[Illustration: Initial: "The Leprechawn"]
Every mythology has its good and evil spirits which are objects of
adoration and subjects of terror, and often both classes are worshipped
from opposite motives; the good, that the worshipper may receive benefit;
the evil, that he may escape harm. Sometimes good deities are so
benevolent that they are neglected, superstitious fear directing all
devotion towards the evil spirits to propitiate them and avert the
calamities they are ever ready to bring upon the human race; sometimes the
malevolent deities have so little power that the prayer of the pious is
offered up to the good spirits that they may pour out still further
favors, for man is a worshipping being, and will prostrate himself with
equal fervor before the altar whether the deity be good or bad.
Midway, however, between the good and evil beings of all mythologies there
is often one whose qualities are mixed; not wholly good nor entirely evil,
but balanced between the two, sometimes doing a generous action, then
descending to a petty meanness, but never rising to nobility of character
nor sinking to the depths of depravity; good from whim, and mischievous
from caprice.
Such a being is the Leprechawn of Ireland, a relic of the pagan mythology
of that country. By birth the Leprechawn is of low descent, his father
being an evil spirit and his mother a degenerate fairy; by nature he is a
mischief-maker, the Puck of the Emerald Isle. He is of diminutive size,
about three feet high, and is dressed in a little red jacket or
roundabout, with red breeches buckled at the knee, gray or black
stockings, and a hat, cocked in the style of a century ago, over a little,
old, withered face. Round his neck is an Elizabethan ruff, and frills of
lace are at his wrists. On the wild west coast, where the Atlantic winds
bring almost constant rains, he dispenses with ruff and frills and wears a
frieze overcoat over his pretty red suit, so that, unless on the lookout
for the cocked hat, "ye might pass a Leprechawn on the road and never know
it's himself that's in it at all."
In Clare and Galway, the favorite amusement of the Leprechawn is riding a
sheep or goat, or even a dog, when the other animals are not available,
and if the sheep look weary in the morning or the dog is muddy and worn
out with fatigue, the peasant understands that the local Leprechawn has
been going on some errand that lay at a greater distance than he cared to
travel on foot. Aside from riding the sheep and dogs almost to death, the
Leprechawn is credited with much small mischief about the house. Sometimes
he will make the pot boil over and put out the fire, then again he will
make it impossible for the pot to boil at all. He will steal the
bacon-flitch, or empty the potato-kish, or fling the baby down on the
floor, or occasionally will throw the few poor articles of furniture about
the room with a strength and vigor altogether disproportioned to his
diminutive size. But his mischievous pranks seldom go further than to
drink up all the milk or despoil the proprietor's bottle of its poteen,
sometimes, in sportiveness, filling the bottle with water, or, when very
angry, leading the fire up to the thatch, and then startling the in-mates
of the cabin with his laugh as they rise, frightened, to put out the
flames.
To offset these troublesome attributes, the Leprechawn is very domestic,
and sometimes attaches himself to a family, always of the "rale owld
shtock," accompanying its representatives from the castle to the cabin and
never deserting them unless driven away by some act of insolence or
negligence, "for, though he likes good atin', he wants phat he gets to
come wid an open hand, an' 'ud laver take the half av a pratee that's
freely given than the whole av a quail that's begrudged him." But what he
eats must be specially intended for him, an instance being cited by a
Clare peasant of a Leprechawn that deserted an Irish family, because, on
one occasion, the dog having left a portion of his food, it was set by for
the Leprechawn. "Jakers, 't was as mad as a little wasp he was, an' all
that night they heard him workin' away in the cellar as busy as a nailer,
an' a sound like a catheract av wather goin' widout saycin'. In the
mornin' they wint to see phat he'd been at, but he was gone, an' whin they
come to thry for the wine, bad loock to the dhrop he'd left, but all was
gone from ivery cask an' bottle, and they were filled wid say-wather,
beways av rayvinge o' phat they done him."
In different country districts the Leprechawn has different names. In the
northern counties he is the Logheryman; in Tipperary, he is the
Lurigadawne; in Kerry, the Luricawne; in Monaghan, the Cluricawne. The
dress also varies. The Logheryman wears the uniform of some British
infantry regiments, a red coat and white breeches, but instead of a cap,
he wears a broad-brimmed, high, pointed hat, and after doing some trick
more than usually mischievous, his favorite position is to poise himself
on the extreme point of his hat, standing at the top of a wall or on a
house, feet in the air, then laugh heartily and disappear. The Lurigadawne
wears an antique slashed jacket of red, with peaks all round and a jockey
cap, also sporting a sword, which he uses as a magic wand. The Luricawne
is a fat, pursy little fellow whose jolly round face rivals in redness the
cut-a-way jacket he wears, that always has seven rows of seven buttons in
each row, though what use they are has never been determined, since his
jacket is never buttoned, nor, indeed, can it be, but falls away from a
shirt invariably white as the snow. When in full dress he wears a helmet
several sizes too large for him, but, in general, prudently discards this
article of headgear as having a tendency to render him conspicuous in a
country where helmets are obsolete, and wraps his head in a handkerchief
that he ties over his ears.
The Cluricawne of Monaghan is a little dandy, being gorgeously arrayed in
a swallow-tailed evening coat of red with green vest, white breeches,
black stockings, and shoes that "fur the shine av 'em 'ud shame a
lookin'-glass." His hat is a long cone without a brim, and is usually set
jauntily on one side of his curly head. When greatly provoked, he will
sometimes take vengeance by suddenly ducking and poking the sharp point of
his hat into the eye of the offender. Such conduct is, however,
exceptional, as he commonly contents himself with soundly abusing those at
whom he has taken offence, the objects of his anger hearing his voice but
seeing nothing of his person.
One of the most marked peculiarities of the Leprechawn family is their
intense hatred of schools and schoolmasters, arising, perhaps, from the
ridicule of them by teachers, who affect to disbelieve in the existence of
the Leprechawn and thus insult him, for "it's very well beknownst, that
onless ye belave in him an' thrate him well, he'll lave an' come back no
more." He does not even like to remain in the neighborhood where a
national school has been established, and as such schools are now numerous
in Ireland, the Leprechawns are becoming scarce. "Wan gineration of
taichers is enough for thim, bekase the families where the little fellys
live forgit to set thim out the bit an' sup, an' so they lave." The few
that remain must have a hard time keeping soul and body together for
nowhere do they now receive any attention at meal-times, nor is the
anxiety to see one by any means so great as in the childhood of men still
living. Then, to catch a Leprechawn was certain fortune to him who had the
wit to hold the mischief-maker a captive until demands for wealth were
complied with.
"Mind ye," said a Kerry peasant, "the onliest time ye can ketch the little
vagabone is whin he's settin' down, an' he niver sets down axceptin' whin
his brogues want mendin'. He runs about so much he wears thim out, an'
whin he feels his feet on the ground, down he sets undher a hidge or
behind a wall, or in the grass, an' takes thim aff an' mends thim. Thin
comes you by, as quiet as a cat an' sees him there, that ye can aisily, be
his red coat, an' you shlippin' up on him, catches him in yer arrums.
"'Give up yer goold,' says you.
"'Begob, I've no goold,' says he.
"'Then outs wid yer magic purse,' says you.
"But it's like pullin' a hat full av taith to get aither purse or goold av
him. He's got goold be the ton, an' can tell ye where ye can put yer
finger on it, but he wont, till ye make him, an' that ye must do be no
aisey manes. Some cuts aff his wind be chokin' him, an' some bates him,
but don't for the life o' ye take yer eyes aff him, fur if ye do, he's aff
like a flash an' the same man niver sees him agin, an' that's how it was
wid Michael O'Dougherty.
"He was afther lookin' for wan nigh a year, fur he wanted to get married
an' hadn't anny money, so he thought the aisiest was to ketch a Luricawne.
So he was lookin' an' watchin' an' the fellys makin' fun av him all the
time. Wan night he was comin' back afore day from a wake he'd been at, an'
on the way home he laid undher the hidge an' shlept awhile, thin riz an'
walked on. So as he was walkin', he seen a Luricawne in the grass be the
road a-mendin' his brogues. So he shlipped up an' got him fast enough, an'
thin made him tell him where was his goold. The Luricawne tuk him to nigh
the place in the break o' the hills an' was goin' fur to show him, when
all at wanst Mike heard the most outprobrious scraich over the head av him
that 'ud make the hairs av ye shtand up like a mad cat's tail.
"'The saints defind me,' says he, 'phat's that?' an' he looked up from the
Luricawne that he was carryin' in his arrums. That minnit the little
attomy wint out av his sight, fur he looked away from it an' it was gone,
but he heard it laugh when it wint an' he niver got the goold but died
poor, as me father knows, an' he a boy when it happened."
Although the Leprechawns are skilful in evading curious eyes, and, when
taken, are shrewd in escaping from their captors, their tricks are
sometimes all in vain, and after resorting to every device in their power,
they are occasionally compelled to yield up their hidden stores, one
instance of which was narrated by a Galway peasant.
"It was Paddy Donnelly av Connemara. He was always hard at work as far as
anny wan seen, an' bad luck to the day he'd miss, barrin' Sundays. When
all 'ud go to the fair, sorra a fut he'd shtir to go near it, no more did
a dhrop av dhrink crass his lips. When they'd ax him why he didn't take
divarshun, he'd laugh an' tell thim his field was divarshun enough fur
him, an' by an' by he got rich, so they knewn that when they were at the
fair or wakes or shports, it was lookin' fur a Leprechawn he was an' not
workin', an' he got wan too, fur how else cud he get rich at all."
And so it must have been, in spite of the denials of Paddy Donnelly,
though, to do him justice, he stoutly affirmed that his small property was
acquired by industry, economy, and temperance. But according to the
opinions of his neighbors, "bad scran to him 't was as greedy as a pig he
was, fur he knewn where the goold was, an' wanted it all fur himself, an'
so lied about it like the Leprechawns, that's known to be the biggest
liars in the world."
The Leprechawn is an old bachelor elf who successfully resists all efforts
of scheming fairy mammas to marry him to young and beautiful fairies,
persisting in single blessedness even in exile from his kind, being driven
off as a punishment for his heterodoxy on matrimonial subjects. This is
one explanation of the fact that Leprechawns are always seen alone, though
other authorities make the Leprechawn solitary by preference, he having
learned the hollowness of fairy friendship and the deceitfulness of fairy
femininity, and left the society of his kind in disgust at its lack of
sincerity.
It must be admitted that the latter explanation seems the more reasonable,
since whenever the Leprechawn has been captured and forced to engage in
conversation with his captor he displayed conversational powers that
showed an ability to please, and as woman kind, even among fairy circles,
are, according to an Irish proverb, "aisily caught be an oily tongue," the
presumption is against the expulsion of the Leprechawn and in favor of his
voluntary retirement.
[Illustration: Returning the next morning with the spade]
However this may be, one thing is certain to the minds of all wise women
and fairy-men, that he is the "thrickiest little divil that iver wore a
brogue," whereof abundant proof is given. There was Tim O'Donovan, of
Kerry, who captured a Leprechawn and forced him to disclose the spot where
the "pot o' goold" was concealed. Tim was going to make the little rogue
dig up the money for him, but, on the Leprechawn advancing the plea that
he had no spade, released him, marking the spot by driving a stick into
the ground and placing his hat on it. Returning the next morning with a
spade, the spot pointed out by the "little ottomy av a desaver" being in
the centre of a large bog, he found, to his unutterable disgust, that the
Leprechawn was too smart for him, for in every direction innumerable
sticks rose out of the bog, each bearing aloft an old "caubeen" so closely
resembling his own that poor Tim, after long search, was forced to admit
himself baffled and give up the gold that, on the evening before, had been
fairly within his grasp, if "he'd only had the brains in his shkull to
make the Leprechawn dig it for him, shpade or no shpade."
Even when caught, therefore, the captor must outwit the captive, and the
wily little rascal, having a thousand devices, generally gets away without
giving up a penny, and sometimes succeeds in bringing the eager
fortune-hunter to grief, a notable instance of which was the case of
Dennis O'Bryan, of Tipperary, as narrated by an old woman of Crusheen.
"It's well beknownst that the Leprechawn has a purse that's got the
charmed shillin'. Only wan shillin', but the wondher av the purse is this:
No matther how often ye take out a shillin' from it, the purse is niver
empty at all, but whin ye put yer finger in agin, ye always find wan
there, fur the purse fills up when ye take wan from it, so ye may shtand
all day countin' out the shillin's an' they comin', that's a thrick av the
good peoples an' be magic.
"Now Dinnis was a young blaggard that was always afther peepin' about
undher the hidge fur to ketch a Leprechawn, though they do say that thim
that doesn't sarch afther thim sees thim oftener than thim that does, but
Dinnis made his mind up that if there was wan in the counthry, he'd have
him, fur he hated work worse than sin, an' did be settin' in a shebeen day
in an' out till you'd think he'd grow on the sate. So wan day he was
comin' home, an' he seen something red over in the corner o' the field,
an' in he goes, as quiet as a mouse, an' up on the Leprechawn an' grips
him be the collar an' down's him on the ground.
"'Arrah, now, ye ugly little vagabone,' says he, 'I've got ye at last. Now
give up yer goold, or by jakers I'll choke the life out av yer
pin-squazin' carkidge, ye owld cobbler, ye,' says he, shakin' him fit to
make his head dhrop aff.
"The Leprechawn begged, and scritched, an' cried, an' said he wasn't a
rale Leprechawn that was in it, but a young wan that hadn't anny goold,
but Dinnis wouldn't let go av him, an' at last the Leprechawn said he'd
take him to the pot ov goold that was hid be the say, in a glen in Clare.
Dinnis didn't want to go so far, bein' afeared the Leprechawn 'ud get
away, an' he thought the divilish baste was afther lyin' to him, bekase he
knewn there was goold closter than that, an' so he was chokin' him that
his eyes stood out till ye cud knock 'em aff wid a shtick, an' the
Leprechawn axed him would he lave go if he'd give him the magic purse.
Dinnis thought he'd betther do it, fur he was mortially afeared the
oudacious little villin 'ud do him some thrick an' get away, so he tuk the
purse, afther lookin' at it to make sure it was red shilk, an' had the
shillin' in it, but the minnit he tuk his two eyes aff the Leprechawn,
away wint the rogue wid a laugh that Dinnis didn't like at all.
"But he was feelin' very comfortable be razon av gettin' the purse, an'
says to himself, 'Begorra, 'tis mesilf that'll ate the full av me
waistband fur wan time, an' dhrink till a stame-ingine can't squaze wan
dhrop more down me neck,' says he, and aff he goes like a quarther-horse
fur Miss Clooney's sheebeen, that's where he used fur to go. In he goes,
an' there was Paddy Grogan, an' Tim O'Donovan, an' Mike Conathey, an'
Bryan Flaherty, an' a shtring more av 'em settin' on the table, an' he
pulls up a sate an' down he sets, a-callin' to Miss Clooney to bring her
best.
"'Where's yer money?' says she to him, fur he didn't use to have none
barrin' a tuppence or so.
"'Do you have no fear,' says he, 'fur the money,' says he, 'ye
pinny-schrapin' owld shkeleton,' this was beways av a shot at her, fur it
was the size av a load o' hay she was, an' weighed a ton. 'Do you bring
yer best,' says he. 'I'm a gintleman av forchune, bad loock to the job o'
work I'll do till the life laves me. Come, jintlemin, dhrink at my
axpinse.' An' so they did an' more than wanst, an' afther four or five
guns apace, Dinnis ordhered dinner fur thim all, but Miss Clooney towld
him sorra the bit or sup more 'ud crass the lips av him till he paid fur
that he had. So out he pulls the magic purse fur to pay, an' to show it
thim an' towld thim phat it was an' where he got it.
"'And was it the Leprechawn gev it ye?' says they.
"'It was,' says Dinnis, 'an' the varchew av this purse is sich, that if ye
take shillin's out av it be the handful all day long, they'll be comin' in
a shtrame like whishkey out av a jug,' says he, pullin' out wan.
"And thin, me jewel, he put in his fingers afther another, but it wasn't
there, for the Leprechawn made a ijit av him, an' instid o' givin' him the
right purse, gev him wan just like it, so as onless ye looked clost, ye
cudn't make out the differ betune thim. But the face on Dinnis was a holy
show when he seen the Leprechawn had done him, an' he wid only a shillin',
an' half a crown av dhrink down the troats av thim.
"'To the divil wid you an' yer Leprechawns, an' purses, an' magic
shillin's,' schreamed Miss Clooney, belavin', an' small blame to her
that's, that it was lyin' to her he was. 'Ye're a thafe, so ye are,
dhrinkin' up me dhrink, wid a lie on yer lips about the purse, an'
insultin' me into the bargain,' says she, thinkin' how he called her a
shkeleton, an' her a load fur a waggin. 'Yer impidince bates owld Nick, so
it does,' says she; so she up an' hits him a power av a crack on the head
wid a bottle; an' the other felly's, a-thinkin' sure that it was a lie he
was afther tellin' them, an' he laving thim to pay fur the dhrink he'd
had, got on him an' belted him out av the face till it was nigh onto dead
he was. Then a consthable comes along an' hears the phillaloo they did be
makin' an' comes in.
"'Tatther an' agers,' says he, 'lave aff. I command the pace. Phat's the
matther here?'
"So they towld him an' he consayved that Dinnis shtole the purse an' tuk
him be the collar.
"'Lave go,' says Dinnis. 'Sure phat's the harrum o' getting the purse av a
Leprechawn?'
"'None at all,' says the polisman, 'av ye projuice the Leprechawn an' make
him teshtify he gev it ye an' that ye haven't been burglarious an'
sarcumvinted another man's money,' says he.
"But Dinnis cudn't do it, so the cunsthable tumbled him into the jail.
From that he wint to coort an' got thirty days at hard labor, that he
niver done in his life afore, an' afther he got out, he said he'd left
lookin' for Leprechawns, fur they were too shmart fur him entirely, an'
it's thrue fur him, bekase I belave they were."
[Illustration: "Playing his pranks"]