It was on account of his daughter that Meehawl MacMurrachu had come
to visit the Philosopher. He did not know what had become of her,
and the facts he had to lay before his adviser were very few.
He left the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath taking snuff under a pine
tree and went into the house.
“God be with all here,” said he as he entered.
“God be with yourself, Meehawl MacMurrachu,” said the Philosopher.
“I am in great trouble this day, sir,” said Meehawl, “and if you
would give me an advice I’d be greatly beholden to you.”
“I can give you that,” replied the Philosopher.
“None better than your honour and no trouble to you either. It was
a powerful advice you gave me about the washboard, and if I didn’t
come here to thank you before this it was not because I didn’t want
to come, but that I couldn’t move hand or foot by dint of the cruel
rheumatism put upon me by the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora, bad
cess to them for ever: twisted I was the way you’d get a squint in
your eye if you only looked at me, and the pain I suffered would
astonish you.”
“It would not,” said the Philosopher.
“No matter,” said Meehawl. “What I came about was my young daughter
Caitilin. Sight or light of her I haven’t had for three days. My
wife said first, that it was the fairies had taken her, and then
she said it was a travelling man that had a musical instrument she
went away with, and after that she said, that maybe the girl was
lying dead in the butt of a ditch with her eyes wide open, and she
staring broadly at the moon in the night time and the sun in the
day until the crows would be finding her out.”
The Philosopher drew his chair closer to Meehawl.
“Daughters,” said he, “have been a cause of anxiety to their
parents ever since they were instituted. The flightiness of the
female temperament is very evident in those who have not arrived
at the years which teach how to hide faults and frailties, and,
therefore, indiscretions bristle from a young girl the way branches
do from a bush.”
“The person who would deny that—” said Meehawl.
“Female children, however, have the particular sanction of
nature. They are produced in astonishing excess over males, and
may, accordingly, be admitted as dominant to the male; but the
well-proven law that the minority shall always control the majority
will relieve our minds from a fear which might otherwise become
intolerable.”
“It’s true enough,” said Meehawl. “Have you noticed, sir, that in a
litter of pups—”
“I have not,” said the Philosopher. “Certain trades and professions,
it is curious to note, tend to be perpetuated in the female line.
The sovereign profession among bees and ants is always female, and
publicans also descend on the distaff side. You will have noticed
that every publican has three daughters of extraordinary charms.
Lacking these signs we would do well to look askance at such a man’s
liquor, divining that in his brew there will be an undue percentage
of water, for if his primogeniture is infected how shall his honesty
escape?”
“It would take a wise head to answer that,” said Meehawl.
“It would not,” said the Philosopher. “Throughout nature the female
tends to polygamy.”
“If,” said Meehawl, “that unfortunate daughter of mine is lying
dead in a ditch—”
“It doesn’t matter,” said the Philosopher. “Many races have
endeavoured to place some limits to this increase in females.
Certain Oriental peoples have conferred the titles of divinity
on crocodiles, serpents, and tigers of the jungle, and have fed
these with their surplusage of daughters. In China, likewise, such
sacrifices are defended as honourable and economic practices.
But, broadly speaking, if daughters have to be curtailed I prefer
your method of losing them rather than the religio-hysterical
compromises of the Orient.”
“I give you my word, sir,” said Meehawl, “that I don’t know what
you are talking about at all.”
“That,” said the Philosopher, “may be accounted for in three
ways—firstly, there is a lack of cerebral continuity: that is,
faulty attention; secondly, it might be due to a local peculiarity
in the conformation of the skull, or, perhaps, a superficial
instead of a deep indenting of the cerebral coil; and thirdly—”
“Did you ever hear,” said Meehawl, “of the man that had the scalp
of his head blown off by a gun, and they soldered the bottom of a
tin dish to the top of his skull the way you could hear his brains
ticking inside of it for all the world like a Waterbury watch?”
“I did not,” said the Philosopher. “Thirdly, it may—”
“It’s my daughter, Caitilin, sir,” said Meehawl humbly. “Maybe she
is lying in the butt of a ditch and the crows picking her eyes out.”
“What did she die of?” said the Philosopher.
“My wife only put it that maybe she was dead, and that maybe she
was taken by the fairies, and that maybe she went away with the
travelling man that had the musical instrument. She said it was a
concertina, but I think myself it was a flute he had.”
“Who was this traveller?”
“I never saw him,” said Meehawl, “but one day I went a few perches
up the hill and I heard him playing—thin, squeaky music it was
like you’d be blowing out of a tin whistle. I looked about for him
everywhere, but not a bit of him could I see.”
“Eh?” said the Philosopher.
“I looked about—” said Meehawl.
“I know,” said the Philosopher. “Did you happen to look at your
goats?”
“I couldn’t well help doing that,” said Meehawl.
“What were they doing?” said the Philosopher eagerly.
“They were bucking each other across the field, and standing on
their hind legs and cutting such capers that I laughed till I had a
pain in my stomach at the gait of them.”
“This is very interesting,” said the Philosopher.
“Do you tell me so?” said Meehawl.
“I do,” said the Philosopher, “and for this reason-most of the
races of the world have at one time or another—”
“It’s my little daughter, Caitilin, sir,” said Meehawl.
“I’m attending to her,” the Philosopher replied.
“I thank you kindly,” returned Meehawl.
The Philosopher continued “Most of the races of the world have at
one time or another been visited by this deity, whose title is
the ‘Great God Pan,’ but there is no record of his ever having
journeyed to Ireland, and, certainly within historic times, he has
not set foot on these shores. He lived for a great number of years
in Egypt, Persia, and Greece, and although his empire is supposed
to be world-wide, this universal sway has always been, and always
will be, contested; but nevertheless, however sharply his empire
may be curtailed, he will never be without a kingdom wherein his
exercise of sovereign rights will be gladly and passionately
acclaimed.”
“Is he one of the old gods, sir?” said Meehawl.
“He is,” replied the Philosopher, “and his coming intends no good
to this country. Have you any idea why he should have captured your
daughter?”
“Not an idea in the world.”
“Is your daughter beautiful?”
“I couldn’t tell you, because I never thought of looking at her
that way. But she is a good milker, and as strong as a man. She can
lift a bag of meal under her arm easier than I can; but she’s a
timid creature for all that.”
“Whatever the reason is I am certain that he has the girl, and I am
inclined to think that he was directed to her by the Leprecauns of
the Gort. You know they are at feud with you ever since their bird
was killed?”
“I am not likely to forget it, and they racking me day and night
with torments.”
“You may be sure,” said the Philosopher, “that if he’s anywhere at
all it’s at Gort na Cloca Mora he is, for, being a stranger, he
wouldn’t know where to go unless he was directed, and they know
every hole and corner of this countryside since ancient times. I’d
go up myself and have a talk with him, but it wouldn’t be a bit of
good, and it wouldn’t be any use your going either. He has power
over all grown people so that they either go and get drunk or else
they fall in love with every person they meet, and commit assaults
and things I wouldn’t like to be telling you about. The only folk
who can go near him at all are little children, because he has no
power over them until they grow to the sensual age, and then he
exercises lordship over them as over every one else. I’ll send my
two children with a message to him to say that he isn’t doing the
decent thing, and that if he doesn’t let the girl alone and go back
to his own country we’ll send for Angus Óg.”
“He’d make short work of him, I’m thinking.”
“He might surely; but he may take the girl for himself all the
same.”
“Well, I’d sooner he had her than the other one, for he’s one of
ourselves anyhow, and the devil you know is better than the devil
you don’t know.”
“Angus Óg is a god,” said the Philosopher severely.
“I know that, sir,” replied Meehawl; “it’s only a way of talking I
have. But how will your honour get at Angus? for I heard say that
he hadn’t been seen for a hundred years, except one night only when
he talked to a man for half an hour on Kilmasheogue.”
“I’ll find him, sure enough,” replied the Philosopher.
“I’ll warrant you will,” replied Meehawl heartily as he stood up.
“Long life and good health to your honour,” said he as he turned
away.
The Philosopher lit his pipe.
“We live as long as we are let,” said he, “and we get the health we
deserve. Your salutation embodies a reflection on death which is
not philosophic. We must acquiesce in all logical progressions. The
merging of opposites is completion. Life runs to death as to its
goal, and we should go towards that next stage of experience either
carelessly as to what must be, or with a good, honest curiosity as
to what may be.”
“There’s not much fun in being dead, sir,” said Meehawl.
“How do you know?” said the Philosopher.
“I know well enough,” replied Meehawl.