(Second Article.)
In a former paper we gave an authentic account of what the country folks,
and we ourselves at the time, looked upon as a genuine instance of
apparition. It appeared to the simple-minded to be a clear and distinct
case, exhibiting all those minute and subordinate details which, by an
arrangement naturally happy and without concert, go to the formation
of truth. There was, however, but one drawback in the matter, and that
was the ludicrous and inadequate nature of the moral motive; for what
unsteady and derogatory notions of Providence must we not entertain when
we see the order and purposes of his divine will so completely degraded
and travestied by the fact of a human soul returning to this earth again
for the ridiculous object of settling the claim to a pair of breeches!
When we see the succession to crowns and kingdoms, and the inheritance
to large territorial property and great personal rank, all left so
completely undecided that ruin and desolation have come upon nations and
families in attempting their adjustment, and when we see a laughable
dispute about a pair of breeches settled by a personal revelation from
another life, we cannot help asking why the supernatural intimation was
permitted in the one case and not in the other, especially when their
relative importance differed so essentially? To follow up this question,
however, by insisting upon a principle so absurd, would place Providence
in a position so perfectly unreasonable and capricious, that we do not
wish to press the inference so far as admission of divine interference in
such a manner would justify us in doing.
Having detailed the case of Daly’s daughter, however, we take our
leave of the girl and the ghost, and turn now to another case which
came under our own observation in connection with Frank Martin and the
fairies. Before commencing, however, we shall by way of introduction
endeavour to give our readers a few short particulars as to fairies,
their origin, character, and conduct. And as we happen to be on this
subject, we cannot avoid regretting that we have not by us copies of two
most valuable works upon it from the pen of our learned and admirable
countryman, Thomas Keightly--we allude to his Fairy Mythology and his
History of the Transmission of Popular Fictions; two works which cannot
be perused without delight at the happy manner in which so much learning
and amusement, so much solid information, and all that is agreeable in
extensive research, are inimitably combined. We are sorry, we repeat,
that we have them not by us; but we trust that we may on some early
occasion be allowed to notice them at greater length, and to give them a
more formal recommendation to our countrymen.
With the etymology of the word fairy we do not intend in a publication
like this to puzzle our readers. It is with the tradition connected
with the _thing_ that we have to do, and not with a variety of learned
speculations, which appear after all to be yet unsettled. The general
opinion, in Ireland at least, is, that during the war of Lucifer in
heaven the angels were divided into three classes. The first class
consisted of those faithful spirits who at once and without hesitation
adhered to the standard of the Omnipotent; the next consisted of those
who openly rebelled and followed the great apostate, sharing eternal
perdition along with him; the third and last consisted of those who,
during the mighty clash and uproar of the contending hosts, stood timidly
aloof and refused to join either power. These, says the tradition, were
hurled out of heaven, some upon earth and some into the waters of the
earth, where they are to remain ignorant of their fate until the day of
judgment. They know their own power, however, and it is said that nothing
but their hopes of salvation prevent them from at once annihilating the
whole human race. Such is the broad basis of the general superstition;
but our traditional history and conception of the popular fairy falls
far short of the historical dignity associated with its origin. The
fairy of the people is a diminutive creature, generally dressed in
green, irritable, capricious, and quite unsteady in all its principles
and dealings with mankind. Sometimes it exhibits singular proofs of
ingenuity, but, on the contrary, is frequently overreached by mere mortal
capacity. It is impossible to say in dealing with it whether its conduct
will be found benevolent or otherwise, for it often has happened that its
threats of injury have ended in kindness, and its promises of protection
terminated in malice and treachery. What is very remarkable too is, that
it by no means appears to be a mere spirit, but a being with passions,
appetites, and other natural wants like ourselves. Indeed, the society
or community of fairies appears to be less self-dependent than ours,
inasmuch as there are several offices among them which they not only
cannot perform, but which render it necessary that we should be stolen
and domiciled with them, for the express purpose of performing for them.
Like us they are married and given in marriage, and rear families; but
whether their offspring are subject to death, is a matter not exactly
of the clearest. Some traditions affirm that they are, and others that
they are as immortal as the angels, although possessing material bodies
analogous to our own. The fairy, in fact, is supposed to be a singular
mixture of good and evil, not very moral in its actions or objects, often
very thievish, and sometimes benevolent when kindness is least expected
from it. It is generally supposed by the people that this singular class
of fictitious creatures enjoy as a kind of right the richest and best of
all the fruits of the earth, and that the top grain of wheat, oats, &c.,
and the ripest apple, pear, &c., all belong to them, and are taken as
their own exclusive property.
They have also other acknowledged rights which they never suffer to be
violated with impunity. For instance, wherever a meal is eaten upon the
grass in an open field, and the crumbs are not shaken down upon the
spot for their use, there they are sure to leave one of their curses
called the _far gurtha_, or the hungry man: for whoever passes over
that particular spot for ever afterwards is liable to be struck down
with weakness and hunger; and unless he can taste a morsel of bread, he
neither will nor can recover. The weakness in this instance, however, is
not natural, for if the person affected but tastes as much meal or flour
as would lie on the point of a penknife, he will instantaneously break
the spell of the fairies, and recover his former strength. Such spots are
said to be generally known by their superior verdure: they are always
round, and the diameter of these little circles is seldom more than a
single step. The grass which grows upon them is called in the north and
parts of the north-west _hungry-grass_, and is accounted for as we have
already stated. Indeed, the walks and haunts of the fairies are to be
considered as very sacred and inviolate. For instance, it is dangerous to
throw out dirty water after dusk or before sunrise, lest in doing so you
bespatter them with a liquid as unsavoury to the smell as it is unclean
to the touch: for these little gentry are peculiarly fond of cleanliness
and neatness, both in dress and person. Bishop Andrews’s Lamentation for
the Fairies gives as humorous and correct a notion of their personal
habits in this way, and their disposition to reward cleanliness in
servants, as could be written.
We shall ourselves relate a short anecdote or two touching them, before
we come to Frank Martin’s case; premising to our readers that we could if
we wished fill a volume--ay, three of them--with anecdotes and legends
connected with our irritable but good-humoured little friends.
Paddy Corcoran’s wife was for several years afflicted with a kind of
complaint which nobody could properly understand. She was sick, and she
was not sick; she was well, and she was not well; she was as ladies wish
to be who love their lords, and she was not as such ladies wish to be. In
fact, nobody could tell what the matter with her was. She had a gnawing
at the heart which came heavily upon her husband; for, with the help of
God, a keener appetite than the same gnawing amounted to could not be
met with of a summer’s day. The poor woman was delicate beyond belief,
and had no appetite at all, so she hadn’t, barring a little relish for a
mutton-chop, or a “staik,” or a bit o’ mait, anyway; for sure, God help
her! she hadn’t the laist inclination for the dhry pratie, or the dhrop
o’ sour butthermilk along wid it, especially as she was so poorly: and
indeed for a woman in her condition--for, sick as she was, poor Paddy
always was made to believe her in _that_ condition--but God’s will be
done! she didn’t care. A pratie an’ a grain o’ salt was as welcome to
her--glory be to his name!--as the best roast an’ boiled that ever was
dressed; an’ why not? There was one comfort: she wouldn’t be long wid
him--long throublin’ him; it matthered little what she got; but sure she
knew herself that from the gnawin’ at her heart, she could never do good
widout the little bit o’ mait now and then; an’, sure, if her own husband
begridged it to her, who else had she a betther right to expect it from?
Well, as we said, she lay a bedridden invalid for long enough, trying
doctors and quacks of all sorts, sexes, and sizes, and all without a
farthing’s benefit, until at the long run poor Paddy was nearly brought
to the last pass in striving to keep her in “the bit o’ mait.” The
seventh year was now on the point of closing, when one harvest day,
as she lay bemoaning her hard condition on her bed beyond the kitchen
fire, a little weeshy woman, dressed in a neat red cloak, comes in, and,
sitting down by the hearth, says,
“Well, Kitty Corcoran, you’ve had a long lair of it there on the broad
o’ yer back for seven years, an’ you’re jist as far from bein’ cured as
ever.”
“Mavrone, ay,” said the other; “in troth that’s what I was this minnit
thinkin’ ov, and a sorrowful thought it is to me.”
“It’s yer own fau’t, thin,” says the little woman; “an’ indeed for that
matter, it’s yer fau’t that ever you wor there at all.”
“Arra, how is that?” asked Kitty; “sure I wouldn’t be here if I could
help it? Do you think it’s a comfort or a pleasure to me to be sick and
bedridden?”
“No,” said the other, “I do not; but I’ll tell you the truth: for the
last seven years you have been annoyin’ us. I am one o’ the good people;
an’ as I have a regard for you, I’m come to let you know the raison why
you’ve been sick so long as you are. For all the time you’ve been ill, if
you’ll take the thrubble to remimber, you’ve threwn out yer dirty wather
afther dusk an’ before sunrise, at the very time we’re passin’ yer door,
which we pass twice a-day. Now, if you avoid this, if you throw it out
in a different place, an’ at a different time, the complaint you have
will lave you: so will the gnawin’ at the heart; an’ you’ll be as well as
ever you wor. If you don’t follow this advice, why, remain as you are,
an’ all the art o’ man can’t cure you.” She then bade her good-bye, and
disappeared.
Kitty, who was glad to be cured on such easy terms, immediately complied
with the injunction of the fairy; and the consequence was, that the next
day she found herself in as good health as ever she enjoyed during her
life.
Lanty M’Clusky had married a wife, and of course it was necessary to
hire a house in which to keep her. Now, Lanty had taken a bit of a farm,
about six acres; but as there was no house on it, he resolved to build
one; and that it might be as comfortable as possible, he selected for the
site of it one of those beautiful green circles that are supposed to be
the play-ground of the fairies. Lanty was warned against this; but as he
was a headstrong man, and not much given to fear, he said he would not
change such a pleasant situation for his house to oblige all the fairies
in Europe. He accordingly proceeded with the building, which he finished
off very neatly; and as it is usual on these occasions to give one’s
neighbours and friends a house-warming, so, in compliance with this good
and pleasant old custom, Lanty having brought home the wife in the course
of the day, got a fiddler, and gave those who had come to see him a dance
in the evening. This was all very well, and the fun and hilarity were
proceeding briskly, when a noise was heard after night had set in, like a
crushing and straining of ribs and rafters on the top of the house. The
folks assembled all listened, and without doubt there was nothing heard
but crushing, and heaving, and pushing, and groaning, and panting, as if
a thousand little men were engaged in pulling down the roof.
“Come,” said a voice, which spoke in a tone of command, “work hard: you
know we must have Lanty’s house down before midnight.”
This was an unwelcome piece of intelligence to Lanty, who, finding
that his enemies were such as he could not cope with, walked out, and
addressed them as follows:--
“Gintlemen, I humbly ax yer pardon for buildin’ on any place belongin’ to
you; but if you’ll have the civilitude to let me alone this night, I’ll
begin to pull down and remove the house to-morrow morning.”
This was followed by a noise like the clapping of a thousand tiny little
hands, and a shout of “Bravo, Lanty! build half way between the two
Whitethorns above the boreen;” and after another hearty little shout of
exultation, there was a brisk rushing noise, and they were heard no more.
The story, however, does not end here; for Lanty, when digging the
foundation of his new house, found the full of a _kam_ of gold: so that
in leaving the fairies to their play-ground, he became a richer man than
ever he otherwise would have been, had he never come in contact with them
at all.
There is another instance of their interference mentioned, in which it
is difficult to say whether their simplicity or benevolence is the most
amusing. In the north of Ireland there are spinning meetings of unmarried
females frequently held at the houses of farmers, called _kemps_. Every
young woman who has got the reputation of being a quick and expert
spinner, attends where the kemp is to be held, at an hour usually before
daylight, and on these occasions she is accompanied by her sweetheart
or some male relative, who carries her wheel, and conducts her safely
across the fields or along the road as the case may be. A kemp is indeed
an animated and joyous scene, and one, besides, which is calculated
to promote industry and decent pride. Scarcely any thing can be more
cheering and agreeable than to hear at a distance, breaking the silence
of morning, the light-hearted voices of many girls either in mirth or
song, the humming sound of the busy wheels--jarred upon a little, it is
true, by the stridulous noise and checkings of the reels, and the voices
of the reelers, as they call aloud the checks, together with the name
of the girl and the quantity she has spun up to that period; for the
contest is generally commenced two or three hours before daybreak. This
mirthful spirit is also sustained by the prospect of a dance--with which,
by the way, every kemp closes; and when the fair victor is declared, she
is to be looked upon as the queen of the meeting, and treated with the
necessary respect.
But to our tale. Every one knew Shaun Buie M’Gaveran to be the cleanest,
best-conducted boy, and the most industrious too, in the whole parish
of Faugh-a-balla. Hard was it to find a young fellow who could handle a
flail, spade, or reaping-hook, in better style, or who could go through
his day’s work in a more creditable or workmanlike manner. In addition
to this he was a fine, well-built, handsome young man as you could meet
in a fair; and so sign was on it, maybe the pretty girls weren’t likely
to pull each other’s caps about him. Shaun, however, was as prudent as
he was good-looking; and although he wanted a wife, yet the sorrow one
of him but preferred taking a well-handed, smart girl, who was known to
be well behaved and industrious like himself. Here, however, was where
the puzzle lay on him, for instead of one girl of that kind, there were
in the neighbourhood no less than a dozen of them--all equally fit and
willing to become his wife, and all equally good-looking. There were two,
however, whom he thought a trifle above the rest; but so nicely balanced
were Biddy Corrigan and Sally Gorman, that for the life of him he could
not make up his mind to decide between them. Each of them had won her
kemp; and it was currently said by them who ought to know, that neither
of them could overmatch the other. No two girls in the parish were better
respected, nor more deserved to be so; and the consequence was, they had
every one’s good word and good wish. Now, it so happened that Shaun had
been pulling a cord with each; and as he knew not how to decide between,
he thought he would allow them to do that themselves if they could. He
accordingly gave out to the neighbours that he would hold a kemp on that
day week, and he told Biddy and Sally especially that he had made up his
mind to marry whichever of them won the kemp, for he knew right well, as
did all the parish, that one of them must. The girls agreed to this very
good-humouredly--Biddy telling Sally, that she (Sally) would surely win
it; and Sally, not to be outdone in civility, telling the same thing to
her.
Well, the week was nearly past, there being but two days till that of
the kemp, when, about three o’clock, there walks into the house of old
Paddy Corrigan, a little woman dressed in high-heeled shoes and a short
red cloak. There was no one in the house but Biddy at the time, who rose
up and placed a chair near the fire, and asked the little red woman to
sit down and rest herself. She accordingly did so, and in a short time a
lively chat commenced between them.
“So,” said the strange woman, “there’s to be a great kemp in Shaun Buie
M’Gaveran’s?”
“Indeed there is that, good woman,” replied Biddy, smiling a little,
and blushing to the back of that again, because she knew her own fate
depended on it.
“And,” continued the little woman, “whoever wins the kemp, wins a
husband?”
“Ay, so it seems.”
“Well, whoever gets Shaun will be a happy woman, for he’s the moral of a
good boy.”
“That’s nothing but the truth, any how,” replied Biddy, sighing for fear,
you may be sure, that she herself might lose him; and indeed a young
woman might sigh from many a worse reason. “But,” said she, changing
the subject, “you appear to be tired, honest woman, an’ I think you had
better eat a bit, an’ take a good drink of _buinnhe ramwher_ (thick milk)
to help you on your journey.”
“Thank you kindly, a colleen,” said the woman; “I’ll take a bit, if you
plase, hopin’ at the same time that you won’t be the poorer of it this
day twelve months.”
“Sure,” said the girl, “you know that what we give from kindness, ever
and always leaves a blessing behind it.”
“Yes, acushla, when it _is_ given from kindness.”
She accordingly helped herself to the food that Biddy placed before her,
and appeared after eating to be very much refreshed.
“Now,” said she, rising up, “you’re a very good girl, an’ if you are able
to find out my name before Tuesday morning, the kemp-day, I tell you that
you’ll win it, and gain the husband.”
“Why,” said Biddy, “I never saw you before. I don’t know who you are, nor
where you live; how then can I ever find out your name?”
“You never saw me before, sure enough,” said the old woman, “an’ I tell
you that you will never see me again but once; an’ yet if you have not
my name for me at the close of the kemp, you’ll lose all, an’ that will
leave you a sore heart, for well I know you love Shaun Buie.”
So saying, she went away, and left poor Biddy quite cast down at what she
had said, for, to tell the truth, she loved Shaun very much, and had no
hopes of being able to find out the name of the little woman, on which it
appeared so much to her depended.
It was very near the same hour of the same day that Sally Gorman was
sitting alone in her father’s house, thinking of the kemp, when who
should walk into her but our friend the little red woman?
“God save you, honest woman.” said Sally; “this is a fine day that’s in
it, the Lord be praised!”
“It is,” said the woman, “as fine a day as one could wish for; indeed it
is.”
“Have you no news on your travels?” asked Sally.
“The only news in the neighbourhood,” replied the other, “is this great
kemp that’s to take place at Shaun Buie M’Gaveran’s. They say you’re
either to win him or lose him then,” she added, looking closely at Sally
as she spoke.
“I’m not very much afraid of that,” said Sally with confidence; “but even
if I do lose him, I may get as good.”
“It’s not easy gettin’ as good,” rejoined the old woman, “an’ you ought
to be very glad to win him if you can.”
“Let me alone for that,” said Sally. “Biddy’s a good girl, I allow; but
as for spinnin’, she never saw the day she could leave me behind her.
Won’t you sit an’ rest you?” she added; “you’re maybe tired.”
“It’s time for you to think of it,” _thought_ the woman, but she spoke
nothing; “but,” she added to herself on reflection, “it’s better late
than never--I’ll sit awhile, till I see a little closer what she’s made
of.”
She accordingly sat down and chatted upon several subjects, such as young
women like to talk about, for about half an hour; after which she arose,
and taking her little staff in hand, she bade Sally good-bye and went her
way. After passing a little from the house she looked back, and could not
help speaking to herself as follows:--
“She’s smooth and smart,
But she wants the heart;
She’s tight and neat,
But she gave no meat.”
Poor Biddy now made all possible inquiries about the old woman, but to
no purpose. Not a soul she spoke to about her had ever seen or heard
of such a woman. She felt very dispirited and began to lose heart, for
there is no doubt that if she missed Shaun, it would have cost her many
a sorrowful day. She knew she would never get his equal, or at least
any one that she loved so well. At last the kemp day came, and with it
all the pretty girls of the neighbourhood, to Shaun Buie’s. Among the
rest, the two that were to decide their right to him were doubtless the
handsomest pair by far, and every one admired them. To be sure, it was a
blythe and merry place, and many a light laugh and sweet song rang out
from pretty lips that day. Biddy and Sally, as every one expected, were
far ahead of the rest, but so even in their spinning that the reelers
could not for the life of them declare which was the best. It was neck
and neck and head and head between the pretty creatures, and all who were
at the kemp felt themselves wound up to the highest pitch of interest and
curiosity to know which of them would be successful.
The day was now more than half gone, and no difference was between them,
when, to the surprise and sorrow of every one present, Biddy Corrigan’s
_heck_ broke in two, and so to all appearance ended the contest in favour
of her rival; and what added to her mortification, she was as ignorant
of the red little woman’s name as ever. What was to be done? All that
could be done was done. Her brother, a boy of about fourteen years of
age, happened to be present when the accident took place, having been
sent by his father and mother to bring them word how the match went on
between the rival spinsters. Johnny Corrigan was accordingly dispatched
with all speed to Donnel M’Cusker’s, the wheelwright, in order to get
the heck mended, that being Biddy’s last but hopeless chance. Johnny’s
anxiety that his sister should win was of course very great, and in order
to lose as little time as possible he struck across the country, passing
through, or rather close by, Kilrudden forth, a place celebrated as a
resort of the fairies. What was his astonishment, however, as he passed a
whitethorn tree, to hear a female voice singing, in accompaniment to the
sound of a spinning-wheel, the following words:
“There’s a girl in this town doesn’t know my name;
But my name’s Even Trot--Even Trot.”
“There’s a girl in this town,” said the lad, “who’s in great distress,
for she has broken her heck and lost a husband. I’m now goin’ to Donnel
M’Cusker’s to get it mended.”
“What’s her name?” said the little red woman.
“Biddy Corrigan.”
The little woman immediately whipped out the heck from her own wheel, and
giving it to the boy, desired him to bring it to his sister, and never
mind Donnel M’Cusker.
“You have little time to lose,” she added, “so go back and give her this;
but don’t tell her how you got it, nor, above all things, that it was
Even Trot that gave it to you.”
The lad returned, and after giving the heck to his sister, as a matter
of course told her that it was a little red woman called Even Trot that
sent it to her, a circumstance which made the tears of delight start to
Biddy’s eyes, for she knew now that Even Trot was the name of the old
woman, and having known that, she felt that something good would happen
to her. She now resumed her spinning, and never did human fingers let
down the thread so rapidly. The whole kemp were amazed at the quantity
which from time to time filled her pirn. The hearts of her friends began
to rise, and those of Sally’s party to sink, as hour after hour she was
fast approaching her rival, who now spun if possible with double speed
on finding Biddy coming up with her. At length they were again even, and
just at that moment in came her friend the little red woman, and asks
aloud, “is there any one in this kemp that knows my name?” This question
she asked three times before Biddy could pluck up courage to answer her.
She at last said,
“There’s a girl in this town _does_ know your name--
Your name is Even Trot--Even Trot.”
“Ay,” said the old woman, “and so it is; and let that name be your guide
and your husband’s through life. Go steadily along, but let your step be
even; stop little; keep always advancing; and you’ll never have cause to
rue the day that you first saw Even Trot.”
We need scarcely add that Biddy won the kemp and the husband, and that
she and Shaun lived long and happily together; and I have only now to
wish, kind reader, that you and I may live longer and more happily still.
* * * * *
Men no more desire another’s secrets, to conceal them, than they would
another’s purse, for the pleasure only of carrying it.--_Fielding._