A LITTLE north of the town of Sligo, on the southern side of Ben
Bulben, some hundreds of feet above the plain, is a small white
square in the limestone. No mortal has ever touched it with his hand;
no sheep or goat has ever browsed grass beside it. There is no more
inaccessible place upon the earth, and few more encircled by awe to
the deep considering. It is the door of faery-land. In the middle of
night it swings open, and the unearthly troop rushes out. All night the
gay rabble sweep to and fro across the land, invisible to all, unless
perhaps where, in some more than commonly ‘gentle’ place—Drumcliff
or Drum-a-hair—the night-capped heads of faery-doctors may be thrust
from their doors to see what mischief the ‘gentry’ are doing. To their
trained eyes and ears the fields are covered by red-hatted riders, and
the air is full of shrill voices—a sound like whistling, as an ancient
Scottish seer has recorded, and wholly different from the talk of the
angels, who ‘speak much in the throat, like the Irish,’ as Lilly, the
astrologer, has wisely said. If there be a new-born baby or new-wed
bride in the neighbourhood, the night-capped ‘doctors’ will peer with
more than common care, for the unearthly troop do not always return
empty-handed. Sometimes a new-wed bride or a new-born baby goes with
them into their mountains; the door swings to behind, and the new-born
or the new-wed moves henceforth in the bloodless land of Faery; happy
enough, but doomed to melt out at the last judgment like bright vapour,
for the soul cannot live without sorrow. Through this door of white
stone, and the other doors of that land where _geabbeadh tu an sonas
aer pighin_ (‘you can buy joy for a penny’), have gone kings, queens,
and princes, but so greatly has the power of Faery dwindled, that there
are none but peasants in these sad chronicles of mine.
Somewhere about the beginning of last century appeared at the western
corner of Market Street, Sligo, where the butcher’s shop now is, not
a palace, as in Keats’s _Lamia_, but an apothecary’s shop, ruled over
by a certain unaccountable Dr. Opendon. Where he came from, none ever
knew. There also was in Sligo, in those days, a woman, Ormsby by name,
whose husband had fallen mysteriously sick. The doctors could make
nothing of him. Nothing seemed wrong with him, yet weaker and weaker he
grew. Away went the wife to Dr. Opendon. She was shown into the shop
parlour. A black cat was sitting straight up before the fire. She had
just time to see that the side-board was covered with fruit, and to
say to herself, ‘Fruit must be wholesome when the doctor has so much,’
before Dr. Opendon came in. He was dressed all in black, the same as
the cat, and his wife walked behind him dressed in black likewise.
She gave him a guinea, and got a little bottle in return. Her husband
recovered that time. Meanwhile the black doctor cured many people; but
one day a rich patient died, and cat, wife, and doctor all vanished
the night after. In a year the man Ormsby fell sick once more. Now
he was a good-looking man, and his wife felt sure the ‘gentry’ were
coveting him. She went and called on the ‘faery-doctor’ at Cairnsfoot.
As soon as he had heard her tale, he went behind the back door and
began muttering, muttering, muttering—making spells. Her husband got
well this time also. But after a while he sickened again, the fatal
third time, and away went she once more to Cairnsfoot, and out went the
faery-doctor behind his back door and began muttering, but soon he came
in and told her it was no use—her husband would die; and sure enough
the man died, and ever after when she spoke of him Mrs. Ormsby shook
her head saying she knew well where he was, and it wasn’t in heaven or
hell or purgatory either. She probably believed that a log of wood was
left behind in his place, but so bewitched that it seemed the dead body
of her husband.
She is dead now herself, but many still living remember her. She was,
I believe, for a time a servant or else a kind of pensioner of some
relations of my own.
Sometimes those who are carried off are allowed after many years—seven
usually—a final glimpse of their friends. Many years ago a woman
vanished suddenly from a Sligo garden where she was walking with her
husband. When her son, who was then a baby, had grown up he received
word in some way, not handed down, that his mother was glamoured by
faeries, and imprisoned for the time in a house in Glasgow and longing
to see him. Glasgow in those days of sailing-ships seemed to the
peasant mind almost over the edge of the known world, yet he, being
a dutiful son, started away. For a long time he walked the streets of
Glasgow; at last down in a cellar he saw his mother working. She was
happy, she said, and had the best of good eating, and would he not eat?
and therewith laid all kinds of food on the table; but he, knowing well
that she was trying to cast on him the glamour by giving him faery
food, that she might keep him with her, refused, and came home to his
people in Sligo.
Some five miles southward of Sligo is a gloomy and tree-bordered pond,
a great gathering-place of water-fowl, called, because of its form, the
Heart Lake. It is haunted by stranger things than heron, snipe, or wild
duck. Out of this lake, as from the white square stone in Ben Bulben,
issues an unearthly troop. Once men began to drain it; suddenly one of
them raised a cry that he saw his house in flames. They turned round,
and every man there saw his own cottage burning. They hurried home
to find it was but faery glamour. To this hour on the border of the
lake is shown a half-dug trench—the signet of their impiety. A little
way from this lake I heard a beautiful and mournful history of faery
kidnapping. I heard it from a little old woman in a white cap, who
sings to herself in Gaelic, and moves from one foot to the other as
though she remembered the dancing of her youth.
A young man going at nightfall to the house of his just married bride,
met in the way a jolly company, and with them his bride. They were
faeries, and had stolen her as a wife for the chief of their band.
To him they seemed only a company of merry mortals. His bride, when
she saw her old love, bade him welcome, but was most fearful lest he
should eat the faery food, and so be glamoured out of the earth into
that bloodless dim nation, wherefore she set him down to play cards
with three of the cavalcade; and he played on, realizing nothing until
he saw the chief of the band carrying his bride away in his arms.
Immediately he started up, and knew that they were faeries; for slowly
all that jolly company melted into shadow and night. He hurried to
the house of his beloved. As he drew near came to him the cry of the
keeners. She had died some time before he came. Some noteless Gaelic
poet had made this into a forgotten ballad, some odd verses of which my
white-capped friend remembered and sang for me.
Sometimes one hears of stolen people acting as good genii to the
living, as in this tale, heard also close by the haunted pond, of John
Kirwan of Castle Hacket. The Kirwans[H] are a family much rumoured of
in peasant stories, and believed to be the descendants of a man and a
spirit. They have ever been famous for beauty, and I have read that the
mother of the present Lord Cloncurry was of their tribe.
John Kirwan was a great horse-racing man, and once landed in Liverpool
with a fine horse, going racing somewhere in middle England. That
evening, as he walked by the docks, a slip of a boy came up and asked
where he was stabling his horse. In such and such a place, he answered.
‘Don’t put him there,’ said the slip of a boy; ‘that stable will be
burnt to-night.’ He took his horse elsewhere, and sure enough the
stable was burnt down. Next day the boy came and asked as reward to
ride as his jockey in the coming race, and then was gone. The race-time
came round. At the last moment the boy ran forward and mounted, saying,
‘If I strike him with the whip in my left hand I will lose, but if in
my right hand bet all you are worth.’ ‘For,’ said Paddy Flynn, who told
me the tale, ‘the left arm is good for nothing. I might go on making
the sign of the cross with it, and all that, come Christmas, and a
banshee, or such like, would no more mind than if it was that broom.’
Well, the slip of a boy struck the horse with his right hand, and John
Kirwan cleared the field out. When the race was over, ‘What can I do
for you now?’ said he. ‘Nothing but this,’ said the boy: ‘my mother
has a cottage on your land—they stole me from the cradle. Be good to
her, John Kirwan, and wherever your horses go I will watch that no
ill follows them; but you will never see me more.’ With that he made
himself air, and vanished.
Sometimes animals are carried off—apparently drowned animals more than
others. In Claremorris, Galway, Paddy Flynn told me, lived a poor widow
with one cow and its calf. The cow fell into the river, and was washed
away. There was a man thereabouts who went to a red-haired woman—for
such are supposed to be wise in these things—and she told him to take
the calf down to the edge of the river, and hide himself and watch.
He did as she had told him, and as evening came on the calf began
to low, and after a while the cow came along the edge of the river
and commenced suckling it. Then, as he had been told, he caught the
cow’s tail. Away they went at a great pace, across hedges and ditches,
till they came to a royalty (a name for the little circular ditches,
commonly called raths or forts, that Ireland is covered with since
Pagan times). Therein he saw walking or sitting all the people who had
died out of his village in his time. A woman was sitting on the edge
with a child on her knees, and she called out to him to mind what the
red-haired woman had told him, and he remembered she had said, ‘Bleed
the cow.’ So he stuck his knife into the cow and drew blood. That broke
the spell, and he was able to turn her homeward. ‘Do not forget the
spancel,’ said the woman with the child on her knees; ‘take the inside
one.’ There were three spancels on a bush; he took one, and the cow was
driven safely home to the widow.
There is hardly a valley or mountain-side where folk cannot tell you of
some one pillaged from amongst them. Two or three miles from the Heart
Lake lives an old woman who was stolen away in her youth. After seven
years she was brought home again for some reason or other, but she had
no toes left. She had danced them off. Many near the white stone door
in Ben Bulben have been stolen away.
It is far easier to be sensible in cities than in many country places
I could tell you of. When one walks on those grey roads at evening by
the scented elder-bushes of the white cottages, watching the faint
mountains gathering the clouds upon their heads, one all too readily
discovers, beyond the thin cobweb veil of the senses, those creatures,
the goblins, hurrying from the white square stone door to the north, or
from the Heart Lake in the south.