Part II. i. 1.[440]

We thus have the Leprechaun as a well-known Irish fairy, though his

character was not understood, in the sixteenth century.

The two following tales we ourselves heard from the peasantry of

Kildare in our boyhood:[441]

_Clever Tom and the Leprechaun._

Oliver Tom Fwich-(i.e. Fitz)pathrick, as people used to call him, was

the eldest son o' a comfortable farmer, who lived nigh hand to

Morristown-Lattin, not far from the Liffey. Tom was jist turned o'

nine-an'-twinty, whin he met wid the follyin' advinthur, an' he was as

cliver, clane, tight, good-lukin' a boy as any in the whole county

Kildare. One fine day in harvist (it was a holiday) Tom was takin' a

ramble by himsilf thro' the land, an' wint sauntherin' along the sunny

side uv a hidge, an' thinkin' in himsilf, whare id be the grate harm

if people, instid uv idlin' an' goin' about doin' nothin' at all, war

to shake out the hay, an' bind and stook th' oats that was lyin' an

the ledge, 'specially as the weather was raither brokin uv late, whin

all uv a suddint he h'ard a clackin' sort o' n'ise jist a little way

fornint him, in the hidge. "Dear me," said Tom, "but isn't it now

raaly surprisin' to hear the stonechatters singin' so late in the

saison." So Tom stole an, goin' on the tips o' his toes to thry iv he

cud git a sight o' what was makin' the n'ise, to see iv he was right

in his guess. The n'ise stopt; but as Tom luked sharp thro' the

bushes, what did he see in a neuk o' the hidge but a brown pitcher

that might hould about a gallon an' a haff o' liquor; an' bye and bye

he seen a little wee deeny dawny bit iv an ould man, wid a little

motty iv a cocked hat stuck an the top iv his head, an' a deeshy

daushy leather apron hangin' down afore him, an' he pulled out a

little wooden stool, an' stud up upon it, and dipped a little piggen

into the pitcher, an' tuk out the full av it, an' put it beside the

stool, an' thin sot down undher the pitcher, an' begun to work at

puttin' a heelpiece an a bit iv a brogue jist fittin' fur himsilf.

"Well, by the powers!" said Tom to himsilf, "I aften hard tell o' the

Leprechauns, an', to tell God's thruth, I nivir rightly believed in

thim, but here's won o' thim in right airnest; if I go knowin'ly to

work, I'm a med man. They say a body must nivir take their eyes aff o'

thim, or they'll escape."

Tom now stole an a little farther, wid his eye fixed an the little man

jist as a cat does wid a mouse, or, as we read in books, the rattlesnake

does wid the birds he wants to inchant. So, whin he got up quite close

to him, "God bless your work, honest man," sez Tom. The little man

raised up his head, an' "Thank you kindly," sez he. "I wundher you'd be

workin' an the holiday," sez Tom. "That's my own business, an' none of

your's," was the reply, short enough. "Well, may be, thin, you'd be

civil enough to tell us, what you've got in the pitcher there," sez Tom.

"Aye, will I, wid pleasure," sez he: "it's good beer." "Beer!" sez Tom:

"Blud an' turf, man, whare did ye git it?" "Whare did I git it, is it?

why I med it to be shure; an' what do ye think I med it av?" "Divil a

one o' me knows," sez Tom, "but av malt, I 'spose; what ilse?" "'Tis

there you're out; I med it av haith." "Av haith!" sez Tom, burstin' out

laughin'. "Shure you don't take me to be sich an omedhaun as to b'lieve

that?" "Do as ye plase," sez he, "but what I tell ye is the raal thruth.

Did ye nivir hear tell o' the Danes?" "To be shure I did," sez Tom,

"warn't thim the chaps we gev such a lickin' whin they thought to take

Derry frum huz?" "Hem," sez the little man dhryly, "is that all ye know

about the matther?" "Well, but about thim Danes," sez Tom. "Why all th'

about thim is," said he, "is that whin they war here they taught huz to

make beer out o' the haith, an' the saicret's in my family ivir sense."

"Will ye giv a body a taste o' yer beer to thry?" sez Tom. "I'll tell ye

what it is, young man, it id be fitther fur ye to be lukin' afther yer

father's propirty thi'n to be botherin' dacint, quite people wid yer

foolish questions. There, now, while you're idlin' away yer time here,

there's the cows hav' bruk into th' oats, an' are knockin' the corn all

about."

Tom was taken so by surprise wid this, that he was jist an the very

point o' turnin' round, whin he recollicted himsilf. So, afeard that

the like might happin agin, he med a grab at the Leprechaun, an' cotch

him up in his hand, but in his hurry he ovirset the pitcher, and spilt

all the beer, so that he couldn't git a taste uv it to tell what sort

it was. He thin swore what he wouldn't do to him iv he didn't show him

whare his money was. Tom luked so wicked, an' so bloody-minded, that

the little man was quite frightened. "So," sez he, "come along wid me

a couple o' fields aff, an' I'll show ye a crock o' gould." So they

wint, an' Tom held the Leprechaun fast in his hand, an' nivir tuk his

eyes frum aff uv him, though they had to crass hidges an' ditches, an'

a cruked bit uv a bog (fur the Leprechaun seemed, out o' pure

mischief, to pick out the hardest and most conthrairy way), till at

last they come to a grate field all full o' _bolyawn buies_,[442] an'

the Leprechaun pointed to a big bolyawn, an' sez he, "Dig undher that

bolyawn, an' you'll git a crock chuck full o' goulden guineas."

Tom, in his hurry, had nivir minded the bringin' a fack[443] wid him,

so he thought to run home and fetch one, an' that he might know the

place agin, he tuk aff one o' his red garthers, and tied it round the

bolyawn. "I s'pose," sez the Leprechaun, very civilly, "ye've no

further occashin fur me?" "No," sez Tom, "ye may go away now, if ye

like, and God speed ye, an' may good luck attind ye whareivir ye go."

"Well, good bye to ye, Tom Fwichpathrick," sed the Leprechaun, "an'

much good may do ye wid what ye'll git."

So Tom run fur the bare life, till he come home, an' got a fack, an'

thin away wid him as hard as he could pilt back to the field o'

bolyawns; but whin he got there, lo an' behould, not a bolyawn in the

field, but had a red garther, the very idintical model o' his own,

tied about it; an' as to diggin' up the whole field, that was all

nonsinse, fur there was more nor twinty good Irish acres in it. So Tom

come home agin wid his fack an his shouldher, a little cooler nor he

wint; and many's the hearty curse he gev the Leprechaun ivry time he

thought o' the nate turn he sarved him.[444]

_The Leprechaun in the Garden._

There's a sort o' people that every body must have met wid sumtime or

another. I mane thim people that purtinds not to b'lieve in things

that in their hearts they _do_ b'lieve in, an' are mortially afeard o'

too. Now Failey[445] Mooney was one o' these. Failey (iv any o' yez

knew him) was a rollockin', rattlin', divil-may-care sort ov a chap

like--but that's neither here nor there; he was always talkin' one

nonsinse or another; an' among the rest o' his fooleries, he purtinded

not to b'lieve in the fairies, the Leprechauns, an' the Poocas, an' he

evin sumtimes had the impedince to purtind to doubt o' ghosts, that

every body b'lieves in, at any rate. Yit sum people used to wink an'

luk knowin' whin Failey was gostherin', fur it was obsarved that he

was mighty shy o' crassin' the foord o' Ahnamoe afther nightfall; an'

that whin onst he was ridin' past the ould church o' Tipper in the

dark, tho' he'd got enough o' pottheen into him to make any man stout,

he med the horse trot so that there was no keepin' up wid him, an'

iv'ry now an' thin he'd throw a sharp luk-out ovir his lift shouldher.

Well, one night there was a parcel o' the neighbours sittin' dhrinkin'

an' talkin' at Larry Reilly's public-house, an' Failey was one o' the

party. He was, as usual, gittin' an wid his nonsinse an' baldherdash

about the fairies, an' swearin' that he didn't b'lieve there was any

live things, barrin' min an' bastes, an' birds and fishes, an' sich

like things as a body cud see, an' he wint on talkin' in so profane a

way o' the good people, that som o' the company grew timid an' begun

to crass thimsilves, not knowin' what might happin', whin an ould

woman called Mary Hogan wid a long blue cloak about her, that was

sittin' in the chimbly corner smokin' her pipe widout takin' the laste

share in the conversation, tuk the pipe out o' her mouth, an' threw

the ashes out o' it, an' spit in the fire, an' turnin' round, luked

Failey straight in the face. "An' so you don't b'lieve there's sich

things as Leprechauns, don't ye?" sed she.

Well, Failey luked rayther daunted, but howsumdivir he sed nothin'.

"Why, thin, upon my throth, an' it well becomes the likes o' ye, an'

that's nothin' but a bit uv a gossoon, to take upon yer to purtind not

to b'lieve what yer father, an' yer father's father, an' his father

afore him, nivir med the laste doubt uv. But to make the matther

short, seein' 's b'lievin' they say, an' I, that might be yer

gran'mother, tell ye there is sich things as Leprechauns, an' what's

more, that I mysilf seen one o' thim,--there's fur ye, now!"

All the people in the room luked quite surprised at this, an' crowded

up to the fireplace to listen to her. Failey thried to laugh, but it

wouldn't do, nobody minded him.

"I remimber," sed she, "some time afther I married the honest man,

that's now dead and gone, it was by the same token jist a little afore

I lay in o' my first child (an' that's many a long day ago), I was

sittin', as I sed, out in our little bit o' a gardin, wid my knittin'

in my hand, watchin' sum bees we had that war goin' to swarm. It was a

fine sunshiny day about the middle o' June, an' the bees war hummin'

and flyin' backwards an' forwards frum the hives, an' the birds war

chirpin' an' hoppin' an the bushes, an' the buttherflies war flyin'

about an' sittin' an the flowers, an' ev'ry thing smelt so fresh an'

so sweet, an' I felt so happy, that I hardly knew whare I was. Well,

all uv a suddint, I heard among sum rows of banes we had in a corner

o' the gardin, a n'ise that wint tick tack, tick tack, jist fur all

the world as iv a brogue-maker was puttin' an the heel uv a pump. 'The

Lord presarve us,' sed I to mysilf, 'what in the world can that be?'

So I laid down my knittin', an' got up, an' stole ovir to the banes,

an' nivir believe me iv I didn't see, sittin' right forenint me, in

the very middle of thim, a bit of an ould man, not a quarther so big

as a new-born child, wid a little cocked hat an his head, an' a dudeen

in his mouth, smokin' away; an' a plain, ould-fashioned,

dhrab-coloured coat, wid big brass buttons upon it, an his back, an' a

pair o' massy silver buckles in his shoes, that a'most covered his

feet they war so big, an' he workin' away as hard as ivir he could,

heelin' a little pair o' pumps. The instant minnit I clapt my two eyes

upon him I knew him to be a Leprechaun, an' as I was stout an'

foolhardy, sez I to him 'God save ye honist man! that's hard work

ye're at this hot day.' He luked up in my face quite vexed like; so

wid that I med a run at him an' cotch hould o' him in my hand, an'

axed him whare was his purse o' money! 'Money?' sed he, 'money

_annagh_! an' whare on airth id a poor little ould crathur like mysilf

git money?' 'Come, come,' sed I, 'none o' yer thricks upon

thravellers; doesn't every body know that Leprechauns, like ye, are

all as rich as the divil himsilf.' So I pulled out a knife I'd in my

pocket, an' put on as wicked a face as ivir I could (an' in throth,

that was no aisy matther fur me thin, fur I was as comely an'

good-humoured a lukin' girl as you'd see frum this to Ballitore)--an'

swore by this and by that, if he didn't instantly gi' me his purse, or

show me a pot o' goold, I'd cut the nose aff his face. Well, to be

shure, the little man did luk so frightened at hearin' these words,

that I a'most found it in my heart to pity the poor little crathur.

'Thin,' sed he, 'come wid me jist a couple o' fields aff, an' I'll

show ye whare I keep my money.' So I wint, still houldin' him fast in

my hand, an' keepin' my eyes fixed upon him, whin all o' a suddint I

h'ard a whiz-z behind me. 'There! there!' cries he, 'there's yer bees

all swarmin' an' goin' aff wid thimsilves like blazes.' I, like a fool

as I was, turned my head round, an' whin I seen nothin' at all, an'

luked back at the Leprechaun, an' found nothin' at all at all in my

hand--fur whin I had the ill luck to take my eyes aff him, ye see, he

slipped out o' my fingers jist as iv he was med o' fog or smoke, an'

the sarra the fut he iver come nigh my garden agin."

_The Three Leprechauns._

Mrs. L. having heard that Molly Toole, an old woman who held a few

acres of land from Mr. L., had seen Leprechauns, resolved to visit

her, and learn the truth from her own lips. Accordingly, one Sunday,

after church, she made her appearance at Molly's residence, which

was--no very common thing--extremely neat and comfortable. As she

entered, every thing looked gay and cheerful. The sun shone bright in

through the door on the earthen floor. Molly was seated at the far

side of the fire in her arm-chair; her daughter Mary, the prettiest

girl on the lands, was looking to the dinner that was boiling; and her

son Mickey, a young man of about two-and-twenty, was standing lolling

with his back against the dresser.

The arrival of the mistress disturbed the stillness that had hitherto

prevailed. Mary, who was a great favourite, hastened to the door to meet

her, and shake hands with her. Molly herself had nearly got to the

middle of the floor when the mistress met her, and Mickey modestly staid

where he was till he should catch her attention. "O then, musha! but

isn't it a glad sight for my ould eyes to see your own silf undher my

roof? Mary, what ails you, girl? and why don't you go into the room and

fetch out a good chair for the misthress to sit down upon and rest

herself?" "'Deed faith, mother, I'm so glad I don't know what I'm doin'.

Sure you know I didn't see the misthress since she cum down afore."

Mickey now caught Mrs. L.'s eye, and she asked him how he did. "By

Gorra, bravely, ma'am, thank you," said he, giving himself a wriggle,

while his two hands and the small of his back rested on the edge of

the dresser.

"Now, Mary, stir yourself, alanna," said the old woman, "and get out

the bread and butther. Sure you know the misthress can't but be hungry

afther her walk."--"O, never mind it, Molly; it's too much

trouble."--"Throuble, indeed! it's as nice butther, ma'am, as iver

you put a tooth in; and it was Mary herself that med it."--"O, then I

must taste it."

A nice half griddle of whole-meal bread and a print of fresh butter

were now produced, and Molly helped the mistress with her own hands.

As she was eating, Mary kept looking in her face, and at last said,

"Ah then, mother, doesn't the misthress luk mighty well? Upon my

faikins, ma'am, I never seen you luking half so handsome."--"Well! and

why wouldn't she luk well? And niver will she luk betther nor be

betther nor I wish her."--"Well, Molly, I think I may return the

compliment, for Mary is prettier than ever; and as for yourself, I

really believe it's young again you're growing."--"Why, God be

thanked, ma'am, I'm stout and hearty; and though I say it mysilf,

there's not an ould woman in the county can stir about betther nor me,

and I'm up ivery mornin' at the peep of day, and rout them all up out

of their beds. Don't I?" said she, looking at Mary.--"Faith, and sure

you do, mother," replied Mickey; "and before the peep of day, too; for

you have no marcy in you at all at all."--"Ah, in my young days,"

continued the old woman, "people woren't slugabeds; out airly, home

late--that was the way wid thim."--"And usedn't people to see

Leprechauns in thim days, mother?" said Mickey, laughing.--"Hould your

tongue, you saucy cub, you," cried Molly; "what do you know about

thim?"--"Leprechauns?" said Mrs. L., gladly catching at the

opportunity; "did people really, Molly, see Leprechauns in your young

days?"--"Yes, indeed, ma'am; some people say they did," replied Molly,

very composedly.--"O com' now, mother," cried Mickey, "don't think to

be goin' it upon us that away; you know you seen thim one time

yoursilf, and you hadn't the gumption in you to cotch thim, and git

their crocks of gould from thim."--"Now, Molly, is that really true

that you saw the Leprechauns?"--"'Deed, and did I, ma'am; but this

boy's always laughin' at me about thim, and that makes me rather shy

in talkin' o' thim."--"Well, Molly, _I_ won't laugh at you; so, come,

tell me how you saw them."

"Well, ma'am, you see it was whin I was jist about the age of Mary,

there. I was comin' home late one Monday evenin' from the market; for

my aunt Kitty, God be marciful to her! would keep me to take a cup of

tay. It was in the summer time, you see, ma'am, much about the middle

of June, an' it was through the fields I come. Well, ma'am, as I was

sayin', it was late in the evenin', that is, the sun was near goin'

down, an' the light was straight in my eyes, an' I come along through

the bog-meadow; for it was shortly afther I was married to him that's

gone, an' we wor livin' in this very house you're in now; an' thin

whin I come to the castle-field--the pathway you know, ma'am, goes

right through the middle uv it--an' it was thin as fine a field of

whate, jist shot out, as you'd wish to luk at; an' it was a purty

sight to see it wavin' so beautifully wid every air of wind that was

goin' over it, dancin' like to the music of a thrush, that was singin'

down below in the hidge.[446] Well, ma'am, I crasst over the style

that's there yit, and wint along fair and aisy, till I was near about

the middle o' the field, whin somethin' med me cast my eyes to the

ground, a little before me; an' thin I saw, as sure as I'm sittin'

here, no less nor three o' the Leprechauns, all bundled together like

so miny tailyors, in the middle o' the path before me. They worn't

hammerin' their pumps, nor makin' any kind of n'ise whatever; but

there they wor, the three little fellows, wid their cocked hats upon

thim, an' their legs gothered up undher thim, workin' away at their

thrade as hard as may be. If you wor only to see, ma'am, how fast

their little ilbows wint as they pulled out their inds! Well, every

one o' thim had his eye cocked upon me, an' their eyes wor as bright

as the eye of a frog, an' I cudn't stir one step from the spot for

the life o' me. So I turned my head round, and prayed to the Lord in

his marcy to deliver me from thim, and when I wint to luk at thim

agin, ma'am, not a sight o' thim was to be seen: they wor gone like a

dhrame."--"But, Molly, why did you not catch them?"--"I was afeard,

ma'am, that's the thruth uv it; but maybe I was as well widout thim. I

niver h'ard tell of a Leprechaun yit that wasn't too many for any one

that cotch him."--"Well, and Molly, do you think there are any

Leprechauns now?"--"It's my belief, ma'am, they're all gone out of the

country, cliver and clane, along wid the Fairies; for I niver hear

tell o' thim now at all."

Mrs. L. having now attained her object, after a little more talk with

the good old woman, took her leave, attended by Mary, who would see

her a piece of the way home. And Mary being asked what she thought of

the Leprechauns, confessed her inability to give a decided opinion:

her mother, she knew, was incapable of telling a lie, and yet she had

her doubts if there ever were such things as Leprechauns.

* * * * *

The following tale of a Cluricaun, related by the writer of the Legend

of Bottle Hill, is of a peculiar character. We have never heard

anything similar of a Leprechaun.

_The Little Shoe._

"Now tell me, Molly," said Mr. Coote to Molly Cogan, as he met her on

the road one day, close to one of the old gateways of Kilmallock, "did

you ever hear of the Cluricaun?"--"Is it the Cluricaun? Why, thin, to

be shure; aften an' aften. Many's the time I h'ard my father, rest his

sowl! tell about 'em over and over agin."--"But did you ever see one,

Molly--did you ever see one yourself?"--"Och! no, I niver seen one in

my life; but my gran'father, that's my father's father, you know, he

seen one, one time, an' cotch him too."--"Caught him! Oh! Molly, tell

me how was that."

"Why, thin, I'll tell ye. My gran'father, you see, was out there above

in the bog, dhrawin' home turf, an' the poor ould mare was tir't

afther her day's work, an' the ould man wint out to the stable to look

afther her, an' to see if she was aitin' her hay; an' whin he come to

the stable door there, my dear, he h'ard sumthin' hammerin',

hammerin', hammerin', jist for all the wurld like a shoemaker makin' a

shoe, and whis'lin' all the time the purtiest chune he iver h'ard in

his whole life afore. Well, my gran'father he thought it was the

Cluricaun, an' he sed to himsilf, sez he, 'I'll ketch you, if I can,

an' thin I'll have money enough always.' So he opened the door very

quitely, an' didn't make a taste o' n'ise in the wurld, an' luked all

about, but the niver a bit o' the little man cud he see anywhare, but

he h'ard his hammerin' and whis'lin', an' so he luked and luked, till

at last he seen the little fellow; an' whare was he, do ye think, but

in the girth undher the mare; an' there he was, wid his little bit ov

an apron an him, an' his hammer in his hand, an' a little red

night-cap an his head, an' he makin' a shoe; an he was so busy wid his

work, an' was hammerin' an' whis'lin' so loud, that he niver minded my

gran'father, till he cotch him fast in his hand. 'Faix, I have ye

now,' says he, 'an' I'll niver let ye go till I git yer purse--that's

what I won't; so give it here at onst to me, now.' 'Stop, stop,' says

the Cluricaun; 'stop, stop,' says he, 'till I get it for ye.' So my

gran'father, like a fool, ye see, opened his hand a little, an' the

little weeny chap jumped away laughin', an' he niver seen him any

more, an' the divil a bit o' the purse did he git; only the Cluricaun

left his little shoe that he was makin'. An' my gran'father was mad

enough wid himself for lettin' him go; but he had the shoe all his

life, an' my own mother tould me she aftin seen it, an' had it in her

hand; an' 'twas the purtiest little shoe she ivir seen."--"An' did you

see it yourself, Molly?"--"Oh! no, my dear, 'twas lost long afore I

was born; but my mother tould me aftin an' aftin enough."

FOOTNOTES:

[427] Mr. Croker says, that according to the Munster peasantry the

ordinary attire of the Fairy is a black hat, green coat, white

stockings, and red shoes.

[428] In Irish as in Erse, [Irish Uncial: daine maiṫ] (_deenè mâh_).

[429] See above, p. 26.

[430] They are [Irish Uncial: sia] (_shia_), [Irish Uncial: siaḃra]

(_shifra_), [Irish Uncial: siacaire] (_shicârè_), [Irish Uncial: siġ]

(_shee_), [Irish Uncial: siġe] (_sheeè_), [Irish Uncial:

siġib](_sheeidh_) all denoting, spirit, fairy. The term [Irish Uncial:

siġ] also signifies a hag, and a hillock, and as an adjective,

spiritual.

[431] We never heard a fairy-legend from any of the Connaught-men with

whom we conversed in our boyhood. Their tales were all of

Finn-mac-Cool and his heroes.

[432] In Irish, [Irish Uncial: dia aoine] (_dhia eenè_). We are

inclined to think that he must have added, [Irish Uncial: dia

dardaoin, dia aoine] (_dhia dhardheen, dhia eenè_), _i.e._ Thursday,

Friday; for we can see no reason for omitting Thursday.

[433] See below, _Brittany_ and _Spain_, in both of which the legend

is more perfect; but it is impossible to say which is the original.

Parnell's pleasing Fairy Tale is probably formed on this Irish

version, yet it agrees more with the Breton legend.

[434] This story may remind one of the Wonderful Lamp, and others.

There is something of the same kind in the Pentamerone.

[435] _Inis_, pronounced sometimes _Inch_, (like the Hebrew _Ee_ (אי)

and the Indian _Dsib_) is either island or coast, bank of sea or river.

The Ang.-Sax. [Old English: ig] (_ee_) seems to have had the same extent

of signification, hence Chelsea, Battersea, etc., which never could have

been islands. Perhaps [Old English: þeordig] (_worthy_, _worth_) was

similar, as _werd_, _werth_, in German is an island.

[436] Mr. Croker says this is _moruach_, sea-maid; the only word we

find in O'Reilly is [Irish Uncial: muiriṁmgeaċ] (_múrirgach_). We have

met no term answering to _merman_.

[437] It is a rule of the Irish language, that the initial consonant of

an oblique case, or of a word _in regimine_, becomes aspirated; thus

_Pooka_ (nom.), _na Phooka_ (gen.), _mac_ son, _a mhic_ (_vic_) my son.

[438] In Irish [Irish Uncial: lobaircin] (_lubárkin_); the Ulster name

is Logheryman, in Irish [Irish Uncial: loċarman] (_lucharman_). For

the Cork term Cluricaun, the Kerry Luricaun and the Tipperary

Lurigadaun, we have found no equivalents in the Irish dictionaries.

The short _o_ in Irish, we may observe, is pronounced as in French and

Spanish, _i. e._ as _u_ in _but_, _cut_; _ai_ nearly as _a_ in _fall_.

It may be added, on account of the following tales, that in Kildare

and the adjoining counties the short English _u_, in _but_, _cut_,

etc., is invariably pronounced as in _pull_, _full_, while this _u_,

is pronounced as that in _but_, _cut_.

[439] The Ulster _Lucharman_ also has such an English look, that we

should be tempted to derive it from the Ang.-Sax. _lácan_, _lǽcan_, to

play. Loki _Löjemand_, or Loki Playman, is a name of the Eddaic deity

Loki in the Danish ballads.

[440] In the place of the Witch of Edmonton usually quoted with this,

_Lubrick_ is plainly the Latin _lubricus_.

[441] It will be observed that these, as well as the Young Piper in

the Appendix, are related in the character of a peasant. This was in

accordance with a frame that was proposed for the Fairy Legends, but

which proved too difficult of execution to be adopted.

[442] Lit. Yellow-stick, the ragwort or ragweed, which grows to a

great size in Ireland.

[443] A kind of spade with but one step, used in Leinster.

[444] All that is said in this legend about the beer is a pure fiction,

for we never heard of a Leprechaun drinking or smoking. It is, however,

a tradition of the peasantry, that the Danes used to make beer of the

heath. It was a Protestant farmer in the county of Cavan, that showed

such knowledge of the siege of Derry; the Catholic gardener who told us

this story, knew far better. It is also the popular belief that the

Danes keep up their claim on Ireland, and that a Danish father, when

marrying his daughter, gives her a portion in Ireland.

[445] _i. e._ Felix. On account of the Romish custom of naming after

Saints, Felix, Thaddæus, Terence, Augustine, etc., are common names

among the peasantry.

[446] In our Tales and Popular Fictions, p. 16, we noticed the

coincidence between this and a passage in an Arabic author. We did not

then recollect the following verses of Milton,

The willows and the hazle copses green

Shall now no more be seen

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

_Lycidas_, 42.

The simile of the moon among the stars in the same place, we have since

found in the Nibelungen Lied (st. 285), and in some of our old poets,

and Hammer says (Sehirin i. note 7), that it occurs even to satiety in

Oriental poetry. In like manner Camoens' simile of the mirror, mentioned

in the same place, occurs in Poliziano's Stanze i. 64.

SCOTTISH HIGHLANDS.

Huar Prownie coad agus curochd,

Agus cha dian Prownie opar tullidh.

Brownie has got a cowl and coat,

And never more will work a jot.

STEWART.

Colonies of Gothic Fairies, it would appear, early established

themselves in the Highlands, and almost every Lowland, German, and

Scandinavian Fairy or Dwarf-tale will there find its fellow. The

Gaelic Fairies are very handsome in their persons; their usual attire

is green. They dance and sing, lend and borrow, and they make cloth

and shoes in an amazingly short space of time. They make their _raids_

upon the low country, and carry off women and children; they fetch

midwives to assist at the birth of their children, and mortals have

spent a night at the fairy revels, and next morning found that the

night had extended a hundred years. Highland fairies also take the

diversion of the chase. "One Highlander," says Mc.Culloch,[447] "in

passing a mountain, hears the tramp of horses, the music of the horn,

and the cheering of the huntsmen; when suddenly a gallant crew of

thirteen fairy hunters, dressed in green, sweep by him, the silver

bosses of their bridles jingling in the night breeze."

The Gael call the Fairies Daoine Shi',[448] (_Dheenè Shee_) and their

habitations Shians, or Tomhans. These are a sort of turrets, resembling

masses of rock or hillocks. By day they are indistinguishable, but at

night they are frequently lit up with great splendour.

Brownie, too, 'shows his honest face' in the Highlands; and the

mischievous water-Kelpie also appears in his equine form, and seeks to

decoy unwary persons to mount him, that he may plunge with his rider

into the neighbouring loch or river.

The Highlanders have nearly the same ideas as their Shetland

neighbours, respecting the seals.

The following legends will illustrate what we have stated.[449]

_The Fairy's Inquiry._

A clergyman was returning home one night after visiting a sick member

of his congregation. His way led by a lake, and as he proceeded he was

surprised to hear most melodious strains of music. He sat down to

listen. The music seemed to approach coming over the lake accompanied

by a light. At length he discerned a man walking on the water,

attended by a number of little beings, some bearing lights, others

musical instruments. At the beach the man dismissed his attendants,

and then walking up to the minister saluted him courteously. He was a

little grey-headed old man, dressed in rather an unusual garb. The

minister having returned his salute begged of him to come and sit

beside him. He complied with the request, and on being asked who he

was, replied that he was one of the Daoine Shi. He added that he and

they had originally been angels, but having been seduced into revolt

by Satan, they had been cast down to earth where they were to dwell

till the day of doom. His object now was, to ascertain from the

minister what would be their condition after that awful day. The

minister then questioned him on the articles of faith; but as his

answers did not prove satisfactory, and as in repeating the Lord's

Prayer, he persisted in saying _wert_ instead of _art in heaven_, he

did not feel himself justified in holding out any hopes to him. The

fairy then gave a cry of despair and flung himself into the loch, and

the minister resumed his journey.

_The Young Man in the Shian._

A farmer named Macgillivray, one time removed from the neighbourhood

of Cairngorm in Strathspey to the forest of Glenavon, in which the

fairies are said to reside. Late one night, as two of his sons, Donald

and Rory, were in search of some of his sheep that had strayed, they

saw lights streaming from the crevices of a fairy turret which in the

day time had only the appearance of a rock. They drew nigh to it, and

there they heard jigs and reels played inside in the most exquisite

manner. Rory was so fascinated that he proposed that they should enter

and take part in the dance. Donald did all he could to dissuade him,

but in vain. He jumped into the Shian, and plunged at once into the

whirling movements of its inhabitants. Donald was in great perplexity,

for he feared to enter the Shian. All he could do therefore was to put

his mouth to one of the crevices, and calling, as the custom was,

three times on his brother, entreating him in the most moving terms,

to come away and return home. But his entreaties were unheeded and he

was obliged to return alone.

Every means now was resorted to for the recovery of Rory, but to no

purpose. His family gave him up for lost, when a _Duin Glichd_ or Wise

man, told Donald to go to the place where he had lost his brother, a

year and a day from the time, and placing in his garments a

rowan-cross, to enter the Shian boldly, and claim him in the divine

name, and if he would not come voluntarily, to seize him and drag him

out; for the fairies would have no power to prevent him. After some

hesitation Donald assented. At the appointed time he approached the

Shian at midnight. It was full of revelry, and the merry dance was

going on as before. Donald had his terrors no doubt, but they gave

way to his fraternal affection. He entered and found Rory in the midst

of a Highland Fling, and running up to him, seized him by the collar,

repeating the words dictated by the Wise man. Rory agreed to go

provided he would let him finish his dance; for he had not been, he

assured him, more than half an hour in the place, but Donald was

inexorable, and took him home to his parents. Rory would never have

believed that his half-hour had been a twelvemonth, "did not the

calves grown now into stots, and the new-born babes now toddling about

the house, at length convince him that in his single reel he had

danced for a twelvemonth and a day."

_The Two Fiddlers._

Nearly three hundred years ago, there dwelt in Strathspey two fiddlers,

greatly renowned in their art. One Christmas they resolved to go try

their fortune in Inverness. On arriving in that town they took lodgings,

and as was the custom at that time, hired the bellman to go round

announcing their arrival, their qualifications, their fame, and their

terms. Soon after they were visited by a venerable-looking grey-haired

old man, who not only found no fault with, but actually offered to

double their terms if they would go with him. They agreed, and he led

them out of the town, and brought them to a very strange-looking

dwelling which seemed to them to be very like a Shian. The money,

however, and the entreaties of their guide induced them to enter it, and

their musical talents were instantly put into requisition, and the

dancing was such as in their lives they had never witnessed.

When morning came they took their leave highly gratified with the

liberal treatment they had received. It surprised them greatly to find

that it was out of a hill and not a house that they issued, and when

they came to the town, they could not recognise any place or person,

every thing seemed so altered. While they and the townspeople were in

mutual amazement, there came up a very old man, who on hearing their

story, said: "You are then the two men who lodged with my

great-grandfather, and whom Thomas Rimer, it was supposed, decoyed to

Tomnafurach. Your friends were greatly grieved on your account, but it

is a hundred years ago, and your names are now no longer known." It

was the Sabbath day and the bells were tolling; the fiddlers, deeply

penetrated with awe at what had occurred, entered the church to join

in the offices of religion. They sat in silent meditation while the

bell continued ringing, but the moment that the minister commenced the

service they crumbled away into dust.

_The Fairy-Labour._

Many years ago there dwelt in Strathspey a midwife of great repute.

One night just as she was going to bed, she heard a loud knocking at

the door, and on opening it she saw there a man and a grey horse,

_both out of breath_. The rider requested her to jump up behind him

and come away to assist a lady who was in great danger. He would not

even consent to her stopping to change her dress, as it would cause

delay. She mounted and away they went at full speed. On the way she

tried to learn from the rider whither she was going, but all she could

get from him was, that she would be well paid. At length he let out

that it was to a fairy-lady he was taking her. Nothing daunted,

however, she went on, and on reaching the Shian, she found that her

services were really very much needed. She succeeded in bringing a

fine boy to the light, which caused so much joy, that the fairies

desired her to ask what she would, and if it was in their power, it

should be granted. Her desire was that success might attend herself

and her posterity in all similar operations. The gift was conferred

and it continued, it was said, with her great-grandson, at the time

the collector of these legends wrote.

_The Fairy borrowing Oatmeal._

A fairy came one day from one of the turrets of Craig-ail-naic to the

wife of one of the tenants in Delnabo, and asked her to lend her a

firlot of oatmeal for food for her family, promising to repay it soon,

as she was every moment expecting an ample supply. The woman complied

with this request, and after, as was the custom of the country, having

regaled her with bread, cheese, and whiskey, she went, as was usual,

to see her a part of the way home. When they had reached the summit of

an eminence near the town, the _Béanshi_ told her she might take her

meal home again as she was now abundantly supplied. The woman did as

desired, and as she went along she beheld the corn-kiln of an adjacent

farm all in a blaze.

_The Fairy-Gift._

A farmer in Strathspey was one day engaged in sowing one of his fields

and singing at his work. A fairy damsel of great beauty came up to him

and requested him to sing for her a favourite old Gaelic song named

_Nighan Donne na Bual_. He complied, and she then asked him to give

her some of his corn. At this he demurred a little and wished to know

what she would give him in return. She replied with a significant look

that his seed would never fail him. He then gave to her liberally and

she departed. He went on sowing, and when he had finished a large

field, he found that his bag was as full and as heavy as when he

began. He then sowed another field of the same size, with the same

result, and satisfied with his day's work, he threw the bag on his

shoulder and went home. Just as he was entering the barn-door he was

met by his wife, a foolish talkative body with a tongue as long, and a

head as empty as the church bell, who, struck with the appearance of

the bag after a day's sowing, began to ask him about it. Instantly it

became quite empty. "I'll be the death of you, you foolish woman,"

roared out the farmer; "if it were not for your idle talk, that bag

was worth its weight in gold."

_The Stolen Ox._

The tacksman (_i. e._ tenant) of the farm of Auchriachan in Strathavon,

while searching one day for his goats on a hill in Glenlivat, found

himself suddenly enveloped in a dense fog. It continued till night came

on when he began to give himself up to despair. Suddenly he beheld a

light at no great distance. He hastened toward it, and found that it

proceeded from a strange-looking edifice. The door was open, and he

entered, but great was his surprise to meet there a woman whose funeral

he had lately attended. From her he learned that this was an abode of

the fairies for whom she kept house, and his only chance of safety, she

said, was in being concealed from them; for which purpose she hid him in

a corner of the apartment. Presently in came a troop of fairies, and

began calling out for food. An old dry-looking fellow then reminded them

of the miserly, as he styled him, tacksman of Auchriachan, and how he

cheated them out of their lawful share of his property, by using some

charms taught him by his old grandmother. "He is now from home," said

he, "in search of our allies,[450] his goats, and his family have

neglected to use the charm, so come let us have his favourite ox for

supper." The speaker was Thomas Rimer, and the plan was adopted with

acclamation. "But what are we to do for bread?" cried one. "We'll have

Auchriachan's new baked bread," replied Thomas; "his wife forgot to

cross the first bannock."[451] So said, so done. The ox was brought in

and slaughtered before the eyes of his master, whom, while the fairies

were employed about their cooking, his friend gave an opportunity of

making his escape.

The mist had now cleared away and the moon was shining. Auchriachan

therefore soon reached his home. His wife instantly produced a basket

of new-baked bannocks with milk and urged him to eat. But his mind was

running on his ox, and his first question was, who had served the

cattle that night. He then asked the son who had done it if he had

used the charm, and he owned he had forgotten it. "Alas! alas!" cried

he, "my favourite ox is no more." "How can that be?" said one of the

sons, "I saw him alive and well not two hours ago." "It was nothing

but a fairy stock," cried the father. "Bring him out here." The poor

ox was led forth, and the farmer, after abusing it and those that sent

it, felled it to the ground. The carcase was flung down the brae at

the back of the house, and the bread was sent after it, and there they

both lay untouched, for it was observed that neither cat nor dog would

put a tooth in either of them.

_The Stolen Lady._

John Roy, who lived in Glenbroun, in the parish of Abernethy, being out

one night on the hills in search of his cattle, met a troop of fairies,

who seemed to have got a prize of some sort or other. Recollecting that

the fairies are obliged to exchange whatever they may have with any one

who offers them anything, however low in value, for it, he flung his

bonnet to them, crying _Shuis slo slumus sheen_ (_i. e._, mine is yours

and yours is mine). The fairies dropped their booty, which proved to be

a Sassenach (English) lady whom the dwellers of the Shian of Coir-laggac

had carried away from her own country, leaving a stock in her place

which, of course, died and was buried. John brought her home, and she

lived for many years in his house. "It happened, however, in the course

of time," said the Gaelic narrator, "that the _new king_ found it

necessary to make the great roads through these countries by means of

soldiers, for the purpose of letting coaches and carriages pass to the

northern cities; and those soldiers had officers and commanders in the

same way as our fighting army have now. Those soldiers were never great

favourites in these countries, particularly during the time that our

kings were alive; and consequently it was no easy matter for them,

either officers or men, to procure for themselves comfortable quarters."

But John Roy would not keep up the national animosity to the _cottan

dearg_ (red-coats), and he offered a residence in his house to a _Saxon_

captain and his son. When there they could not take their eyes off the

English lady, and the son remarked to his father what a strong likeness

she bore to his deceased mother. The father replied that he too had been

struck with the resemblance, and said he could almost fancy she _was_

his wife. He then mentioned her name and those of some persons connected

with them. The lady by these words at once recognised her husband and

son, and honest John Roy had the satisfaction of reuniting the

long-separated husband and wife, and receiving their most grateful

acknowledgments.[452]

_The Changeling._

A couple of Strathspey lads who dealt in whiskey that never paid duty,

which they used to purchase in Glenlivat, and sell at Badenoch and Fort

William, were one night laying in stock at Glenlivat when they heard the

child in the cradle give a piercing cry, just as if it had been shot.

The mother, of course, blessed it, and the Strathspey lads took no

further notice, and soon after set out with their goods. They had not

gone far when they found a fine healthy child lying all alone on the

road-side, which they soon recognised as that of their friend. They saw

at once how the thing was. The fairies had taken away the real child and

left a stock, but, owing to the pious ejaculation of the mother, they

had been forced to drop it. As the urgency of their business did not

permit them to return, they took the child with them, and kept it till

the next time they had occasion to visit Glenlivat. On their arrival

they said nothing about the child, which they kept concealed. In the

course of conversation, the mother took occasion to remark that the

disease which had attacked the child the last time they were there had

never left it, and she had now little hopes of its recovery. As if to

confirm her statement, it continued uttering most piteous cries. To end

the matter at once, the lads produced the real child healthy and hearty,

and told how they had found it. An exchange was at once effected, and

they forthwith proceeded to dispose of their new charge. For this

purpose they got an old _creel_ to put him in and some straw to light

under it. Seeing the serious turn matters were likely to take, he

resolved not to await the trial, but flew up the _smoke-hole_, and when

at the top he cried out that things would have gone very differently

with them had it not been for the arrival of their guests.

_The Wounded Seal._

There once dwelt on the northern coast, not far from Taigh Jan Crot

Callow (_John o' Groat's House_), a man who gained his living by

fishing. He was particularly devoted to the killing of the seals, in

which he had great success. One evening just as he had returned home

from his usual occupation, he was called upon by a man on horseback who

was an utter stranger to him, but who said that he was come on the part

of a person who wished to make a large purchase of seal-skins from him,

and wanted to see him for that purpose that very evening. He therefore

desired him to get up behind him and come away without any delay. Urged

by the hope of profit he consented, and away they went with such speed

that the wind which was in their backs seemed to be in their faces. At

length they reached the verge of a stupendous precipice overhanging the

sea, where his guide bade him alight, as they were now at the end of

their journey. "But where," says he, "is the person you spoke of?"

"You'll see him presently," said the guide, and, catching hold of him,

he plunged with him into the sea. They went down and down, till at last

they came to a door which led into a range of apartments inhabited by

seals, and the man to his amazement now saw that he himself was become

one of these animals. They seemed all in low spirits, but they spoke

kindly to him, and assured him of his safety. His guide now produced a

huge _gully_ or _joctaleg_, at sight of which, thinking his life was to

be taken away, he began to cry for mercy. "Did you ever see this knife

before?" said the guide. He looked at it and saw it was his own, which

he had that very day stuck into a seal who had made his escape with it

sticking in him. He did not, therefore, attempt to deny that it had been

his property. "Well," said the guide, "that seal was my father. He now

lies dangerously ill, and as it is only you that can cure him, I have

brought you hither." He then led him into an inner room, where the old

seal lay suffering grievously from a cut in his hind quarters. He was

then desired to lay his hand on the wound, at which it instantly healed,

and the patient arose hale and sound. All now was joy and festivity in

the abode of the seals, and the guide, turning to the seal-hunter, said,

"I will now take you back to your family, but you must first take a

solemn oath never again to kill a seal as long as you live." Hard as the

condition was, he cheerfully accepted it. His guide then laid hold on

him, and they rose up, up, till they reached the surface of the sea, and

landed at the cliff. He breathed on him and they resumed the human form.

They then mounted the horse and sped away like lightning till they

reached the fisherman's house. At parting his companion left with him

such a present as made him think light of giving over his seal-hunting.

_The Brownies._

Two Brownies, man and woman, were attached to the ancient family of

Tullochgorm, in Strathspey. The former was named Brownie-Clod, from a

habit he had of flinging clods at passers-by; the latter was called

Maug Vuluchd (_i.e._, Hairy Mag), on account of her great quantity of

hair. She was a capital housekeeper, and used invisibly to lay out the

table in the neatest and handiest manner. Whatever was called for came

as if floating through the air. She kept a very strict hand over the

maids, with whom she was no great favourite, as she reported their

neglect of duty to their mistress. Brownie-Clod was not so pawky, and

he was constantly overreached by the servants, with whom he used to

make contracts. He, however, was too able for them on one occasion. He

had agreed with two of them to do their whole winter's threshing for

them, on condition of getting in return an old coat and a Kilmarnock

hood to which he had taken a fancy. He wrought away manfully, and they

had nothing to do but lie at their ease on the straw and look on. But

before the term was expired they laid the coat and hood for him in

the barn. The moment Brownie laid his eyes upon them he struck work,

using the words prefixed to this section of our volume.

Martyn describes the Brownie of the Western Isles as a _tall man_, and

he tells a story of his invisibly directing a person, at Sir Norman

M'Leod's, who was playing at draughts, where to place his men.

_The Urisk._

There is also in the Highlands a rough hairy spirit, called the Urisk.

The following legend will display his nature and character:

To the very great annoyance of a Highland miller, and to the injury of

the machinery, his mill, he found, used to be set to work at night

when there was nothing in it to grind. One of his men offered to sit

up, and try to discover who it was that did it; and, having kindled a

good turf-fire, sat by it to watch. Sleep, however, overcame him, and

when he awoke about midnight, he saw sitting opposite him a rough

shaggy being. Nothing daunted, he demanded his name, and was told that

it was Urisk. The stranger, in return, asked the man his name, who

replied that it was Myself. The conversation here ended, and Urisk

soon fell fast asleep. The man then tossed a panful of hot ashes into

his shaggy lap, which set his hair all on fire. In an agony, and

screaming with the pain, he ran to the door, and in a loud yelling

tone several of his brethren were heard to cry out, "What's the matter

with you?" "Oh! he set me on fire!" "Who?" "Myself!" "Then put it out

yourself," was the reply.[453]

FOOTNOTES:

[447] Account of the Highlands, etc. iv. 358.

[448] _Men of Peace_, perhaps the _Stille-folk_, Still-people, or

rather, merely Fairy- or Spirit-people. See above p. 364.

[449] See Stewart, The Popular Superstitions of the Highlanders.

Edinburgh, 1823. As Mr. Stewart's mode of narrating is not the very

best, we have taken the liberty of re-writing and abridging the legends.

[450] "The goats are supposed to be upon a very good understanding

with the fairies, and possessed of more cunning and knowledge than

their appearance bespeaks."--_Stewart_: see _Wales_.

[451] See above, p. 305.

[452] There is a similar legend in Scandinavia. As a smith was at work

in his forge late one evening, he heard great wailing out on the road,

and by the light of the red-hot iron that he was hammering, he saw a

woman whom a Troll was driving along, bawling at her "A little more! a

little more!" He ran out, put the red-hot iron between them, and thus

delivered her from the power of the Troll (see p. 108). He led her

into his house and that night she was delivered of twins. In the

morning he waited on her husband, who he supposed must be in great

affliction at the loss of his wife. But to his surprise he saw there,

in bed, a woman the very image of her he had saved from the Troll.

Knowing at once what she must be, he raised an axe he had in his hand,

and cleft her skull. The matter was soon explained to the satisfaction

of the husband, who gladly received his real wife and her

twins.--Thiele, i. 88. _Oral._

[453] Told, without naming his authority, by the late W. S. Rose, in

the Quarterly Review for 1825.

ISLE OF MAN.

Mona once hid from those that search the main,

Where thousand elfin shapes abide.

COLLINS.

The Isle of Man, peopled by Celts, and early and frequently visited and

colonised by the Northmen, has also its Fairies, which differ little

from those of the greater islands between which it lies. An English

gentleman, named Waldron, who resided in the island in the early part of

the last century, was curious about its Fairy-lore, and he has recorded

a number of the legends which he heard.[454] His book, indeed, has been

the chief source whence Ritson, Sir Walter Scott,[455] and others, have

drawn their illustrations of English Fairy-lore in general, and the

subsequent inquiries of Mr. Train have enabled him to add but very

little to it. We will here relate some of these legends:

The great peculiarity of the Manks Fairies, according to Mr. Waldron, is

their fondness for riding, and this not on little steeds of their own,

or on the small breed of the country, but on the large English and Irish

horses, which are brought over and kept by the gentry. Nothing, it was

said, was more common than to find in the morning horses covered with

foam and sweat, and tired to death, which had been shut up at night in

the stable. One gentleman assured Mr. Waldron that three or four of his

best horses had been killed with these nocturnal exercises.

They called them the Good People, and said that their reason for

dwelling in the hills and woods was, their dislike of the vices of

towns. Hence the houses which they deigned to visit were thought to be

blest. In these houses, a tub or pail of clean water was always left

for them to bathe in. Good, however, as they were, they used to change

children. Mr. Waldron saw one of these changelings; it was nearly six

years old, but was unable to walk or even stand, or move its limbs.

Its complexion was delicate, and it had the finest hair in the world.

It never cried or spoke, and it ate scarcely anything; it rarely

smiled, but if any one called it _Fairy-elf_, it would frown and

almost look them through. Its mother, who was poor, was often obliged

to go out for whole days a-charing, and leave it by itself, and when

the neighbours would look in on it through the window, they always saw

it laughing and in great delight, whence they judged that it had

agreeable company with it, more especially as let it be left ever so

dirty, the mother on her return found it with a clean face, and its

hair nicely combed out.

_The Fairy-Chapman._

A man being desirous of disposing of a horse he had at that time no

great occasion for, and riding him to market for that purpose, was

accosted in passing over the mountains by a little man in a plain

dress, who asked him if he would sell his horse. "'Tis the design I am

going on," replied he: on which the other desired to know the price.

"Eight pounds," said he. "No," returned the purchaser, "I will give no

more than seven, which if you will take, here is your money." The

owner thinking he had bid pretty fair, agreed with him, and the money

being told out, the one dismounted and the other got on the back of

the horse, which he had no sooner done than both beast and rider sunk

into the earth immediately, leaving the person who had made the

bargain in the utmost terror and consternation. As soon as he had a

little recovered himself, he went directly to the parson of the

parish, and related what had passed, desiring he would give his

opinion whether he ought to make use of the money he had received or

not. To which he replied, that as he had made a fair bargain, and no

way circumvented nor endeavoured to circumvent the buyer, he saw no

reason to believe, in case it was an evil spirit, it could have any

power over him. On this assurance, he went home well satisfied, and

nothing afterwards happened to give him any disquiet concerning this

affair. This was told to Waldron by the person to whom it happened.

_The Fairy-Banquet._

A man one time was led by invisible musicians for several miles

together, and not being able to resist the harmony, followed till it

conducted him to a large common, where were a great number of little

people sitting round a table, and eating and drinking in a very jovial

manner. Among them were some faces whom he thought he had formerly seen,

but forbore taking any notice, or they of him, till the little people

offering him drink, one of them, whose features seemed not unknown to

him, plucked him by the coat, and forbade him whatever he did to taste

anything he saw before him, "For if you do," added he, "you will be as I

am, and return no more to your family." The poor man was much

affrighted, but resolved to obey the injunction. Accordingly, a large

silver cup, filled with some sort of liquor, being put into his hand, he

found an opportunity to throw what it contained on the ground. Soon

after, the music ceasing, all the company disappeared, leaving the cup

in his hand, and he returned home, though much wearied and fatigued. He

went the next day, and communicated to the minister of the parish all

that had happened, and asked his advice, how he should dispose of the

cup, to which the parson replied, he could not do better than to devote

it to the service of the church, and this very cup, they say, is that

which is now used for the consecrated wine in Kirk Merlugh.

_The Fairies' Christening._

A woman related that being great with child, and expecting every

moment the good hour, as she lay awake one night in her bed, she saw

seven or eight little women come into her chamber, one of whom had an

infant in her arms. They were followed by a man of the same size with

themselves, but in the habit of a minister. One of them went to the

pail, and finding no water in it, cried out to the others, what must

they do to christen the child? On which they replied it should be done

in beer. With that the seeming parson took the child in his arms, and

performed the ceremony of baptism, dipping his head into a great tub

of strong beer, which the woman had brewed the day before to be ready

for her lying-in. She said they baptised the infant by the name of

Joan, which made her know she was pregnant of a girl, as it proved a

few days after when she was delivered. She added, that it was common

for the fairies to make a mock christening when any person was near

her time, and that, according to what child, male or female, they

brought, such should the woman bring into the world.

_The Fairy-Whipping._

A woman who lived about two miles distant from Ballasalli, and used to

serve Mr. Waldron's family with butter, made him once very merry with

a story she told him of her daughter, a girl of about ten years old,

who being sent over the fields to the town for a pennyworth of tobacco

for her father, was on the top of a mountain surrounded by a great

number of little men, who would not suffer her to pass any farther.

Some of them said she should go with them, and accordingly laid hold

of her; but one, seeming more pitiful, desired they would let her

alone, which they refusing, there ensued a quarrel, and the person who

took her part fought bravely in her defence. This so incensed the

others, that to be revenged on her for being the cause, two or three

of them seized her, and pulling up her clothes, whipped her heartily;

after which, it seems, they had no farther power over her, and she ran

home directly telling what had befallen her, and showing her buttocks,

on which were the prints of several small hands. Several of the

town's-people went with her to the mountain; and she conducting them

to the spot, the little antagonists were gone, but had left behind

them proofs, as the good woman said, that what the girl had informed

them was true, for there was a great deal of blood to be seen on the

stones. This did she aver with all the solemnity possible.

_The Fairy-Hunt._

A young sailor coming off a long voyage, though it was late at night,

chose to land rather than lie another night in the vessel. Being

permitted to do so, he was set on shore at Douglas. It happened to be

a fine moonlight night, and very dry, being a small frost; he

therefore forbore going into any house to refresh himself, but made

the best of his way to the house of a sister he had at Kirk-Merlugh.

As he was going over a pretty high mountain, he heard the noise of

horses, the halloo of a huntsman, and the finest horn in the world. He

was a little surprised that any one pursued those kinds of sports in

the night; but he had not time for much reflection before they all

passed by him so near, that he was able to count what number there was

of them, which he said was thirteen, and that they were all dressed in

green, and gallantly mounted. He was so well pleased with the sight,

that he would gladly have followed could he have kept pace with them.

He crossed the footway, however, that he might see them again, which

he did more than once, and lost not the sound of the horn for some

miles. At length being arrived at his sister's, he tells her the

story, who presently clapped her hands for joy that he was come home

safe; "for," said she, "those you saw were _fairies_, and 'tis well

they did not take you away with them."

_The Fiddler and the Fairy._

A fiddler having agreed with a person, who was a stranger, for so much

money, to play to some company he should bring him to, all the twelve

days of Christmas, and received earnest for it, saw his new master

vanish into the earth the moment he had made the bargain. Nothing

could be more terrified than was the poor fiddler. He found he had

entered himself into the Devil's service, and looked on himself as

already damned; but having recourse to a clergyman, he received some

hope. He ordered him, however, as he had taken earnest, to go when he

should be called, but that whatever tunes should be called for, to

play none but psalms. On the day appointed the same person appeared,

with whom he went, but with what inward reluctance it is easy to

guess; and punctually obeying the minister's directions, the company

to whom he played were so angry, that they all vanished at once,

leaving him at the top of a high hill, and so bruised and hurt, though

he was not sensible when or from what hand he received the blows, that

he got not home without the utmost difficulty.

_The Phynnodderee._

The Phynnodderee, or Hairy-one, is a Manks spirit of the same kind with

the Brownie or the Kobold. He is said to have been a fairy who was

expelled from the fairy society. The cause was, he courted a pretty

Manks maid who lived in a bower beneath _the blue tree_ of Glen Aldyn,

and therefore was absent from the Fairy court during the _Re-hollys

vooar yn ouyr_, or harvest-moon, being engaged dancing in the merry glen

of Rushen. He is condemned to remain in the Isle of Man till doomsday,

in a wild form, covered with long shaggy hair, whence his name.

He is very kind and obliging to the people, sometimes driving home the

sheep, or cutting and gathering the hay, if he sees a storm coming on.

On one of these occasions, a farmer having expressed his displeasure

with him for not having cut the grass close enough to the ground, he let

him cut it himself the next year; but he went after him stubbing up the

roots so fast, that it was with difficulty that the farmer could escape

having his legs cut off. For several years no one would venture to mow

that meadow; at length a soldier undertook it, and by beginning in the

centre of the field, and cutting round, as if on the edge of a circle,

keeping one eye on the scythe, and looking out for the Phynnodderee with

the other, he succeeded in cutting the grass in safety.

A gentleman having resolved to build a large house on his property, at a

place called Sholt-e-will, near the foot of Snafield mountain, caused

the stones to be quarried on the beach. There was one large block of

white stone which he was very anxious to have, but all the men in the

parish could not move it. To their surprise, the Phynnodderee in the

course of one night conveyed all the stones that had been quarried, the

great white one included, up to the proposed site, and the white stone

is there still to be seen. The gentleman, to reward the Phynnodderee,

caused some clothes to be left for him in one of his usual haunts. When

he saw them, he lifted them up one by one, saying in Manks:

Bayrm da'n choine, dy doogh da'n choine,

Cooat da'n dreeym, dy doogh da'n dreeym,

Breechyn da'n toyn, dy doogh da'n toyn,

Agh my she lhiat ooiley, shoh cha nee lhiat Glen reagh Rushen.

Cap for the head, alas, poor head!

Coat for the back, alas, poor back!

Breeches for the breech, alas, poor breech!

If these be all thine, thine cannot be the merry glen of Rushen.

And he departed with a melancholy wail, and has never been seen since.

The old people say, "There has not been a merry world since he lost

his ground."[456]

FOOTNOTES:

[454] Description of the Isle of Man. London, 1731.

[455] In his Essay on Fairies in the Minstrelsy of the Scottish

Border, and in the notes on Peveril of the Peak.

[456] Train, Account of the Isle of Man, ii. p. 148.

WALES.

It was the Druid's presage, who had long

In Geirionydd's[457] airy temple marked

The songs that from the Gwyllion[458] rose, of eve

The children, in the bosom of the lakes.

TALIESIN.

The oldest account we have met with of Welsh Fairies is in the

Itinerary of Giraldus Cambrensis, who, in the year 1188, accompanied

Archbishop Baldwin in his tour through Wales, undertaken for the

purpose of exciting the zeal of the people to take part in the crusade

then in contemplation.

Giraldus, who was an attentive observer of nature and of mankind, has

in this work given many beautiful descriptions of scenery, and

valuable traits of manners. He is liberal of legends of saints, but

such was the taste of his age. Among his narratives, however, he gives

the two following, which show that there was a belief in South Wales

in beings similar to the Fairies and Hobgoblins of England.

_Tale of Elidurus._

A short time before our days, a circumstance worthy of note occurred

in these parts, which Elidurus, a priest, most strenuously affirmed

had befallen himself. When he was a youth of twelve years,--since, as

Solomon says, "The root of learning is bitter, although the fruit is

sweet,"--and was following his literary pursuits, in order to avoid

the discipline and frequent stripes inflicted on him by his preceptor,

he ran away, and concealed himself under the hollow bank of a river;

and, after fasting in that situation for two days, two little men of

pygmy stature appeared to him, saying, "If you will come with us, we

will lead you into a country full of delights and sports." Assenting,

and rising up, he followed his guides through a path, at first

subterraneous and dark, into a most beautiful country, adorned with

rivers and meadows, woods and plains, but obscure, and not illuminated

with the full light of the sun. All the days were cloudy, and the

nights extremely dark, on account of the absence of the moon and

stars. The boy was brought before the king, and introduced to him in

the presence of the court; when, having examined him for a long time,

he delivered him to his son, who was then a boy. These men were of the

smallest stature, but very well proportioned for their size. They were

all fair-haired, with luxuriant hair falling over their shoulders,

like that of women. They had horses proportioned to themselves, of the

size of greyhounds. They neither ate flesh nor fish, but lived on milk

diet, made up into messes with saffron. They never took an oath, for

they detested nothing so much as lies. As often as they returned from

our upper hemisphere, they reprobated our ambition, infidelities, and

inconstancies. They had no religious worship, being only, as it seems,

strict lovers and reverers of truth.

The boy frequently returned to our hemisphere, sometimes by the way he

had first gone, sometimes by another; at first in company with others,

and afterwards alone, and confided his secret only to his mother,

declaring to her the manners, nature, and state of that people. Being

desired by her to bring a present of gold, with which that region

abounded, he stole, while at play with the king's son, the golden ball

with which he used to divert himself, and brought it to his mother in

great haste; and when he reached the door of his father's house, but

not unpursued, and was entering it in a great hurry, his foot stumbled

on the threshold, and, falling down into the room where his mother was

sitting, the two Pygmies seized the ball, which had dropped from his

hand, and departed, spitting at and deriding the boy. On recovering

from his fall, confounded with shame, and execrating the evil counsel

of his mother, he returned by the usual track to the subterraneous

road, but found no appearance of any passage, though he searched for

it on the banks of the river for nearly the space of a year. Having

been brought back by his friends and mother, and restored to his right

way of thinking and his literary pursuits, he attained in process of

time the rank of priesthood. Whenever David the Second, bishop of St.

David's, talked to him in his advanced state of life concerning this

event, he could never relate the particulars without shedding tears.

He had also a knowledge of the language of that nation, and used to

recite words of it he had readily acquired in his younger days. These

words, which the bishop often repeated to me, were very conformable to

the Greek idiom. When they asked for water, they said, _Udor udorum_,

which signifies "Bring water;" for Udor, in their language, as well as

in the Greek, signifies water; and Dwr also, in the British language,

signifies water. When they want salt, they say, _Halgein udorum_,

"Bring salt." Salt is called ἁλς in Greek, and Halen in British; for

that language, from the length of time which the Britons (then called

Trojans, and afterwards Britons from Brito, their leader) remained in

Greece after the destruction of Troy, became, in many instances,

similar to the Greek.[459]

* * * * *

"If," says the learned archdeacon, "a scrupulous inquirer should ask

my opinion of the relation here inserted, I answer, with Augustine,

'admiranda fore divina miracula non disputatione discutienda;' nor do

I, by denial, place bounds to the Divine power; nor, by affirming

insolently, extend that power which cannot be extended. But on such

occasions I always call to mind that saying of Hieronymus: "Multa,"

says he, 'incredibilia reperies et non verisimilia, quæ nihilominus

tamen vera sunt.' These, and any such that might occur, I should

place, according to Augustine's opinion, among those things which are

neither to be strongly affirmed nor denied."

David Powel, who edited this work in 1585, thinks that this legend is

written in imitation of the relation of Eros the Armenian, in Plato,

or taken from Polo's account of the garden of the Old Man of the

Mountain.[460]

* * * * *

Again Giraldus writes,--"In these parts of Penbroch it has happed, in

our times, that unclean spirits have conversed with mankind, not indeed

visibly, but sensibly; for they manifested their presence at first in

the house of one Stephen Wiriet, and some time after of William Not, by

throwing dirt and such things as rather indicate an intention of mockery

and injury. In the house of William, the spirit used to make rents and

holes in both linen and woollen garments, to the frequent loss of both

host and guest, from which injury no care and no bolts could protect

them. In the house of Stephen, which was still more extraordinary, the

spirit used to converse with people; and when they taunted him, which

they frequently did out of sport, he used to charge them openly with

those actions of theirs, from their birth, which they least wished to be

heard or known by others. If you ask the cause and reason of this

matter, I do not take on me to assign it; only this, that it, as is

said, used to be the sign of a sudden change, either from poverty to

riches, or rather from riches to desolation and poverty, as it was found

to be a little after with both of these. But this I think worthy of

remark, that places cannot be freed from illusions of this kind by the

sprinkling of holy water, not merely of the ordinary, but even of the

great kind; nor by the aid of any ecclesiastical sacrament. Nay, the

priests themselves, when coming in with devotion, and fortified as well

with the cross as with holy water, were forthwith among the first

defiled by the dirt thrown at them. From which it would appear that both

sacramentals and sacraments defend from hurtful, not harmless things,

and from injury, not from illusion."[461]

_The Tylwyth Teg._

In the mountains near Brecknock, says Davies,[462] there is a small

lake, to which tradition assigns some of the properties of the fabled

Avernus. I recollect a Mabinogi, or mythologic tale, respecting this

piece of water, which runs thus:--

In ancient times a door in a rock near this lake was found open upon a

certain day every year. I think it was May-day. Those who had the

curiosity and resolution to enter were conducted by a secret passage,

which terminated in a small island in the centre of the lake. Here the

visitors were surprised with the prospect of a most enchanting garden

stored with the choicest fruits and flowers, and inhabited by the

Tylwyth Têg, or Fair Family, a kind of Fairies, whose beauty could be

equalled only by the courtesy and affability which they exhibited to

those who pleased them. They gathered fruit and flowers for each of

their guests, entertained them with the most exquisite music, disclosed

to them many secrets of futurity, and invited them to stay as long as

they should find their situation agreeable. But the island was secret,

and nothing of its produce must be carried away. The whole of this scene

was invisible to those who stood without the margin of the lake. Only an

indistinct mass was seen in the middle; and it was observed that no bird

would fly over the water, and that a soft strain of music at times

breathed with rapturous sweetness in the breeze of the morning.

It happened upon one of these annual visits that a sacrilegious

wretch, when he was about to leave the garden, put a flower, with

which he had been presented, in his pocket; but the theft boded him no

good. As soon as he had touched unhallowed ground the flower vanished

and he lost his senses. Of this injury the Fair Family took no notice

at the time. They dismissed their guests with their accustomed

courtesy, and the door was closed as usual. But their resentment ran

high. For though, as the tale goes, the Tylwyth Têg and their garden

undoubtedly occupy the spot to this day, though the birds still keep

at a respectful distance from the lake, and some broken strains of

music are still heard at times, yet the door which led to the island

has never re-opened, and from the date of this sacrilegious act the

Cymry have been unfortunate.

Some time after this, an adventurous person attempted to draw off the

water, in order to discover its contents, when a terrific form arose

from the midst of the lake, commanding him to desist, or otherwise he

would drown the country.

* * * * *

These Tylwyth Têg are, as we see, regarded as Fairies, but we think

improperly; for diminutive size is an attribute of the Fairies in all

parts of the British Isles, and Mr. Owen (in his Welsh Dictionary, _s.

v._) expressly says that such is not the case with these beings.

_The Spirit of the Van._

Among the mountains of Carmarthen, lies a beautiful and romantic piece

of water, named The Van Pools. Tradition relates, that after midnight,

on New Tear's Eve, there appears on this lake a being named The Spirit

of the Van. She is dressed in a white robe, bound by a golden girdle;

her hair is long and golden, her face is pale and melancholy; she sits

in a golden boat, and manages a golden oar.

Many years ago there lived in the vicinity of this lake a young

farmer, who having heard much of the beauty of this spirit, conceived

a most ardent desire to behold her, and be satisfied of the truth. On

the last night of the year, he therefore went to the edge of the lake,

which lay calm and bright beneath the rays of the full moon, and

waited anxiously for the first hour of the New Year. It came, and then

he beheld the object of his wishes gracefully guiding her golden

gondola to and fro over the lake. The moon at length sank behind the

mountains, the stars grew dim at the approach of dawn, and the fair

spirit was on the point of vanishing, when, unable to restrain

himself, he called aloud to her to stay and be his wife; but with a

faint cry she faded from his view. Night after night he now might be

seen pacing the shores of the lake, but all in vain. His farm was

neglected, his person wasted away, and gloom and melancholy were

impressed on his features. At length he confided his secret to one of

the mountain-sages, whose counsel was--a Welsh one, by the way--to

assail the fair spirit with gifts of cheese and bread! The counsel was

followed; and on Midsummer Eve the enamoured swain went down to the

lake, and let fall into it a large cheese and a loaf of bread. But all

was vain; no spirit rose. Still he fancied that the spot where he had

last seen her shone with more than wonted brightness, and that a

musical sound vibrated among the rocks. Encouraged by these signs, he

night after night threw in loaves and cheeses, but still no spirit

came. At length New Year's Eve returned. He dressed himself in his

best, took his largest cheese and seven of his whitest loaves, and

repaired to the lake. At the turn of midnight, he dropped them slowly

one by one into the water, and then remained in silent expectation.

The moon was hid behind a cloud, but by the faint light she gave, he

saw the magic skiff appear, and direct its course for where he stood.

Its owner stepped ashore, and hearkened to the young man's vows, and

consented to become his wife. She brought with her as her dower flocks

and herds, and other rural wealth. One charge she gave him, never to

strike her, for the third time he should do so she would vanish.

They married, and were happy. After three or four years they were

invited to a christening, and to the surprise of all present, in the

midst of the ceremony, the spirit burst into tears. Her husband gave

an angry glance, and asked her why she thus made a fool of herself?

She replied, "The poor babe is entering in a world of sin and sorrow,

and misery lies before it; why should I rejoice?" He gave her a push.

She warned him that he had struck her once. Again they were, after

some time, invited to attend the funeral of that very child. The

spirit now laughed, and danced, and sang. Her husband's wrath was

excited, and he asked her why she thus made a fool of herself? "The

babe," she said, "has left a world of sin and sorrow, and escaped the

misery that was before it, and is gone to be good and happy for ever

and ever. Why, then, should I weep?" He gave her a push from him, and

again she warned him. Still they lived happily as before. At length

they were invited to a wedding, where the bride was young and fair,

the husband a withered old miser. In the midst of the festivity, the

spirit burst into a copious flood of tears, and to her husband's angry

demand of why she thus made a fool of herself, she replied in the

hearing of all, "Because summer and winter cannot agree. Youth is

wedded to age for paltry gold. I see misery here, and tenfold misery

hereafter, to be the lot of both. It is the devil's compact."

Forgetful of her warnings, the husband now thrust her from him with

real anger. She looked at him tenderly and reproachfully, and said,

"You have struck me for the third and last time. Farewell!"

So saying, she left the place. He rushed out after her, and just

reached his home in time to see her speeding to the lake, followed by

all her flocks and herds. He pursued her, but in vain; his eyes never

more beheld her.[463]

* * * * *

As far as we have been able to learn, the belief in Fairies is

confined in Wales to the southern counties of Glamorgan, Carmarthen,

and Pembroke, the parts into which the Saxons had penetrated farthest,

and where they of course had exercised most influence. In these

counties the popular belief in these beings is by no means yet

extinct, and their attributes in the creed of the Welsh peasants are

similar to those of their British and Irish kindred.

The usual name given to the fairies in these parts of Wales, is Y Dynon

Bach Têg, i. e. _The Little Fair People_. Ellyll, in the plural

Ellyllon, also signifies an Elf, from which word, indeed, it may have

been derived. The bells of the Digitalis or fox-glove are called Menyg

Ellylon, or the Elves'-gloves; in Ireland, also, they are connected with

the fairies. The toadstools or poisonous mushrooms are named Bwyd

Ellyllon, or Elves'-food. Perhaps, however, it is not the large ugly

toadstools that are so named, but those pretty small delicate fungi,

with their conical heads, which are named Fairy-mushrooms in Ireland,

where they grow so plentifully. Finally, there was formerly in the park

of Sir Robert Vaughan a celebrated old oak-tree, named Crwben-yr-Ellyll,

or The Elf's Hollow-tree. The popular belief respecting these Ellyllon

is, that they are the souls of the ancient Druids, who, being too good

for relegation to Hell, and too evil for re-admittance to Heaven, are

permitted to wander among men upon earth till the last day, when they

also will enter on a higher state of being.[464]

* * * * *

The legends of which we will now proceed to give a specimen, were

collected and published in the latter half of the eighteenth century,

by a Welsh clergyman, who seems to have entertained no doubt whatever

of the truth of the adventures contained in them.[465]

The two daughters of a respectable farmer in the parish of Bedwellty

were one day out hay-making with their man and maid servant and a

couple of their neighbours, when on a hill, about quarter of a mile

distant, they saw a large flock of sheep. Soon after, they saw them

going up to a place half a mile off, and then going out of their sight

as if they vanished in the air. About half-an-hour before sunset, they

saw them again, but not all alike; for some saw them like sheep, some

like greyhounds, some like swine, and some like naked infants. They

appeared in the shade of the mountain between them and the sun, and

the first sight was as if they rose out of the earth. "This was a

notable appearance of the fairies, seen by credible witnesses. The

sons of infidelity are very unreasonable not to believe the

testimonies of so many witnesses of the being of spirits."

E. T. going home by night over Bedwellty Mountains, saw the fairies on

each side of him. Some of them were dancing. He also heard the sound

of a bugle-horn, as if people were hunting. He began to grow afraid,

but recollecting to have heard that if, on seeing the fairies, you

draw out your knife, they will vanish, he did so, and saw them no

more. "This the old gentleman sincerely related to me. He was a sober

man, and of the strictest veracity."

A young man having gone early one morning to a barn to feed oxen, when

he had done, lay down on the hay to rest. As he lay he heard the sound

of music approaching the barn, and presently came in a large company,

wearing striped clothes (some more gay than others), and commenced

dancing to their music. He lay quite still, thinking to escape their

notice; but a woman, better dressed than the others, came up to him

with a striped cushion, with a tassel at each corner, and put it under

his head. Some time after, a cock was heard to crow, which seemed

either to surprise or displease them, and they hastily drew the

cushion from under his head, and went away.

P. W., "an honest virtuous woman," related that one time, when she was

a little girl on her way to school, she saw the fairies dancing under

a crab-tree. As they appeared to be children of her own size, and had

small pleasant music, she went and joined in their exercise, and then

took them to dance in an empty barn. This she continued to do for

three or four years. As she never could hear the sound of their feet,

she always took off her shoes, supposing noise to be displeasing to

them. They were of small stature, looked rather old, and wore blue and

green aprons. Her grandfather, who kept school in the parish-church,

used, when going home from it late in the evening, to see the fairies

dancing under an oak, within two or three fields of the church.

The learned writer gives finally a letter to himself, from a "pious

young gentleman" of Denbighshire, dated March 24, 1772, in which he

informs him, that about fifteen years before, as himself, his sister,

and two other little girls were playing at noon of a summer's day in a

field, they saw a company of dancers, about seventy yards from them.

Owing to the rapidity of their whirling motions, they could not count

them, but guessed them at fifteen or sixteen. They were in red, like

soldiers, with red handkerchiefs spotted with yellow, on their heads.

As they were gazing and wondering at them, one of the dancers came

running towards them. The children, in a fright, made for an adjacent

stile. The girls got over, but the boy was near being caught, and on

looking back when over, he saw the red man stretching his arms after

him over the stile, which it would seem he had not the power to cross.

When they came to the house, which was close at hand, they gave the

alarm, and people went out to search the fields, but could see

nothing. The little man was very grim-looking, with a copper-coloured

face. His running-pace was rather slow, but he took great strides for

one of his size.

* * * * *

The following legends were collected in 1827, in the Vale of Neath, in

Glamorganshire, by a lady with whom we became acquainted when

travelling through North Wales, in the preceding autumn.[466]

An old woman assured our fair friend, that she one time, many years

before, saw the fairies to the number of some hundreds. They were very

small, were mounted on little white horses, not bigger than dogs, and

rode four a-breast. It was almost dusk at the time, and they were not a

quarter of a mile from her. Another old woman said that her father had

often seen the fairies riding in the air on little white horses, but he

never saw them come down on the ground. He also used to hear their music

in the air. She had heard, too, of a man who had been five-and-twenty

years with the fairies, and thought he had been away only five minutes.

_Rhys at the Fairy-Dance._

Rhys and Llewellyn, two farmer's servants, who had been all day

carrying lime for their master, were driving in the twilight their

mountain ponies before them, returning home from their work. On

reaching a little plain, Rhys called to his companion to stop and

listen to the music, saying it was a tune to which he had danced a

hundred times, and must go and have a dance now. He bade him go on

with the horses, and he would soon overtake him. Llewellyn could hear

nothing, and began to remonstrate; but away sprang Rhys, and he called

after him in vain. He went home, put up the ponies, ate his supper,

and went to bed, thinking that Rhys had only made a pretext for going

to the ale-house. But when morning came, and still no sign of Rhys, he

told his master what had occurred. Search was then made everywhere,

but no Rhys could be found. Suspicion now fell upon Llewellyn of

having murdered him, and he was thrown into prison, though there was

no evidence against him. A farmer, however, skilled in fairy-matters,

having an idea of how things might have been, proposed that himself

and some others should accompany Llewellyn to the place where he

parted with Rhys. On coming to it, they found it green as the mountain

ash. "Hush!" cried Llewellyn, "I hear music, I hear sweet harps." We

all listened, says the narrator, for I was one of them, but could hear

nothing. "Put your foot on mine, David," said he to me (his own foot

was at the time on the outward edge of the fairy-ring). I did so, and

so did we all, one after another, and then we heard the sound of many

harps, and saw within a circle, about twenty feet across, great

numbers of little people, of the size of children of three or four

years old, dancing round and round. Among them we saw Rhys, and

Llewellyn catching him by the smock-frock, as he came by him, pulled

him out of the circle. "Where are the horses? where are the horses?"

cried he. "Horses, indeed!" said Llewellyn. Rhys urged him to go home,

and let him finish his dance, in which he averred he had not been

engaged more than five minutes. It was by main force they took him

from the place. He still asserted he had been only five minutes away,

and could give no account of the people he had been with. He became

melancholy, took to his bed, and soon after died. "The morning after,"

says the narrator, "we went to look at the place, and we found the

edge of the ring quite red, as if trodden down, and I could see the

marks of little heels, about the size of my thumb-nail."

_Gitto Bach._

Gitto Bach,[467] who was a fine boy, used often to ramble to the top of

the mountain to look after his father's sheep. On his return, he would

show his brothers and sisters pieces of remarkably white paper, like

crown-pieces, with letters stamped upon them, which he said were given

him by the little children with whom he used to play on the mountain.

One day he did not return, and during two whole years no account could

be got of him, and the other children were beginning to go up the

mountain, and bring back some of those white crown-pieces. At length,

one morning, as their mother opened the door, she saw Gitto sitting on

the threshold, with a bundle under his arm. He was dressed, and looked

exactly as when she last had seen him. To her inquiry of where he had

been for so long a time, he replied that it was only the day before he

had left her; and he bade her look at the pretty clothes the little

children on the mountain had given him for dancing with them to the

music of their harps. The dress in the bundle was of very white paper,

without seam or sewing. The prudent mother committed it to the flames.

"This," said the narrator, "made me more anxious than ever to see the

fairies," and his wish was gratified by a gipsy, who directed him to

find a four-leaved clover, and put it with nine grains of wheat on the

leaf of a book which she gave him. She then desired him to meet her

next night by moonlight on the top of Craig y Dinis. She there washed

his eyes with the contents of a phial which she had, and he instantly

saw thousands of fairies, all in white, dancing to the sounds of

numerous harps. They then placed themselves on the edge of the hill,

and sitting down and putting their hands round their knees, they

tumbled down one after another, rolling head-over-heels till they

disappeared in the valley.

Another old man, who was present at the preceding narration, averred

that he had often seen the fairies at waterfalls; particularly at that

of Sewyd yr Rhyd in Cwm Pergwm, Vale of Neath, where a road runs

between the fall and the rock. As he stood behind the fall, they

appeared in all the colours of the rainbow, and their music mingled

with the noise of the water. They then retired into a cavern, which

they had made in the rock, and, after enjoying themselves there,

ascended the rock, and went off through the mountains, the sounds of

their harps dying away as they receded.

_The Fairies Banished._

One of those old farm-houses, where the kitchen and cow-house are on

the same floor, with only a low partition between them, was haunted by

the fairies. If the family were at their meals in the kitchen, _they_

were racketing in the cow-house, and if the people were engaged about

the cows, the fairies were making a riot in the kitchen. One day, when

a parcel of reapers were at their harvest-dinner in the kitchen, the

elves, who were laughing and dancing above, threw down such a quantity

of dust and dirt as quite spoiled the dinner. While the mistress of

the house was in perplexity about it, there came in an old woman, who,

on hearing the case, said she could provide a remedy. She then told

her in a whisper to ask six of the reapers to dinner next day in the

hearing of the fairies, and only to make as much pudding as could be

boiled in an egg-shell. She did as directed, and when the fairies saw

that a dinner for six men was put down to boil in an egg-shell, there

was great stir and noise in the cow-house, and at length one angry

voice was heard to say, "We have lived long in this world; we were

born just after the earth was made, and before the acorn was planted,

and yet we never saw a harvest-dinner dressed in an egg-shell! There

must be something wrong in this house, and we will stop here no

longer." They went away and never returned.

* * * * *

The fairies are said to take away children, and leave changelings.[468]

They also give pieces of money, one of which is found every day in the

same place as long as the finder keeps his good fortune a secret. One

peculiarity of the Cambrian fairies is, that every Friday night they

comb the goats' beards "to make them decent for Sunday."

* * * * *

We hear not of Brownies or Kobolds in the Welsh houses now, but Puck

used to haunt Wales as well as Ireland. His Welsh name, Pwcca, is the

same as his Irish one. In Brecon there is Cwm Pwcca, or Puck's Glen,

and though an iron-foundry has in a great measure scared him from it,

yet he occasionally makes his appearance. As a man was returning one

night from his work, he saw a light before him, and thought he

discerned some one that carried it. Supposing it to be one of his

fellow-workmen with a lanthorn, he quickened his pace to come up with

him, wondering all the while how so short a man as he appeared to be

could get over the ground so fast. He also fancied he was not going

the right way, but still thought that he who had the light must know

best. At last, he came up with him, and found himself on the very

edge of one of the precipices of Cwm Pwcca, down which another step

would have carried him. The Pwcca, for it was he, sprang over the

glen, turned round, held the light above his head, and then with a

loud laugh put it out and vanished.

FOOTNOTES:

[457] A lake, on whose banks Taliesin resided.

[458] These Mr. Davies thinks correspond to the Gallicenæ of Mela: see

_Brittany_.

[459] Giraldus Cambrensis, Itinerarium Cambriæ, l. i. c. 8, translated

by Sir R. C. Hoare.

[460] Very likely indeed that Elidurus, or Giraldus either, should

know any thing of Plato or of Marco Polo, especially as the latter was

not yet born!

[461] Book i. chap. 12.

[462] Mythology and Rites of the British Druids.

[463] Abridged from "A Day at the Van Pools;" MS. of Miss Beale, the

author of "Poems" and of "The Vale of the Towey," a most delightful

volume. We have since received from our gifted friend the following

additional information. "Since writing this letter, I have heard a new

version of the last part of the Spirit of the Van. The third offence

is said to be, that she and her husband were _ploughing_; he guiding

the plough, and she driving the horses. The horses went wrong, and the

husband took up something and threw it at them, which struck her. She

seized the plough and went off, followed by the flocks and herds she

had brought with her to Van Pool, where they all vanished, and the

_mark of the ploughshare_ is shown on the mountain at this present

day. She left her children behind her, who became famous as doctors.

Jones was their name, and they lived at a place called Muddfi. In them

was said to have originated the tradition of the seventh son, or

Septimus, being born for the healing art; as for many generations,

seven sons were regularly born in each family, the seventh of whom

became the doctor, and wonderful in his profession. It is said even

now, that the Jones of Muddfi are, or were, until very recently,

clever doctors."--A. B. A somewhat different version of this legend is

given by Mr. Croker, iii. 256.

[464] For the chief part of our knowledge respecting the fairy lore of

Wales we are indebted to the third or supplemental volume of the Fairy

Legends, in which Mr. Croker, with the aid of Dr. Owen Pugh and other

Welsh scholars, has given a fuller account of the superstitions of the

people of the Principality, than is, we believe, to be found any where

else.

[465] A Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and

the Principality of Wales, by the Rev. Edward Jones of the Tiarch.--For

our extracts from this work we are indebted to Mr. Croker.

[466] The lady's name was Williams. The legends were originally intended

for the present work, but circumstances caused them to appear in the

supplemental volume of the Irish Fairy Legends. We have abridged them.

[467] Gitto is the dim. of Griffith: _bach_ (_beg_ Ir.) is little.

[468] See _Brittany_.

BRITTANY.

Mut unt este noble Barun

Cil de Bretaine li Bretun.

MARIE DE FRANCE.

Thise oldè gentil Bretons in hir dayes

Of diverse áventurès maden layes.

CHAUCER.

Brittany, the ancient Armorica, retains perhaps as unmixed a

population as any part of Western Europe. Its language has been,

however, like the Welsh and the Celtic dialects, greatly affected by

the Latin and Teutonic. The ancient intercourse kept up with Wales and

Cornwall by the Bretons, who were in a great measure colonists from

these parts of Britain, caused the traditions and poetry of the latter

to be current and familiar in Little Britain, as that country was then

called. To poetry and music, indeed, the whole Celto-Cymric race seem

to have been strongly addicted; and, independently of the materials

which Brittany may have supplied for the history of Geoffrey of

Monmouth, many other true or romantic adventures were narrated by the

Breton poets in their Lais. Several of these Lais were translated into

French verse in the thirteenth century by a poetess named Marie de

France, resident at the court of the English monarchs of the house of

Plantagenet, to one of whom, probably Henry the Third, her Lais are

dedicated.[469] This circumstance may account for the Lais being

better known in England than in France. The only manuscript containing

any number of them is in the Harleian Library; for those of France

contain but five Lais. The Lai du Fresne was translated into English;

and from the Lai de Lanval and Lai de Graelent--which last by the way

is not in the Harleian Collection--Chestre made his Launfal Miles, or

Sir Launfal. Chaucer perhaps took the concluding circumstance of his

Dream from the Lai de Eliduc.

In some of these Lais we meet with what may be regarded as Fairy

machinery. The word Fée, indeed, occurs only once;[470] but in the

Lais de Gugemer, de Lanval, d'Ywenec, and de Graelent, personages are

to be met with differing in nothing from the Fays of Romance, and who,

like them, appear to be human beings endowed with superior powers.

The origin of the Breton Korrigan, as they are called, has been

sought, and not improbably, in the Gallicenæ[471] or ancient Gaul, of

whom Pomponius Mela thus writes:--"Sena,[472] in the British sea,

opposite the Ofismician coast, is remarkable for an oracle of the

Gallic God. Its priestesses, holy in perpetual virginity, are said to

be _nine_ in number. They are called Gallicenæ, and are thought to be

endowed with singular powers, so as to raise by their charms the winds

and seas, _to turn themselves into what animals they will_, to cure

wounds and diseases incurable by others, to know and predict the

future; but this they do only to navigators who go thither purposely

to consult them."[473]

We have here certainly all the attributes of the Damoiselles of the

Lais of Marie de France. The doe whom Gugemer wounds speaks with a

human voice. The lady who loved Lanval took him away into an island,

and Graelent and his mistress crossed a deep and broad river to arrive

at her country, which perhaps was also an island in the original

Breton Lai. The part most difficult of explanation is the secret

manner in which these dames used to visit their lovers; but perhaps

the key is to be found in the Lai d'Ywenec, of which, chiefly on that

account, we give an analysis. The hero of that Lai differs not in

point of power from these ladies, and as he is a real man, with the

power of assuming at will the shape of a bird, so it is likely they

were real women, and that it was in the bird-shape they entered the

chambers of their lovers. Graelent's mistress says to him,[474]

I shall love you trewely;

But one thing I forbid straitlý,

You must not utter a word apérte

Which might our love make discovérte.

I will give unto you richlý,

Gold and silver, clothes, and fee.

Much love shall be between us two--

Night and day I'll go to you:

You'll see me come to you alwáy--

With me laugh and talk you may.

You shall no comrade have to see,

Or who shall know my privacy,

* * * * *

Take care now that you do not boast

Of things by which I may be lost.

The lady says to Lanval,

When you would speak to me of ought--

You must in no place form the thought

Where no one could meet his amie

Without reproach and villainie--

I will be presently with you,

All your commands ready to do;

No one but you will me see,

Or hear the words that come from me.

She also had previously imposed on the knight the obligation of secresy.

As a further proof of the identity of the Korrigan and the Gallicenæ,

it may be remarked, that in the evidently very ancient Breton poem,

Ar-Rannou, or The Series, we meet the following passage:--"There are

_nine_ Korrigen, who dance, with flowers in their hair, and robes of

white wool, around the fountain, by the light of the full moon."[475]

_Lai D'ywenec._

I have in thought and purpose too,

Of Ywenec to tellen you--

Of whom he born was, his sire's fame,

How first he to his mother came.

He who did beget Ywenec

Y-cleped was Eudemarec.

There formerly lived in Britain a man who was rich and old. He was Avoez

or governor of Caerwent on the Doglas, and lord of the surrounding

country. Desirous of having an heir to his estates, he espoused a maiden

"courteous and sage, and passing fair." She was given to him because he

was rich, and loved by him for her beauty. Why should I say more, but

that her match was not to be found between Lincoln and Ireland? "Great

sin did they who gave her him," adds the poet.

On account of her rare beauty, the jealous husband now turned all his

thoughts to keeping her safe. To this end he shut her up in his tower,

in a large room, to which no one had access but himself and his

sister, an old widow, without whose permission the young wife was

forbidden to speak to any even of her female attendants. In this tower

the suspicious husband immured his lovely bride for seven years,

during which time they had no children, nor did she ever leave her

confinement on any account. She had neither chamberlain nor huissier

to light the tapers in her chamber when she would retire, and the poor

lady passed her time weeping, sighing, and lamenting; and from grief

and neglect of herself losing all her beauty.

The month of April was entering,

When every bird begins to sing;

Her lord arose at early day,

And to the wood he takes his way.

Before he set out he called up the old dame to fasten the door after

him. This done, she took her psalter and retired to another room to

chant it. The imprisoned lady awoke in tears, seeing the brightness of

the sun, and thus began her moan:

Alas! said she, why born was I?

Right grievous is my destiny:

In this towére imprisoned,

I ne'er shall leave it till I'm dead.

She marvels at the unreasonable jealousy of her old husband, curses

her parents, and all concerned in giving her to a man not only so

unamiable, but who was of so tough a constitution that the chance of

his dying seemed infinitely remote.

When baptised he was to be,

In hell's rivere deep dipt was he;

Hard are his sinews, hard each vein,

And lively blood they all contain.

Oft have I heard the people tell,

That in this country there befell

Adventures in the days of yore,

That did to joy grieved hearts restore;

Knights met with damsels, fair and gent,

In all things unto their talént;

And dames met lovers courteoús,

Handsome, and brave, and generous;

So that they never blamed were,

For save themselves none saw them e'er.[476]

If this may be, or ever was,

Or any it befallen has,

May God, who hath all might and power,

My wish perform for me this hour.

Scarcely had she uttered this pious wish, when she perceived the

shadow of a large bird at a narrow window. The bird now flew into the

room. He had jesses on his legs, and appeared to be a goss-hawk.[477]

He placed himself before the lady, and in a few minutes after became a

handsome gentle knight. The lady was terrified at the sight, and

covered her head; but the knight was courteous, and addressed her,

Lady, said he, be not thus stirred;

A goss-hawk is a gentle bird.

If my secréte should be obscure,

Attend, and I will you assure;

Maketh now of me your lovére,

For that it is I am come here.

Long have I loved you and admired,

And in my heart have much desired;

I ne'er have loved save you alone,

And save you never shall love none;

But I could never come to you,

Nor from own countrie issúe,

If you had not required me:

Your lover now I may well be.

The lady was now re-assured: she uncovered her head, and told the

knight she would accept him as her _Dru_, if she were satisfied that

he believed in God. On this head, he assures her,

I in the Créator believe,

Who did from misery us relieve,

In which us Adam our sire put,

By eating of that bitter fruit:

He is, and was, and ever he

To sinners life and light will be.

And to put the matter out of all doubt, he directs her to feign

sickness, and send for the chaplain, when he undertakes to assume her

form, and receive the holy Sacrament. The dame does accordingly; and the

old woman, after many objections, at length sends for the chaplain.

And he with all due speed did hie,

And brought the Corpus Domini.

The knight received the holy sign,

And from the chalice drank the wine:[478]

The chaplain then his way is gone--

The old dame shut the doors anon.

The scruples of the lady being now entirely removed, she grants _le

don d'amoureuse merci_, and the bliss of the lovers is complete. At

length the knight takes his leave, and in reply to the lady's

question, of when she should see him again, he tells her that she has

only to wish for him, and the wish will be fulfilled by his

appearance;[479] but he warns her to beware of the old woman, who will

closely watch her, assuring her at the same time that a discovery will

be his certain death.

The lady now bids adieu to all sadness and melancholy, and gradually

regains all her former beauty. She desires no longer to leave her tower;

for, night or day, she has only to express a wish, and her knight is

with her. The old lord marvels greatly at this sudden change, and begins

to distrust the fidelity of his sister. On revealing his suspicions, her

replies fully satisfy him on that head, and they concert between them

how to watch the young wife, and to discover her secret. After an

interval of three days, the old lord tells his wife that the king has

sent for him, and that he must attend him, but will soon return. He sets

out, and the old woman having closed the door as usual after him, gets

behind a curtain to watch. The lady now wishes for her lover, and

instantly he is with her, and they continue together till it is time to

rise. He then departs, leaving the spy, who had seen how he came and

went, terrified at the strange metamorphosis.

When the husband, who was at no great distance, came home, his spy

informed him of the strange affair. Greatly grieved and incensed at

this, he began to meditate the destruction of his rival. He

accordingly got four pikes made, with steel-heads so sharp that

No razor under heaven's sheen

Was ever yet so sharp and keen.

These he set at the window through which the knight was used to enter.

Next day he feigns to go to the chase, the old woman returns to her bed

to sleep, and the lady anxiously expects "him whom she loveth loyally,"

And says that he may come safelý,

And with her at all leisure be.

So said, so done: the bird was at the window; but alas! too eager for

caution, he overlooked the pikes, and, flying against them, was mortally

wounded. Still he entered the chamber and threw himself on the bed,

which his blood soon filled, and thus addressed his distracted mistress:

He said unto her--"My sweet friend,

For you my life comes to an end;

I often told you 't would be so,

That your fair cheer would work us woe."

When she heard this she swooned away,

And long time there for dead she lay;

Her gently to herself he brought,

And said, that grief availeth nought;

That she by him a son would bear,

Valiant and wise, and debonair;

He would dispel her sorrows all.

Ywenec she should him call.

He wouldè vengeance for their sake

Upon their trait'rous enemy take.[480]