A very long time ago, there suddenly appeared in old Ireland two
unknown merchants of whom nobody had ever heard, and who nevertheless
spoke the language of the country with the greatest perfection. Their
locks were black, and bound round with gold, and their garments were
of rare magnificence.
Both seemed of like age; they appeared to be men of fifty, for their
foreheads were wrinkled and their beards tinged with grey.
In the hostelry where the pompous traders alighted it was sought to
penetrate their designs; but in vain--they led a silent and retired
life. And whilst they stopped there, they did nothing but count over
and over again out of their money-bags pieces of gold, whose yellow
brightness could be seen through the windows of their lodging.
"Gentlemen," said the landlady one day, "how is it that you are so
rich, and that, being able to succour the public misery, you do no
good works?"
"Fair hostess," replied one of them, "we didn't like to present alms
to the honest poor, in dread we might be deceived by make-believe
paupers. Let want knock at our door, we shall open it."
The following day, when the rumour spread that two rich strangers had
come, ready to lavish their gold, a crowd besieged their dwelling; but
the figures of those who came out were widely different. Some carried
pride in their mien; others were shame-faced.
The two chapmen traded in souls for the demon. The souls of the aged
was worth twenty pieces of gold, not a penny more; for Satan had had
time to make his valuation. The soul of a matron was valued at fifty,
when she was handsome, and a hundred when she was ugly. The soul of a
young maiden fetched an extravagant sum; the freshest and purest
flowers are the dearest.
At that time there lived in the city an angel of beauty, the Countess
Kathleen O'Shea. She was the idol of the people and the providence of
the indigent. As soon as she learned that these miscreants profited to
the public misery to steal away hearts from God, she called to her
butler.
"Patrick," said she to him, "how many pieces of gold in my coffers?"
"A hundred thousand."
"How many jewels?"
"The money's worth of the gold."
"How much property in castles, forests, and lands?"
"Double the rest."
"Very well, Patrick; sell all that is not gold; and bring me the
account. I only wish to keep this mansion and the demesne that
surrounds it."
Two days afterwards the orders of the pious Kathleen were executed,
and the treasure was distributed to the poor in proportion to their
wants. This, says the tradition, did not suit the purposes of the Evil
Spirit, who found no more souls to purchase. Aided by an infamous
servant, they penetrated into the retreat of the noble dame, and
purloined from her the rest of her treasure. In vain she struggled
with all her strength to save the contents of her coffers; the
diabolical thieves were the stronger. If Kathleen had been able to
make the sign of the Cross, adds the legend, she would have put them
to flight, but her hands were captive. The larceny was effected.
Then the poor called for aid to the plundered Kathleen, alas, to no
good: she was able to succour their misery no longer; she had to
abandon them to the temptation.
Meanwhile, but eight days had to pass before the grain and provender
would arrive in abundance from the western lands. Eight such days were
an age. Eight days required an immense sum to relieve the exigencies
of the dearth, and the poor should either perish in the agonies of
hunger, or, denying the holy maxims of the Gospel, vend, for base
lucre, their souls, the richest gift from the bounteous hand of the
Almighty. And Kathleen hadn't anything, for she had given up her
mansion to the unhappy. She passed twelve hours in tears and mourning,
rending her sun-tinted hair, and bruising her breast, of the whiteness
of the lily; afterwards she stood up, resolute, animated by a vivid
sentiment of despair.
She went to the traders in souls.
"What do you want?" they said.
"You buy souls?"
"Yes, a few still, in spite of you. Isn't that so, saint, with the
eyes of sapphire?"
"To-day I am come to offer you a bargain," replied she.
"What?"
"I have a soul to sell, but it is costly."
"What does that signify if it is precious? The soul, like the diamond,
is appraised by its transparency."
"It is mine."
The two emissaries of Satan started. Their claws were clutched under
their gloves of leather; their grey eyes sparkled; the soul, pure,
spotless, virginal of Kathleen--it was a priceless acquisition!
"Beauteous lady, how much do you ask?"
"A hundred and fifty thousand pieces of gold."
"It's at your service," replied the traders, and they tendered Kathleen
a parchment sealed with black, which she signed with a shudder.
The sum was counted out to her.
As soon as she got home she said to the butler, "Here, distribute
this: with this money that I give you the poor can tide over the
eight days that remain, and not one of of their souls will be
delivered to the demon."
Afterwards she shut herself up in her room, and gave orders that none
should disturb her.
Three days passed; she called nobody, she did not come out.
When the door was opened, they found her cold and stiff; she was dead
of grief.
But the sale of this soul, so adorable in its charity, was declared
null by the Lord; for she had saved her fellow-citizens from eternal
death.
After the eight days had passed, numerous vessels brought into
famished Ireland immense provisions in grain. Hunger was no longer
possible. As to the traders, they disappeared from their hotel without
anyone knowing what became of them. But the fishermen of the
Blackwater pretend that they are enchained in a subterranean prison by
order of Lucifer, until they shall be able to render up the soul of
Kathleen, which escaped from them.
[Footnote 61: This was quoted in a London-Irish newspaper. I am unable
to find out the original source.]