the little man to belong to the _good people_;
“here’s your health, any way, and thank you kindly; no matter who pays
for the drink;” and he took the glass and drained it to the very
bottom, without ever taking a second breath to it.
“Success,” said the little man; “and you’re heartily welcome, Billy;
but don’t think to cheat me as you have done others,—out with your
purse and pay me like a gentleman.”
“Is it I pay you?” said Billy: “could I not just take you up and put
you in my pocket as easily as a blackberry?”
“Billy Mac Daniel,” said the little man, getting very angry, “you
shall be my servant for seven years and a day, and that is the way I
will be paid; so make ready to follow me.”
When Billy heard this, he began to be very sorry for having used such
bold words towards the little man; and he felt himself, yet could not
tell how, obliged to follow the little man the live-long night about
the country, up and down, and over hedge and ditch, and through bog
and brake, without any rest.
When morning began to dawn, the little man turned round to him and
said, “You may now go home, Billy, but on your peril don’t fail to
meet me in the Fort-field to-night; or if you do, it may be the worse
for you in the long run. If I find you a good servant, you will find
me an indulgent master.”
Home went Billy Mac Daniel; and though he was tired and weary enough,
never a wink of sleep could he get for thinking of the little man;
but he was afraid not to do his bidding, so up he got in the evening,
and away he went to the Fort-field. He was not long there before the
little man came towards him and said, “Billy, I want to go a long
journey to-night; so saddle one of my horses, and you may saddle
another for yourself, as you are to go along with me, and may be tired
after your walk last night.”
Billy thought this very considerate of his master, and thanked him
accordingly: “But,” said he, “if I may be so bold, sir, I would ask
which is the way to your stable, for never a thing do I see but the
fort here, and the old thorn tree in the corner of the field, and the
stream running at the bottom of the hill, with the bit of bog over
against us.”
“Ask no questions, Billy,” said the little man, “but go over to that
bit of bog, and bring me two of the strongest rushes you can find.”
Billy did accordingly, wondering what the little man would be at; and
he picked out two of the stoutest rushes he could find, with a little
bunch of brown blossom stuck at the side of each, and brought them
back to his master. “Get up, Billy,” said the little man, taking one
of the rushes from him and striding across it.
“Where will I get up, please your honour?” said Billy.
“Why, upon horseback, like me, to be sure,” said the little man.
“Is it after making a fool of me you’d be,” said Billy, “bidding me
get a horseback upon that bit of a rush? May be you want to persuade
me that the rush I pulled but awhile ago out of the bog over there is
a horse?”
“Up! up! and no words,” said the little man, looking very vexed; “the
best horse you ever rode was but a fool to it.” So Billy, thinking all
this was in joke, and fearing to vex his master, straddled across the
rush: “Borram! Borram! Borram!” cried the little man three times
(which in English, means to become great), and Billy did the same
after him: presently the rushes swelled up into fine horses, and away
they went full speed; but Billy, who had put the rush between his
legs, without much minding how he did it, found himself sitting on
horseback the wrong way, which was rather awkward, with his face to
the horse’s tail; and so quickly had his steed started off with him,
that he had no power to turn round, and there was therefore nothing
for it but to hold on by the tail.
At last they came to their journey’s end, and stopped at the gate of a
fine house: “Now, Billy,” said the little man, “do as you see me do,
and follow me close; but as you did not know your horse’s head from
his tail, mind that your own head does not spin round until you can’t
tell whether you are standing on it or on your heels: for remember
that old liquor, though able to make a cat speak, can make a man
dumb.”
The little man then said some queer kind of words, out of which Billy
could make no meaning; but he contrived to say them after him for all
that; and in they both went through the key-hole of the door, and
through one key-hole after another, until they got into the
wine-cellar, which was well stored with all kinds of wine.
The little man fell to drinking as hard as he could, and Billy, noway
disliking the example, did the same. “The best of masters are you
surely,” said Billy to him; “no matter who is the next; and well
pleased will I be with your service if you continue to give me plenty
to drink.”
“I have made no bargain with you,” said the little man, “and will make
none; but up and follow me.” Away they went, through key-hole after
key-hole; and each mounting upon the rush which he had left at the
hall door, scampered off, kicking the clouds before them like
snowballs, as soon as the words, “Borram, Borram, Borram,” had passed
their lips.
When they came back to the Fort-field, the little man dismissed Billy,
bidding him to be there the next night at the same hour. Thus did they
go on, night after night, shaping their course one night here, and
another night there—sometimes north, and sometimes east, and
sometimes south, until there was not a gentleman’s wine-cellar in all
Ireland they had not visited, and could tell the flavour of every wine
in it as well—ay, better than the butler himself.
One night, when Billy Mac Daniel met the little man as usual in the
Fort-field, and was going to the bog to fetch the horses for their
journey, his master said to him, “Billy, I shall want another horse
to-night, for may be we may bring back more company with us than we
take.” So Billy, who now knew better than to question any order given
to him by his master, brought a third rush, much wondering who it
might be that should travel back in their company, and whether he was
about to have a fellow-servant. “If I have,” thought Billy, “he shall
go and fetch the horses from the bog every night; for I don’t see why
I am not, every inch of me, as good a gentleman as my master.”