and therefore presented his plough-iron, which the giant seizing,
twisted in his grasp round and round again as if it had been a
potato-stalk; on seeing this all the children set up a shout of
laughter. In the midst of their mirth Robin thought he heard his name
called; and, all ear and eye, he put his hand on the boy who he
fancied had spoken, crying out at the same time, “Let me live or die
for it, but this is young Phil Ronayne.”
“It is Philip Ronayne—happy Philip Ronayne,” said his young
companions; and in an instant the hall became dark. Crashing noises
were heard, and all was in strange confusion: but Robin held fast his
prize, and found himself lying in the gray dawn of the morning at the
head of the Giant’s Stairs, with the boy clasped in his arms.
Robin had plenty of gossips to spread the story of his wonderful
adventure—Passage, Monkstown, Ringaskiddy, Seamount, Carrigaline—the
whole barony of Kerricurrihy rung with it.
“Are you quite sure, Robin, it is young Phil Ronayne, you have brought
back with you?” was the regular question; for although the boy had
been seven years away, his appearance now was just the same as on the
day he was missed. He had neither grown taller nor older in look, and
he spoke of things which had happened before he was carried off as one
awakened from sleep, or as if they had occurred yesterday.
“Am I sure? Well, that’s a queer question,” was Robin’s reply; “seeing
the boy has the blue eyes of the mother, with the foxy hair of the
father, to say nothing of the _purly_ wart on the right side of his
little nose.”
However Robin Kelly may have been questioned, the worthy couple of
Ronayne’s court doubted not that he was the deliverer of their child
from the power of the giant Mac Mahon; and the reward they bestowed
upon him equalled their gratitude.
Philip Ronayne lived to be an old man; and he was remarkable to the
day of his death for his skill in working brass and iron, which it was
believed he had learned during his seven years’ apprenticeship to the
giant Mahon Mac Mahon.
And now, farewell! the fairy dream is o’er;
The tales my infancy had loved to hear,
Like blissful visions fade and disappear.
Such tales Momonia’s peasant tells no more!
Vanish’d are MERMAIDS from the sea beat shore;
Check’d is the HEADLESS HORSEMAN’S strange career;
FIR DARRIG’S voice no longer mocks the ear,
Nor ROCKS bear wondrous imprints as of yore!
Such is “the march of mind.” But did the fays
(Creatures of whim—the gossamers of will)
In Ireland work such sorrow and such ill
As stormier spirits of our modern days?
Oh land beloved! no angry voice I raise:
My constant prayer—“may peace be with thee still!”
APPENDIX.
LETTER FROM SIR WALTER SCOTT TO THE AUTHOR OF THE IRISH FAIRY LEGENDS.
Sir,
I have been obliged by the courtesy which sent me your very
interesting work on Irish superstitions, and no less by the amusement
which it has afforded me, both from the interest of the stories, and
the lively manner in which they are told. You are to consider this,
Sir, as a high compliment from one, who holds him on the subject of
elves, ghosts, visions, &c. nearly as strong as William Churne of
Staffordshire—
“Who every year can mend your cheer
With tales both old and new.”
The extreme similarity of your fictions to ours in Scotland, is very
striking. The Cluricaune (which is an admirable subject for a
pantomime) is not known here. I suppose the Scottish cheer was not
sufficient to tempt to the hearth either him, or that singular demon
called by Heywood the Buttery Spirit, which diminished the profits of
an unjust landlord by eating up all that he cribbed for his guests.
The beautiful superstition of the banshee seems in a great measure
peculiar to Ireland, though in some Highland families there is such a
spectre, particularly in that of Mac Lean of Lochbuy; but I think I
could match all your other tales with something similar.
I can assure you, however, that the progress of philosophy has not
even yet entirely “pulled the old woman out of our hearts,” as Addison
expresses it. Witches are still held in reasonable detestation,
although we no longer burn or even _score above the breath_. As for
the water bull, they live who will take their oaths to having seen him
emerge from a small lake on the boundary of my property here, scarce
large enough to have held him, I should think. Some traits in his
description seem to answer the hippopotamus, and these are always
mentioned both in highland and lowland story: strange if we could
conceive there existed, under a tradition so universal, some shadowy
reference to those fossil bones of animals which are so often found in
the lakes and bogs.
But to leave antediluvian stories for the freshest news from fairy
land, I cannot resist the temptation to send you an account of King
Oberon’s court, which was verified before me as a magistrate, with all
the solemnities of a court of justice, within this fortnight past. A
young shepherd, a lad of about eighteen years of age, well brought up,
and of good capacity, and, that I may be perfectly accurate, in the
service of a friend, a most respectable farmer, at Oakwood, on the
estate of Hugh Scott, Esq., of Harden, made oath and said, that going
to look after some sheep which his master had directed to be put upon
turnips, and passing in the gray of the morning a small copse-wood
adjacent to the river Etterick, he was surprised at the sight of four
or five little personages, about two feet or thirty inches in height,
who were seated under the trees, apparently in deep conversation. At
this singular appearance he paused till he had refreshed his noble
courage with a prayer and a few recollections of last Sunday’s sermon,
and then advanced to the little party. But observing that, instead of
disappearing, they seemed to become yet more magnificently distinct
than before, and now doubting nothing, from their foreign dresses and
splendid decorations, that they were the choice ornaments of the fairy
court, he fairly turned tail and went “to raise the water,” as if the
South’ron had made a raid. Others came to the rescue, and yet the
fairy _cortege_ awaited their arrival in still and silent dignity. I
wish I could stop here, for the devil take all explanations, they stop
duels and destroy the credit of apparitions, neither allow ghosts to
be made in an honourable way, or to be believed in (poor souls!) when
they revisit the glimpses of the moon.
I must however explain, like other honourable gentlemen, elsewhere.
You must know, that, like our neighbours, we have a school of arts for
our mechanics at G——, a small manufacturing town in this country,
and that the tree of knowledge there as elsewhere produces its usual
crop of good and evil. The day before this avatar of Oberon was a
fair day at Selkirk, and amongst other popular divertisements, was one
which, in former days, I would have called a puppet-show, and its
master a puppet-showman. He has put me right, however, by informing
me, that he writes himself _artist from Vauxhall_, and that he
exhibits _fantoccini_; call them what you will, it seems they gave
great delight to the unwashed artificers of G——. Formerly they would
have been contented to wonder and applaud, but not so were they
satisfied in our modern days of investigation, for they broke into
Punch’s sanctuary forcibly, after he had been laid aside for the
evening, made violent seizure of his person, and carried off him, his
spouse, and heaven knows what captives besides, in their plaid nooks,
to be examined at leisure. All this they literally did (forcing a
door to accomplish their purpose) in the spirit of science alone, or
but slightly stimulated by that of malt whisky, with which last we
have been of late deluged. Cool reflection came as they retreated by
the banks of the Etterick; they made the discovery that they could no
more make Punch move than Lord —— could make him speak; and
recollecting, I believe, that there was such a person as the Sheriff
in the world, they abandoned their prisoners, in hopes, as they
pretended, that they would be found and restored in safety to their
proper owner.
It is only necessary to add that the artist had his losses made good
by a subscription, and the scientific inquirers escaped with a small
fine, as a warning not to indulge such an irregular spirit of research
in future.
As this somewhat tedious story contains the very last news from fairy
land, I hope you will give it acceptance, and beg you to believe me
very much
Your obliged and thankful servant,
WALTER SCOTT.
27th April, 1825.
ABBOTSFORD, MELROSE.
THE END.