until they came to a snug farmer’s house in the county Limerick, close
under the old castle of Carrigogunnel, that was built, they say, by
the great Brian Boru. Within the house there was great carousing going
forward, and the little man stopped outside for some time to listen;
then turning round all of a sudden, said, “Billy, I will be a thousand
years old to-morrow!”
“God bless us, sir,” said Billy, “will you?”
“Don’t say these words again, Billy,” said the little man, “or you
will be my ruin for ever. Now, Billy, as I will be a thousand years in
the world to-morrow, I think it is full time for me to get married.”
“I think so too, without any kind of doubt at all,” said Billy, “if
ever you mean to marry.”
“And to that purpose,” said the little man, “have I come all the way
to Carrigogunnel; for in this house, this very night, is young Darby
Riley going to be married to Bridget Rooney; and as she is a tall and
comely girl, and has come of decent people, I think of marrying her
myself, and taking her off with me.”
“And what will Darby Riley say to that?” said Billy.
“Silence!” said the little man, putting on a mighty severe look: “I
did not bring you here with me to ask questions;” and without holding
further argument, he began saying the queer words, which had the power
of passing him through the key-hole as free as air, and which Billy
thought himself mighty clever to be able to say after him.
In they both went; and for the better viewing the company, the little
man perched himself up as nimbly as a cock-sparrow upon one of the big
beams which went across the house over all their heads, and Billy did
the same upon another facing him; but not being much accustomed to
roosting in such a place, his legs hung down as untidy as may be, and
it was quite clear he had not taken pattern after the way in which the
little man had bundled himself up together. If the little man had been
a tailor all his life, he could not have sat more contentedly upon his
haunches.
There they were, both master and man, looking down upon the fun that
was going forward—and under them were the priest and piper—and the
father of Darby Riley, with Darby’s two brothers and his uncle’s
son—and there were both the father and the mother of Bridget Rooney,
and proud enough the old couple were that night of their daughter, as
good right they had—and her four sisters with bran new ribands in
their caps, and her three brothers all looking as clean and as clever
as any three boys in Munster—and there were uncles and aunts, and
gossips and cousins enough besides to make a full house of it—and
plenty was there to eat and drink on the table for every one of them,
if they had been double the number.
Now it happened, just as Mrs. Rooney had helped his reverence to the
first cut of the pig’s head which was placed before her, beautifully
bolstered up with white savoys, that the bride gave a sneeze which
made every one at table start, but not a soul said “God bless us.” All
thinking that the priest would have done so, as he ought if he had
done his duty, no one wished to take the word out of his mouth, which
unfortunately was pre-occupied with pig’s head and greens. And after a
moment’s pause, the fun and merriment of the bridal feast went on
without the pious benediction.
Of this circumstance both Billy and his master were no inattentive
spectators from their exalted stations. “Ha!” exclaimed the little
man, throwing one leg from under him with a joyous flourish, and his
eye twinkled with a strange light, whilst his eyebrows became elevated
into the curvature of Gothic arches—“Ha!” said he, leering down at
the bride, and then up at Billy, “I have half of her now, surely. Let
her sneeze but twice more, and she is mine, in spite of priest,
mass-book, and Darby Riley.”
Again the fair Bridget sneezed; but it was so gently, and she blushed
so much, that few except the little man took or seemed to take any
notice: and no one thought of saying “God bless us.”
Billy all this time regarded the poor girl with a most rueful
expression of countenance; for he could not help thinking what a
terrible thing it was for a nice young girl of nineteen, with large
blue eyes, transparent skin, and dimpled cheeks, suffused with health
and joy, to be obliged to marry an ugly little bit of a man who was a
thousand years old, barring a day.
At this critical moment the bride gave a third sneeze, and Billy
roared out with all his might, “God save us!” Whether this exclamation
resulted from his soliloquy, or from the mere force of habit, he never
could tell exactly himself; but no sooner was it uttered, than the
little man, his face glowing with rage and disappointment, sprung from
the beam on which he had perched himself, and shrieking out in the
shrill voice of a cracked bagpipe, “I discharge you my service, Billy
Mac Daniel—take _that_ for your wages,” gave poor Billy a most
furious kick in the back, which sent his unfortunate servant sprawling
upon his face and hands right in the middle of the supper table.
If Billy was astonished, how much more so was every one of the company
into which he was thrown with so little ceremony; but when they heard
his story, Father Cooney laid down his knife and fork, and married the
young couple out of hand with all speed; and Billy Mac Daniel danced
the Rinka at their wedding, and plenty did he drink at it too, which
was what he thought more of than dancing.
THE LITTLE SHOE.
XI.
“Now tell me, Molly,” said Mr. Coote to Molly Cogan, as he met her on
the road one day, close to one of the old gateways of Kilmallock,[14]
“did you ever hear of the Cluricaune?”
[14] “Kilmallock seemed to me like the court of the Queen of
Silence.”—_O’Keefe’s Recollections._
“Is it the Cluricaune? why, then, sure I did, often and often; many’s
the time I heard my father, rest his soul! tell about ’em.”
“But did you ever see one, Molly, yourself?”
“Och! no, I never _see_ one in my life; but my grandfather, that’s my
father’s father, you know, he _see_ one, one time, and caught him
too.”
“Caught him! Oh! Molly, tell me how?”
“Why, then, I’ll tell you. My grandfather, you see, was out there
above in the bog, drawing home turf, and the poor old mare was tired
after her day’s work, and the old man went out to the stable to look
after her, and to see if she was eating her hay; and when he came to
the stable door there, my dear, he heard something hammering,
hammering, hammering, just for all the world like a shoemaker making a
shoe, and whistling all the time the prettiest tune he ever heard in
his whole life before. Well, my grandfather, he thought it was the
Cluricaune, and he said to himself, says he, ‘I’ll catch you, if I
can, and then, I’ll have money enough always.’ So he opened the door
very quietly, and didn’t make a bit of noise in the world that ever
was heard; and looked all about, but the never a bit of the little man
he could see anywhere, but he heard him hammering and whistling, and
so he looked and looked, till at last he _see_ the little fellow; and
where was he, do you think, but in the girth under the mare; and there
he was with his little bit of an apron on him, and hammer in his
hand, and a little red nightcap on his head, and he making a shoe; and
he was so busy with his work, and he was hammering and whistling so
loud, that he never minded my grandfather till he caught him fast in
his hand. ‘Faith I have you now,’ says he, ‘and I’ll never let you go
till I get your purse—that’s what I won’t; so give it here to me at
once, now.’—‘Stop, stop,’ says the Cluricaune, ‘stop, stop,’ says he,
’till I get it for you.’ So my grandfather, like a fool, you see,
opened his hand a little, and the little fellow jumped away laughing,
and he never saw him any more, and the never the bit of the purse did
he get, only the Cluricaune left his little shoe that he was making;
and my grandfather was mad enough angry with himself for letting him
go; but he had the shoe all his life, and my own mother told me she
often _see_ it, and had it in her hand, and ’twas the prettiest little
shoe she ever saw.”
“And did you see it yourself, Molly?”
“Oh! no, my dear, it was lost long afore I was born; but my mother
told me about it often and often enough.”
The main point of distinction between the Cluricaune and the
Shefro, arises from the sottish and solitary habits of the
former, who are rarely found in troops or communities.
The Cluricaune of the county of Cork, the Luricaune of Kerry,
and the Lurigadaune of Tipperary, appear to be the same as the
Leprechan or Leprochaune of Leinster, and the Logherry-man of
Ulster; and these words are probably all provincialisms of the
Irish for a pigmy.
It is possible, and is in some measure borne out by the text of
one of the preceding stories [IX.], that the word _luacharman_
is merely an Anglo-Irish induction, compounded of (a rush,) and
the English word, _man_.—A rushy man,—that may be, a man of
the height of a rush, or a being who dwelt among rushes, that
is, unfrequented or boggy places.
The following dialogue is said to have taken place in an Irish
court of justice, upon the witness having used the word
Leprochaune:—
_Court._—Pray what is a leprochaune? the law knows no such
character or designation.
_Witness._—My lord, it is a little counsellor man in the
fairies, or an attorney that robs them all, and he always
carries a purse that is full of money, and if you see him and
keep your eyes on him, and that you never turn them aside, he
cannot get away, and if you catch him he gives you the purse to
let him go, and then you’re as rich as a Jew.
_Court._—Did you ever know of any one that caught a
Leprochaune? I wish I could catch one.
_Witness._—Yes, my lord, there was one—
_Court._—That will do.
With respect to “money matters,” there appears to be a strong
resemblance between the ancient Roman Incubus and the Irish
Cluricaune.—“Sed quomodo dicunt, ego nihil scio, sed audivi,
quomodo incuboni pileum rapuisset et thesaurum invenit,” are
the words of Petronius.—See, for farther arguments in support
of identity of the two spirits, the Brothers Grimm’s Essay on
the Nature of the Elves, prefixed to their translation of this
work, under the head of “Ancient Testimonies.”
“Old German and Northern poems contain numerous accounts of the
skill of the dwarfs in curious smith’s-work.”—“The Irish
Cluricaune is heard hammering; he is particularly fond of
making shoes, but these were in ancient times made of metal (in
the old Northern language a shoemaker is called a
_shoe-smith_;) and, singularly enough, the wights in a German
tradition manifest the same propensity; for, whatever work the
shoemaker has been able to cut out in the day, they finish
with incredible quickness during the night.”
THE BROTHERS GRIMM.
LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE.
“Who sits upon the heath forlorn,
With robe so free and tresses torn?
Anon she pours a harrowing strain,
And then—she sits all mute again!
Now peals the wild funereal cry—
And now—it sinks into a sigh.”
OURAWNS.
THE BANSHEE.
XII.
The Reverend Charles Bunworth was rector of Buttevant, in the county
of Cork, about the middle of the last century. He was a man of
unaffected piety, and of sound learning; pure in heart, and benevolent
in intention. By the rich he was respected, and by the poor beloved;
nor did a difference of creed prevent their looking up to “_the
minister_” (so was Mr. Bunworth called by them) in matters of
difficulty and in seasons of distress, confident of receiving from him
the advice and assistance that a father would afford to his children.
He was the friend and the benefactor of the surrounding country—to
him, from the neighbouring town of Newmarket, came both Curran and
Yelverton for advice and instruction, previous to their entrance at
Dublin College. Young, indigent and inexperienced, these afterwards
eminent men received from him, in addition to the advice they sought,
pecuniary aid; and the brilliant career which was theirs, justified
the discrimination of the giver.
But what extended the fame of Mr. Bunworth, far beyond the limits of
the parishes adjacent to his own, was his performance on the Irish
harp, and his hospitable reception and entertainment of the poor
harpers who travelled from house to house about the country. Grateful
to their patron, these itinerant minstrels sang his praises to the
tingling accompaniment of their harps, invoking in return for his
bounty abundant blessings on his white head, and celebrating in their
rude verses the blooming charms of his daughters, Elizabeth and Mary.
It was all these poor fellows could do; but who can doubt that their
gratitude was sincere, when, at the time of Mr. Bunworth’s death, no
less than fifteen harps were deposited in the loft of his granary,
bequeathed to him by the last members of a race which has now ceased
to exist. Trifling, no doubt, in intrinsic value were these relics,
yet there is something in gifts of the heart that merits preservation;
and it is to be regretted that, when he died, these harps were broken
up one after the other, and used as fire-wood by an ignorant follower
of the family, who, on a removal to Cork for a temporary change of
scene, was left in charge of the house.
The circumstances attending the death of Mr. Bunworth may be doubted
by some; but there are still living credible witnesses who declare
their authenticity, and who can be produced to attest most, if not all
of the following particulars.
About a week previous to his dissolution, and early in the evening a
noise was heard at the hall door resembling the shearing of sheep; but
at the time no particular attention was paid to it. It was nearly
eleven o’clock the same night, when Kavanagh, the herdsman, returned
from Mallow, whither he had been sent in the afternoon for some
medicine, and was observed by Miss Bunworth, to whom he delivered the
parcel, to be much agitated. At this time, it must be observed, her
father was by no means considered in danger.
“What is the matter, Kavanagh?” asked Miss Bunworth: but the poor
fellow, with a bewildered look, only uttered, “The master, Miss—the
master—he is going from us;” and, overcome with real grief, he burst
into a flood of tears.
Miss Bunworth, who was a woman of strong nerve, inquired if any thing
he had learned in Mallow induced him to suppose that her father was
worse. “No, Miss,” said Kavanagh; “it was not in Mallow——”
“Kavanagh,” said Miss Bunworth, with that stateliness of manner for
which she is said to have been remarkable, “I fear you have been
drinking, which, I must say, I did not expect at such a time as the
present, when it was your duty to have kept yourself sober;—I thought
you might have been trusted:—what should we have done if you had
broken the medicine bottle, or lost it? for the doctor said it was of
the greatest consequence that your master should take the medicine
to-night. But I will speak to you in the morning, when you are in a
fitter state to understand what I say.”
Kavanagh looked up with a stupidity of aspect which did not serve to
remove the impression of his being drunk, as his eyes appeared heavy
and dull after the flood of tears;—but his voice was not that of an
intoxicated person.
“Miss,” said he, “as I hope to receive mercy hereafter, neither bit
nor sup has passed my lips since I left this house; but the
master——”
“Speak softly,” said Miss Bunworth; “he sleeps, and is going on as
well as we could expect.”
“Praise be to God for that, any way,” replied Kavanagh; “but oh! Miss,
he is going from us surely—we will lose him—the master—we will lose
him, we will lose him!” and he wrung his hands together.
“What is it you mean, Kavanagh?” asked Miss Bunworth.
“Is it mean?” said Kavanagh: “the Banshee has come for him, Miss, and
’tis not I alone who have heard her.”
“’Tis an idle superstition,” said Miss Bunworth.
“May be so,” replied Kavanagh, as if the words ‘idle superstition’
only sounded upon his ear without reaching his mind—“May be so,” he
continued; “but as I came through the glen of Ballybeg, she was along
with me, keening, and screeching, and clapping her hands, by my side,
every step of the way, with her long white hair falling about her
shoulders, and I could hear her repeat the master’s name every now and
then, as plain as ever I heard it. When I came to the old abbey, she
parted from me there, and turned into the pigeon-field next the
_berrin_ ground, and folding her cloak about her, down she sat under
the tree that was struck by the lightning, and began keening so
bitterly, that it went through one’s heart to hear it.”
“Kavanagh,” said Miss Bunworth, who had, however, listened attentively
to this remarkable relation, “my father is, I believe, better; and I
hope will himself soon be up and able to convince you that all this is
but your own fancy; nevertheless, I charge you not to mention what you
have told me, for there is no occasion to frighten your
fellow-servants with the story.”
Mr. Bunworth gradually declined; but nothing particular occurred until
the night previous to his death: that night both his daughters,
exhausted with continued attendance and watching, were prevailed upon
to seek some repose; and an elderly lady, a near relative and friend
of the family, remained by the bed-side of their father. The old
gentleman then lay in the parlour, where he had been in the morning
removed at his own request, fancying the change would afford him
relief; and the head of his bed was placed close to the window. In a
room adjoining sat some male friends, and, as usual on like occasions
of illness, in the kitchen many of the followers of the family had
assembled.
The night was serene and moonlit—the sick man slept—and nothing
broke the stillness of their melancholy watch, when the little party
in the room adjoining the parlour, the door of which stood open, was
suddenly roused by a sound at the window near the bed: a rose tree
grew outside the window, so close as to touch the glass; this was
forced aside with some noise, and a low moaning was heard, accompanied
by clapping of hands, as if of a female in deep affliction. It seemed
as if the sound proceeded from a person holding her mouth close to the
window. The lady who sat by the bed-side of Mr. Bunworth went into the
adjoining room, and in a tone of alarm, inquired of the gentlemen
there, if they had heard the Banshee? Skeptical of supernatural
appearances, two of them rose hastily and went out to discover the
cause of these sounds, which they also had distinctly heard. They
walked all around the house, examining every spot of ground,
particularly near the window from whence the voice had proceeded; the
bed of earth beneath, in which the rose tree was planted, had been
recently dug, and the print of a footstep—if the tree had been forced
aside by mortal hand—would have inevitably remained; but they could
perceive no such impression; and an unbroken stillness reigned
without. Hoping to dispel the mystery, they continued their search
anxiously along the road, from the straightness of which and the
lightness of the night, they were enabled to see some distance around
them; but all was silent and deserted, and they returned surprised and
disappointed. How much more then were they astonished at learning that
the whole time of their absence, those who remained within the house
had heard the moaning and clapping of hands even louder and more
distinct than before they had gone out; and no sooner was the door of
the room closed on them, than they again heard the same mournful
sounds! Every succeeding hour the sick man became worse, and as the
first glimpse of the morning appeared, Mr. Bunworth expired.
LEGENDS OF THE BANSHEE.
XIII.
The family of Mac Carthy have for some generations possessed a small
estate in the county of Tipperary. They are the descendants of a race,
once numerous and powerful in the south of Ireland; and though it is
probable that the property they at present hold is no part of the
large possessions of their ancestors, yet the district in which they
live is so connected with the name of Mac Carthy by those associations
which are never forgotten in Ireland, that they have preserved with
all ranks a sort of influence much greater than that which their
fortune or connexions could otherwise give them. They are, like most
of this class, of the Roman Catholic persuasion, to which they adhere
with somewhat of the pride of ancestry, blended with a something, call
it what you will, whether bigotry, or a sense of wrong, arising out of
repeated diminutions of their family possessions, during the more
rigorous periods of the penal laws. Being an old family, and
especially being an old Catholic family, they have of course their
Banshee; and the circumstances under which the appearance, which I
shall relate, of this mysterious harbinger of death, took place, were
told me by an old lady, a near connexion of theirs, who knew many of
the parties concerned, and who, though not deficient in understanding
or education, cannot to this day be brought to give a decisive opinion
as to the truth or authenticity of the story. The plain inference to
be drawn from this is, that she believes it, though she does not own
it; and as she was a contemporary of the persons concerned—as she
heard the account from many persons about the same period, all
concurring in the important particulars—as some of her authorities
were themselves actors in the scene—and as none of the parties were
interested in speaking what was false; I think we have about as good
evidence that the whole is undeniably true as we have of many
narratives of modern history, which I could name, and which many grave
and sober-minded people would deem it very great pyrrhonism to
question. This, however, is a point which it is not my province to
determine. People who deal out stories of this sort must be content to
act like certain young politicians, who tell very freely to their
friends what they hear at a great man’s table; not guilty of the
impertinence of weighing the doctrines, and leaving it to their
hearers to understand them in any sense, or in no sense, just as they
may please.