In old times in Ireland there was a great man of the Fitzgeralds. The
name on him was Gerald, but the Irish, that always had a great liking
for the family, called him _Gearoidh Iarla_ (Earl Gerald). He had a
great castle or rath at _Mullymast_ (Mullaghmast); and whenever the
English Government were striving to put some wrong on the country, he
was always the man that stood up for it. Along with being a great
leader in a fight, and very skilful at all weapons, he was deep in the
_black art_, and could change himself into whatever shape he pleased.
His lady knew that he had this power, and often asked him to let her
into some of his secrets, but he never would gratify her.
She wanted particularly to see him in some strange shape, but he put
her off and off on one pretence or other. But she wouldn't be a woman
if she hadn't perseverance; and so at last he let her know that if she
took the least fright while he'd be out of his natural form, he would
never recover it till many generations of men would be under the
mould. "Oh! she wouldn't be a fit wife for Gearoidh Iarla if she could
be easily frightened. Let him but gratify her in this whim, and he'd
see what a hero she was!" So one beautiful summer evening, as they
were sitting in their grand drawing-room, he turned his face away from
her and muttered some words, and while you'd wink he was clever and
clean out of sight, and a lovely _goldfinch_ was flying about the room.
The lady, as courageous as she thought herself, was a little startled,
but she held her own pretty well, especially when he came and perched
on her shoulder, and shook his wings, and put his little beak to her
lips, and whistled the delightfulest tune you ever heard. Well, he
flew in circles round the room, and played _hide and go seek_ with his
lady, and flew out into the garden, and flew back again, and lay down
in her lap as if he was asleep, and jumped up again.
Well, when the thing had lasted long enough to satisfy both, he took
one flight more into the open air; but by my word he was soon on his
return. He flew right into his lady's bosom, and the next moment a
fierce hawk was after him. The wife gave one loud scream, though there
was no need, for the wild bird came in like an arrow, and struck
against a table with such force that the life was dashed out of him.
She turned her eyes from his quivering body to where she saw the
goldfinch an instant before, but neither goldfinch nor Earl Gerald did
she ever lay eyes on again.
Once every seven years the Earl rides round the Curragh of Kildare on
a steed, whose silver shoes were half an inch thick the time he
disappeared; and when these shoes are worn as thin as a cat's ear, he
will be restored to the society of living men, fight a great battle
with the English, and reign king of Ireland for two-score years.[68]
Himself and his warriors are now sleeping in a long cavern under the
Rath of Mullaghmast. There is a table running along through the middle
of the cave. The Earl is sitting at the head, and his troopers down
along in complete armour both sides of the table, and their heads
resting on it. Their horses, saddled and bridled, are standing behind
their masters in their stalls at each side; and when the day comes,
the miller's son that's to be born with six fingers on each hand, will
blow his trumpet, and the horses will stamp and whinny, and the
knights awake and mount their steeds, and go forth to battle.
Some night that happens once in every seven years, while the Earl is
riding round the Curragh, the entrance may be seen by any one chancing
to pass by. About a hundred years ago, a horse-dealer that was late
abroad and a little drunk, saw the lighted cavern, and went in. The
lights, and the stillness, and the sight of the men in armour, cowed him
a good deal, and he became sober. His hands began to tremble, and he
let a bridle fall on the pavement. The sound of the bit echoed through
the long cave, and one of the warriors that was next him lifted his head
a little, and said, in a deep hoarse voice, "Is it time yet?" He had the
wit to say, "Not yet, but soon will," and the heavy helmet sunk down on
the table. The horse-dealer made the best of his way out, and I never
heard of any other one having got the same opportunity.
[Footnote 67: _Legendary Fiction of the Irish Celts._--(Macmillan).]
[Footnote 68: The last time _Gearoidh Iarla_ appeared the horse-shoes
were as thin as a sixpence.]