[Illustration: Initial: "The Defeat of the Widows"]
When superstitions have not yet been banished from any other part of the
world it is not wonderful that they should still be found in the country
districts of Ireland, rural life being especially favorable to the
perpetuation of old ways of living and modes of thought, since in an
agricultural district less change takes place in a century than may, in a
city, be observed in a single decade. Country people preserve their old
legends with their antique styles of apparel, and thus the relics of the
pagan ages of Ireland have come down from father to son, altered and
adapted to the changes in the country and its population. Thus, for
instance, the old-fashioned witch is no longer found in any part of
Ireland, her memory lingering only as a tradition, but her modern
successor is frequently met with, and in many parishes a retired hovel in
a secluded lane is a favorite resort of the neighboring peasants, for it
is the home of the Pishogue, or wise woman, who collects herbs, and, in
her way, doctors her patients, sometimes with simple medicinal remedies,
sometimes with charms, according to their gullibility and the nature of
their ailments.
Not far from Ballinahinch, a fishing village on Birterbuy Bay, in the
County Galway, and in the most lonely valley of the neighborhood, there
dwells one of these wise women who supplant the ancient witches. The hovel
which shelters her bears every indication of wretched poverty; the floor
is mud, the smoke escapes through a hole in the thatch in default of a
chimney; the bed is a scanty heap of straw in the corner, and two rude
shelves, bearing a small assortment of cracked jars and broken bottles,
constitute Moll's stock in trade.
The misery of her household surroundings, however, furnished to the minds
of her patients no argument against the efficiency of her remedies, Moll
being commonly believed to have "a power av goold," though no one had ever
seen any portion thereof. But with all her reputed riches she had no fear
of robbers, for "she could aisily do for thim did they but come as many as
the shtraws in the thatch," and would-be robbers, no doubt understanding
that fact, prudently consulted their own safety by staying away from the
vicinity of her cabin.
"Owld Moll," as she was known, was a power in the parish, and her help was
sought in many emergencies. Did a cow go dry, Moll knew the reason and
might possibly remove the spell; if a baby fell ill, Moll had an
explanation of its ailment, and could tell at a glance whether the little
one was or was not affected by the evil eye of a secret enemy. If a pig
was stolen, she was shrewd in her conjectures as to the direction its
wrathful owner must take in the search. But her forte lay in bringing
about love-matches. Many were the charms at her command for this purpose,
and equally numerous the successes with which she was accredited. Some
particulars of her doings in this direction were furnished by Jerry
Magwire, a jolly car-man of Galway, who had himself been benefited by her
services.
"Sure I was married meself be her manes," stated Jerry, "an' this is the
way it was. Forty-nine years ago come next Mickelmas, I was a good-lookin'
young felly, wid a nate cabin on the road from Ballinasloe to Ballinamore,
havin' a fine car an' a mare an' her colt, that was as good as two horses
whin the colt grew up. I was afther payin' coort to Dora O'Callighan, that
was the dawther av Misther O'Callighan that lived in the County Galway,
an', be the same token, was a fine man. In thim times I used be comin'
over here twict or three times a year wid a bagman, commercial thraveller,
you'd call him, an' I heard say av Owld Moll, an' she wasn't owld thin,
an' the next time I come, I wint to her an' got an inchantmint. Faix, some
av it is gone from me, but I mind that I was to change me garthers, an'
tie on me thumb a bit o' bark she gev me, an' go to the churchyard on
Halloween, an' take the first chilla-ca-pooka (snail) I found on a
tombshtone, an' begob, it was that same job that was like to be the death
o' me, it bein' dark an' I bendin' to look clost, a hare jumped in me face
from undher the shtone. 'Jagers,' says I, an' me fallin' on me back on the
airth an' the life lavin' me. 'Presince o' God be about me,' says I, for I
knewn the inchantmint wasn't right, no more I oughtn't to be at it, but
the hare was skairt like meself an' run, an' I found the shnail an' run
too wid the shweat pourin' aff me face in shtrames.
"So I put the shnail in a plate that I covered wid another, an' av the
Sunday, I opened it fur to see phat letters it writ, an' bad luck to the
wan o' thim cud I rade at all, fur in thim days I cudn't tell A from any
other letther. I tuk the plate to Misther O'Callighan, fur he was a fine
scholar an' cud rade both books an' writin', an' axed him phat the letters
was.
"'A-a-ah, ye ignerant gommoch,' says he to me, 'yer head's as empty as a
drum. Sure here's no writin' at all, only marks that the shnail's afther
makin' an' it crawlin' on the plate.'
"So I axplained the inchantmint to him, an' he looked a little closter,
an' thin jumped wid shurprise.
"'Oh,' says he. 'Is that thrue?' says he. 'Ye must axqueeze me, Misther
Magwire. Sure the shnails does n't write a good hand, an' I'm an owld man
an' me eyes dim, but I see it betther now. Faith, the first letter's a D,'
says he, an' thin he shtudied awhile. 'An' the next is a O, an' thin
there's a C,' says he, 'only the D an' the C is bigger than the O, an'
that's all the letters there is,' says he.
"'An' phat does thim letters shpell?' says I, bekase I did n't know.
"'Ah, bad scran to 'em,' says he; 'there's thim cows in me field agin,'
says he. 'Ax Dora, here she comes,' an' away he wint as she come in, an' I
axed her phat D. O. C. shpelt; an' she towld me her name, an' I go bail
she was surprised to find the shnail had writ thim letters on the plate,
so we marr'd the next Sunday.
"But Owld Moll is a knowledgeable woman an' has a power av shpells an'
charms. There's Tim Gallagher, him as dhrives the public car out o'
Galway, he's bought his luck av her be the month, fur nigh on twinty year,
barrin' wan month, that he forgot, an' that time he shpilt his load in the
ditch an' kilt a horse, bein' too dhrunk to dhrive.
"Whin me dawther Dora, that was named afther her mother, was ill afther
she'd been to the dance, whin O'Hoolighan's Peggy was married to Paddy
Noonan (she danced too hard in the cabin an' come home in the rain), me
owld woman wint to Moll an' found that Dora had been cast wid an avil eye.
So she gev her a tay to dhrink an' a charm to wear agin it, an' afther
she'd dhrunk the tay an' put on the charm the faver lift her, an' she was
well entirely.
[Illustration: AN' PHAT DOES THIM LETTERS SHPELL?]