Were we to believe the chronicles of our grandmothers, Ireland at one
period was held in fee-simple by witches, warlocks, white ladies,
fairies, and leprahauns; the earth, the air, and the sky, were peopled by
them; every crumbling and desolate cabin on the sterile moor or common
was tenanted by a witch; while the margins of our beautiful loughs, the
bosoms of our silent and sequestered glens, the recesses of our romantic
mountain valleys, the echoing walls of every mouldering edifice, and the
mystic circle of each rude hill-fort, were the chosen habitations of
unearthly beings.
Nor was this belief held by the uneducated alone; many who moved in
respectable situations in society were infected by it; and otherwise
sensible and well-informed people on this head were deaf to the voice
of reason and the dictates of common sense, and would as soon doubt
the truth of Holy Writ as the existence of supernatural agency; and so
interwoven was the superstition in the social system, that no event could
happen poor mortality from the cradle to the grave, in which the _good
people_ were not implicated for good or evil. Did the head or a member
of a leading family die, the wail of the banshee was sure to be heard in
the twilight. Was a favourite child smitten with disease, the beautiful,
the beloved one was believed to be changed for a squalling, ravenous,
and decrepid starveling. Did your cattle pine, or was your dairy not
productive, your cows were either elf-shot or bewitched. Was the wife of
your bosom snatched away in her bloom, in the most interesting though
dangerous moment of her existence, the fairies were whispered to be the
authors of your misfortune--to have spirited her off, and to have left in
her stead a wooden substitute.
Well do I remember the thrill of fear, mingled with a degree of
pleasurable awe, with which I listened some forty years since to the
narratives of a venerable aunt, who was lingering out the evening of her
existence at my father’s fireside--her only occupation being, rocking
the cradle and keeping the youngsters from mottling their shins. She
was an experienced dame, and withal pious, but would as soon doubt her
own identity as that of witches and fairies, and her memory was well
stored with instances of their interference. These I then believed most
implicitly, particularly as in many of them “the family” was concerned.
She could relate how her grandfather one morning detected a hare in the
act of milking one of his cows, which he fired at and wounded, and on
tracking the blood, discovered it to flow from the thigh of an old crone
who inhabited a neighbouring hovel. She also could tell how an elder
brother had surprised a leprahaun in the act of making shoes for the
gentle people--could describe his dress minutely, and how he had escaped
captivity by making a feint with his awl at my uncle’s eye, and causing
him to wink when in the very act of seizing him, and thereby marred his
fortune. She also knew a child which was taken from its mother’s arms at
night, but luckily was missed before he could be conveyed through the
key-hole, and on the outcry of the bereaved parent, was dropped “with a
whack” on the floor uninjured. It never occurred to her that probably
the child had rolled out of the bed accidentally. There was another tale
often related by her, which it would be worse than heresy to doubt, as
she knew the parties intimately.
An honest man named John M’Kinstrey, who resided near Maheraveely,
in the county Monaghan, was once compelled to leave his warm bed in
“the witching time of night,” on a certain pressing occasion, and ride
post-haste for a worthy dame whose assistance was indispensable. While
returning with the “howdy” safely stowed on an ample pillion behind,
he heard the strokes of an axe reverberating through a neighbouring
wood, and voices in conversation. Curiosity prompted him to draw up and
listen, when he distinctly heard the question asked, “What are you doing
to-night?” and to his dismay the answer was responded, “I’m making a
wife for Jack M’Kinstrey.” “Faith,” said Jack, “you’ll make no wife for
me, my man--I’ll do very well with the one I have;” and giving his good
beast the spur, regardless of the neck, bones, or outcry of his freight,
he never drew rein until he had his better half clasped in his arms,
where he held her in a death’s-grip until the crisis was over, and thus
baulked the fairies.
Thus was the whole system of society pervaded by the idea of supernatural
influence; and the consequence was an undefinable dread and fear, hanging
like the sword of Damocles over the heads of all, and embittering
existence. ’Tis true the evil was only imaginary, but not on that
account the less hurtful; for, being a mental malady, it was the more
difficult to be counteracted or eradicated, and often led to real anxiety
and distress, as in the care of M’Kinstrey, whose ideas being full of
witchcraft and fairy freaks, never reflected that the noise and voices
he had heard might be a practical joke of some of his neighbours, and in
consequence suffered all the suspense and trouble incident to real danger.
But the diffusion of useful knowledge and the dissemination of sound
education among all classes, has latterly effected a mighty change in
the intellectual powers of the people. Such reveries as those referred
to, though sometimes used to “adorn a tale,” are now unheeded; and there
are few indeed who would harbour for a moment in sincerity the absurd
idea of evil agency. There may be, ’tis true, some exceptions--a few old
women may be still haunted by the sprites of other days, and in some
remote districts a belief in witchcraft certainly prevails, ingrafted by
early prejudices, and fostered and kept alive by the practices of knaves,
who profess to avert the effects by counter-charms, and live, like many
others, on the credulity of the public; but, generally speaking, the
thing is defunct--gone to the moles and the bats.
But there is an exception. In several districts in Ireland, in Connaught
especially, an idea is very prevalent that it is in the power of
evil-disposed persons to deprive their neighbours of their milk or
butter. This is said to be done in various ways, the most usual being
the use of a corpse hand, which is kept shrivelled and dried to stir
the milk and gather the butter. Another plan is to follow the cows on a
May morning, and gather the soil which drops from between their cloots.
Another, by collecting the froth which forms on a stream running through
their pasture, and milking your own cow on it. Indeed, the means used are
represented to be so simple, that the very absurdity of the matter is its
own refutation.
Yet it is believed in, and that firmly; and in order to prove that such
is the case, and also expose the trickery and legerdemain by which some
knaves succeed in throwing dust in the eyes of the natives, I will relate
an occurrence in which I was concerned; and to open the matter fully in
all its ramifications, windings, and train of circumstantials, I trust I
will be pardoned if I enter into a rather minute detail, the rather as
I confess I was for a short time myself almost inclined to credit its
existence--in short, believed myself the dupe of a fairy man.
Some time since I resided in the neighbourhood of the “plains of Boyle,”
a celebrated pasture country, and was the possessor of a cow whose milk
and butter were plentiful in quantity and excellent in quality, and
materially contributed to the comforts of my family. She was a beautiful
and a gentle creature; and I flattered myself that in her I possessed the
foundress of a numerous herd, and the germ of a profitable and extensive
dairy.
As before observed, the idea was very prevalent there that it was in the
power of evil-disposed persons to deprive you of your milk and butter,
and I heard many complaints of the kind; the general voice fastened the
imputation on a woman who lived in the vicinity, who was locally termed
“the Hawk,” and certainly the fire of her eye and the sharpness of her
beak justified the appellation: she was a comely middle-aged person, in
rather easy circumstances, her husband being a small farmer; but he lay
under the suspicion of being concerned in a murder some time before. She
was a reputed witch, and the entire family were disliked and avoided.
One morning in the month of January, I was informed that a woman had come
into my kitchen, who occupied herself in watching the motions of the
family, without stating her business. On going down, I found her well
dressed and well looking, but with a very sinister cast of countenance.
On asking if she wanted me, she said she had heard I was in want of
some geese, and that she had a few to dispose of. “How many?” said I.
“A goose and a gander,” she replied. “How much do you want for them?”
“Seven-and-sixpence.” “Seven-and-sixpence!” I exclaimed in surprise, as
the usual price then was from one shilling to one-and-sixpence each.
“Why, how many have you?” as I really thought I had made a mistake in the
number. “A goose and a gander,” said she. “And do you suppose me to be a
goose to give such a price as that?” said I. “Oh!” said she, “they are
good geese, and only I wish to serve you, I would not offer them at all.”
“Indeed! I am much obliged by your good wishes,” said I; “but as I think
you want to impose upon me, you must take your geese to another market,
for I will not have them at any price, and the sooner you take yourself
off the better.” She got highly offended, muttered something about my
being sorry for refusing them, and went away in high dudgeon; and after
she was gone, I found it was “the Hawk” who had favoured me with the
visit.
On the same morning, a gang of strollers, consisting of tinkers,
chimney-sweeps, a brace or two of beggars, and a piper, had pitched their
tent on the road side, a short distance from my residence; the members
of the party had distributed themselves over the surrounding district in
pursuit of their various avocations; it also happened to be churning-day,
and my wife having set her vessels in order, was proceeding with her
lacteal operations favourably--the milk had cracked, the butter was
expected--when the sound of music was heard; the piper attached to the
party had come to give us a specimen of his skill; he favoured us with a
few Connaught planxties, was duly rewarded, and departed. Shortly after
he was gone, two buxom baggages, brown and bare-legged, with cans in
their hands, kerchiefs on their heads, and huge massive rings on their
fingers, came and demanded an alms. They were told there was nothing
then ready, on which one of them asked a drink. “I have nothing to
offer you but water,” said my wife, “until the churning’s done.” “Well,
water itself,” said she; on getting which, she took a sup or two, put
the remainder in her can, and went off; and, strange as it may seem, my
butter went too. And from that day in January until May eve following,
not a morsel had we from our beautiful Brownie.
As I did not put any faith in witchcraft, I was willing to attribute
this to some natural cause affecting the cow, though the milk showed no
perceptible change in either quantity or quality; neither did she exhibit
any symptoms of ailment or disorder, except that she began to cast her
hair. She was well supplied with good fodder, comfortably lodged, and
well attended, and every possible care taken of the milk, but all to no
purpose; the butter was not forthcoming; and for my incredulity I was
laughed at by my neighbours. “Your cow is bewitched,” cried they; “and
you may as well throw chaff against the wind, as think you will get your
butter back, till you get the charm.” Some said “the Hawk” had it, some
that the gipsy took it away in her can, and others that it followed the
piper. Be that as it may, I had to eat my bread butterless, and brood
over my loss, without even the comfort of common condolence.
Various were the counter-charms recommended for my adoption. “Send for
Fraser the Scotchman from beyond the Lough,” said one; “he fears neither
man nor fiend, and he will surely get it.” “Send for ‘the Hawk,’ and clip
a bit off her ear,” said another. “Let them keep their mouths full of
water, and never speak while they are churning,” said a third. In short,
I found there were as many ways of getting it back, as there were of
losing it--all equally simple, and probably as efficacious.
Thus matters continued until the early part of the month of April, when
one morning a man called, who desired to see me. I found him a light,
active, cute-looking fellow, low in stature and spare in habit, but
sinewy, well set and well knit, and regularly smoke-dried. He was pretty
well clad in frieze, cord breeches, and yarn stockings and pumps; his
caubeen on one side, a cutty in his mouth, and a certain jauntiness in
his air, and crafty audacity in his look, which seemed to say, “I’d have
you to know I’m a clever fellow.”
“So,” said he at once without preamble, “so you’ve lost your butter.”
“Yes,” said I, “’tis certainly gone.”
“Well, if you like, I’ll get it for you. My name is OROHOO (O’Hara); I
live at Sliev Bawn--the people call me the Fairy man--I can find things
that’s stole--and I keep the _garvally_.”
“Indeed!” said I: “why, you must be a clever fellow: but can you get my
butter?”
“Not a doubt of it,” said he, “if it is in the country.”
I had heard of the garvally before, which was described as “a crooked
thing like the handle of an umbrella, covered with green baize.” It was
formerly in much repute for swearing on; “and a terrible thing it was,
for if you swore falsely and it round your neck, your mouth would turn
to the back of your head, or you’d get such a throttling as you’d never
get the better of.” It had latterly, however, lost much of its virtue, or
rather of its fame, by an unbelieving vagabond yoking it on and swearing
to a manifest falsehood, without suffering any visible inconvenience. But
to return to Orohoo.
He made no stipulation; but requiring a deep plate, some water and salt,
with a little of the cow’s milk, he commenced by desiring my wife and me
to stand forward. He then asked our names, if I was the owner of the cow,
how long I had had her, if that woman was my wife, when we had lost our
butter, and if we suspected any person for taking it. To these queries I
answered as was necessary; but to the last I replied, I did not believe
in witchcraft.
“Don’t you believe in fairies?” he asked.
“Scarcely,” said I.
“No matter,” said he; “maybe before I’m done you will believe in them.”
He then in a very solemn manner poured some water into the plate at three
several times, thus--“In the name of the Father,” a drop; “in the name
of the Son,” ditto; “in the name of the Holy Ghost,” ditto. He added the
milk in the same manner, and then sprinkled in the salt, using the same
formula. He now stirred round the mixture three times with his finger,
repeating the words as before, and desired us to do the same. To this
I demurred, for I did not wish to evince any faith in the proceeding,
by taking an active part; but he combated my scruples by asking “was
it not done in a good name?” Certainly for so far I saw nothing very
objectionable, and my wife feeling no scruple on the subject, at their
joint persuasion I did as directed.
He next made the sign of the cross over the plate with his hands, and,
waving them over his head, cut several curious figures in the air, at
the same time muttering an unintelligible jargon I could not understand,
but which, as I could catch a sound or syllable, bore a close affinity
to what is called bog Latin. Gradually he became much excited; he raved
like a demon, stamped with his feet, and threatened with his fists: now
his tones were those of supplication or entreaty, anon of abjuration or
command; while his eye seemed fixed upon and to follow the motions of
some to us invisible being, with which he appeared to hold converse.
Suddenly he gave an unearthly scream, as if in an agony of terror and
perturbation, and, holding up his hands as in the act of warding off a
threatened danger, he retreated backwards round the room, pursued, as
it seemed, by an implacable enemy. Gradually he regained the spot he
had left, turned himself to the four cardinal points, making the sign
of the cross at each turn, dipped his fingers in the mixture, devoutly
blessed himself, anointing his forehead, shoulders, and breast, regained
his self-possession, raised his hands and eyes in an attitude of fervent
thankfulness to heaven, wiped the perspiration which profusely streamed
from his brow with the cuff of his coat, gradually recovered his breath,
and from a state of the greatest possible excitement became calm and
collected.
Now, this was all acting, to be sure, but it was inimitably done, and
I confess, even armed as I was with unbelief, it made a very powerful
impression on me. I acknowledge I did not feel at all comfortable. I did
not like the idea of being in the same room with the evil one, who to all
appearance was chasing my friend the conjuror round and round it. I felt
an indescribable sensation of dread creeping over me, and, if I mistake
not, there were a few drops of perspiration on my brow; and my hair, of
which I have not a superabundance, to my apprehension began to get stiff
and wiry. My wife, too, clung closely to my side for protection, and the
agitation of her mind was evident by the audible action of her heart,
which in that case beat only responsive to my own.
Having taken breath, he asked for a ribbon, which he passed over his
forehead and round his head, and, bringing the ends in front, knotted it
over his nose; then twining it round his fingers in the manner children
call a cat’s cradle, he knelt down and peered through it attentively into
the mixture, which I imagined at the moment fermented and sent up a blue
vapour. After gazing a few seconds in this manner,
“Aha!” said he, “she is not far off that has your butter; bring me a
lighted candle,” which on being brought he placed in the plate. “Now,”
said he, “both of you kneel down; do as I do, and say as I say, and
we’ll have her here directly.”
“No,” said I decidedly, “we will not.”
I thought we had gone far enough, and was convinced that if what we
were engaged in was not an unholy act, it was at least a piece of gross
deception, and I would not countenance it by any further participation.
“Why,” exclaimed he, “don’t you want to get your butter?”
“Yes,” said I, “I would like to have my butter, but I don’t choose to
resort to a charm to obtain it.”
“No doubt this is a charm,” said he, “but it is done in a good name; and
I have done it before for as good as ever you were.”
“So much the worse,” I replied; “that holy name should never be profaned
in such a manner, and I am sorry any person would be so wicked or so
foolish as to encourage you in your tricks. I neither like you nor your
proceedings, and the sooner you go about your business the better.”
He started to his feet in a passion, blew out the candle, seized the
plate, and attempted to throw the contents into the fireplace; but my
wife, who did not wish her hearth to be wet, took it from him and laid it
past. He fumed and stormed, said I let him take a great deal of trouble
on my account, and insisted on proceeding; but I was determined, and,
being considerably chafed and annoyed by the transaction, I again ordered
him off, and left him.
In a few moments I heard the noise of a violent altercation and scuffle,
and I was loudly called on. I hastened to the scene of contention, and
found my wife holding Orohoo by the neck, and preventing his departure.
“What’s all this?” I exclaimed. “This fellow,” said she, “when he was
going, took a live coal out of the grate, and told me to take care of my
children.” This he stiffly denied, until confronted by the servant, and I
threatened to give him up to the police as an impostor, when he quailed,
and acknowledged that he had said so, but that he meant no harm by it.
“And sure,” said he, “there’s no harm in bidding you mind them; for if
your cow was hurt, so may your children. You’re not treating me well,”
he continued; “I came at the bidding of a friend to do you a good turn,
and asked nothing for it, and now you’re putting me out; you’ll be glad
to see me yet, though. But take my advice: never throw out your Sunday’s
ashes until Tuesday morning, and always sweep your floor in from the door
to the hearth.” And away he went.
My heart now beat easy, for I thought we had fairly got rid of the
fairy man; but I was to be still further mystified and bewildered. On
examining the plate over which he had performed his incantations, we
found the contents to be thick, yellow, and slimy, with a red sediment
like globules of blood at the bottom. This seemed extraordinary, as I
certainly watched him closely, and did not see him put any thing into the
plate but milk, water, and salt.
The month now drew near a close, and our bread was still butterless. This
often caused the morsel to stick in the throat of my poor dear partner,
who felt none of the scruples of conscience with which I was affected,
and firmly believed, her cow was bewitched. “Here we are day after day
losing, our substance, and might have it only for your squeamishness in
not letting the fairy man finish his job.” Thus she would argue, and
hesitated not to call me a fool, nay, a downright ass; and indeed my
neighbours were much of the same opinion: one of them, a respectable
farmer’s wife, was particularly pertinacious. “My Robin,” said she one
evening, as they were harping on the old string, “my Robin was down
in Sligo, and he heard that if you got the coulter of a plough, and
made it red-hot in the fire, while you were churning the butter would
come back; or if you chose to churn on Sunday morning before the lark
sings, you will surely get it.” “Tempt me no more with your spells or
Sabbath-breaking; I will have none of them,” said I, impatiently; “I will
never barter my peace of mind for a pound of butter, if I should never
eat a morsel.”
But, in truth, my peace of mind was gone, for the continual urging and
yammering I was subjected to made me heartily sick, and I inwardly
resolved to sell the cow the first opportunity, and so end the matter.
On May eve, in the afternoon, I had occasion to leave home for a short
time, and on my return was rather surprised to find all the windows
closed and the door locked against me. I knocked and called for
admittance, but received no answer; and hearing the noise of churning
going on within, “fast and furious,” the truth flashed across my mind;
and lamenting my wife’s credulity, I retired to the garden to await
the result. In a short time she came running out like one demented,
clapping her hands and screaming, “Oh! we’ve got the butter, we’ve got
the butter!” and on going in I found a coulter phizzing and sparkling at
a white heat in the fire, an ass’s shoe (which had been found a few days
previously) under the churn, my worthy neighbour aforesaid standing over
it, panting and blowing from the exertions she had made on my behoof,
and wiping the dew-drops from her really comely countenance, and in the
churn, floating like lumps of gold in a sea of silver, as fine a churning
of butter as ever we were blessed with.
Well, I own I was staggered, and being triumphantly asked, “Now, is there
no witchcraft or virtue in a red-hot coulter?” I could scarcely muster up
courage to utter “No.” In vain I protested the butter came back because
“Brownie” got back to her pasture, in consequence of the change in her
feeding, from dry fodder to the mellow and genial produce of spring, as
the loss at first was owing to the transition from grass to hay. ’Twas
to no purpose to argue thus: all else were positive it was otherwise;
but whether the virtue was in Orohoo’s incantations, the efficacy of
the red-hot coulter, the influence of the ass’s shoe, or the tremendous
pommelling the milk was subjected to on the occasion, no one could
exactly say.
A few days after, I conversed on the subject with an intelligent person,
a herd in charge of an extensive stock farm. After hearing my story to
an end, he indulged in a hearty laugh at my expense. “Faith,” said he,
“I took you for a sensible man, and did not suppose you would credit
such folly.” “I’d as soon believe my mother was a bishop,” said I, “as
put any faith in it some time ago. But how can I get over the chain of
circumstantial evidence?--not a link of it wanting. First, ‘the Hawk’
coming with her seven-and-sixpenny geese, then the gipsies and the piper,
and losing my butter just then.” “’Tis very easy,” said he, “to account
for it. In the first place, you took your cow from grass and fed her on
hay.” “Yes, but she had plenty of winter cabbage, and we gave her boiled
potatoes.” “Just the thing; cabbage is good for plenty of milk, but not
for butter. I’ll engage you gave her the potatoes warm.” “Yes.” “And she
got a scour?” “Indeed she did, and her hair fell off.” “So I thought. And
afterwards she got in good condition?” “Yes.” “Oh! ay, she put her butter
on her ribs. Did you kill a pig at Christmas?” “I did.” “Where did you
put your bacon in press?” “Why, under the shelf in the dairy.” “Now the
murder is out! Never as long as you live put meat, either fresh or salt,
near your milk-vessels; if you do, you will surely spoil your milk and
lose your butter.” “This may account for my loss, but what have you to
say to its coming back?” “Why, what’s to hinder it, when your bacon is
in the chimney and your cow at grass?” “But the red blobs in the plate,
and Orohoo fighting the devil for me, what do you say to that?” Here he
gave way to such a violent fit of laughter that I really thought he would
burst the waistband of his doe-skins. “Orohoo! ha! ha!--Orohoo! ha! ha!
ha!--the greatest villain that ever breathed. He came to me one time that
I had a cow sick, and said she was fairy-smitten, and that he would cure
her. He began with his tricks with the milk and water, just the same
as he did with you; but I watched him closer; and when I saw the smoke
rising out of the plate, I got him by the neck, shook a little bottle
of vitriol out of the cuff of his coat, and took a paper of red earthy
powder out of his waistcoat pocket.” I looked aghast and confounded. Was
I, then, the dupe of the fairy man? The thought was humiliating, and
I even wished that I had remained in ignorance, but on reflection had
reason to congratulate myself that it was only a temporary lapse, and
that I was right in my original opinion, that, except the witchery of a
pair of blue languishers, or the fairy spell of a silver-tongued syren,
there is now no evil of the kind to be apprehended.