tired; and he thought it _mighty odd_ that the room wasn't fillin'
fasther. Well, afther restin' for awhile, he began agin, and he put
his shouldher to the work in airnest; but still the room was no
fuller at all, at all.
'Och! bad luck to me,' says the divil, 'but the likes of this I never
seen,' says he, 'far and near, up and down--the dickens a room I ever
kem across afore,' says he, 'I couldn't cram while a cook would be
crammin' a turkey, till now; and here I am,' says he, 'losin' my whole
day, and I with such a power o' work an my hands yit, and this room no
fuller than five minutes ago.'
Begor, while he was spakin' he seen the hape o' guineas in the middle
of the flure growing _littler and littler_ every minit; and at last
they wor disappearing, for all the world like corn in the hopper of a
mill.
'Ho! ho!' says Owld Nick, 'is that the way wid you?' says he; and wid
that, he ran over to the hape of goold--and what would you think, but
it was runnin' down through a great big hole in the flure, that the
colonel made through the ceilin' in the room below; and that was the
work he was at afther he left the divil, though he purtended he was
only waitin' for him in his parlour; and there the divil, when he
looked down the hole in the flure, seen the colonel, not content with
the _two_ rooms full of guineas, but with a big shovel throwin' them
into a closet a' one side of him as fast as they fell down. So,
putting his head through the hole, he called down to the colonel:
'Hillo, neighbour!' says he.
The colonel looked up, and grew as white as a sheet, when he seen he
was found out, and the red eyes starin' down at him through the hole.
'Musha, bad luck to your impudence!' says Owld Nick: 'it is sthrivin'
to chate _me_ you are,' says he, 'you villain!'
'Oh, forgive me for this wanst!' says the colonel, 'and, upon the
honour of a gintleman,' says he, 'I'll never----'
'Whisht! whisht! you thievin' rogue,' says the divil, 'I'm not angry
with you at all, at all, but only like you the betther, bekase you're
so cute;--lave off slaving yourself there,' says he, 'you have got
goold enough for this time; and whenever you want more, you have only
to say the word, and it shall be yours to command.'
So with that, the divil and he parted for that time: and myself
doesn't know whether they used to meet often afther or not; but the
colonel never wanted money, anyhow, but went on prosperous in the
world--and, as the saying is, if he took the dirt out o' the road, it
id turn to money wid him; and so, in course of time, he bought great
estates, and was a great man entirely--not a greater in Ireland,
throth.
At last, afther many years of prosperity, the owld colonel got
stricken in years, and he began to have misgivings in his conscience
for his wicked doings, and his heart was heavy as the fear of death
came upon him; and sure enough, while he had such murnful thoughts,
the divil kem to him, and towld him _he should go wid him_.
Well, to be sure, the owld man was frekened, but he plucked up his
courage and his cuteness, and towld the divil, in a bantherin' way,
jokin' like, that he had partic'lar business thin, that he was goin'
to a party, and hoped an _owld friend_ wouldn't inconvaynience him
that-a-way.
The divil said he'd call the next day, and that he must be ready; and
sure enough in the evenin' he kem to him; and when the colonel seen
him, he reminded him of his bargain that as long as he could give him
some work he couldn't do, he wasn't obleeged to go.
'That's thrue,' says the divil.
'I'm glad you're as good as your word, anyhow,' says the colonel.
'I never bruk my word yit,' says the owld chap, cocking up his horns
consaitedly; 'honour bright,' says he.
'Well then,' says the colonel, 'build me a mill, down there, by the
river,' says he, 'and let me have it finished by to-morrow mornin'.'
'Your will is my pleasure,' says the owld chap, and away he wint; and
the colonel thought he had nicked Owld Nick at last, and wint to bed
quite aisy in his mind.
But, _jewel machree_, sure the first thing he heerd the next mornin'
was that the whole counthry round was runnin' to see a fine bran new
mill that was an the river-side, where the evening before not a thing
at all, at all, but rushes was standin', and all, of coorse, wonderin'
what brought it there; and some sayin' 'twas not lucky, and many more
throubled in their mind, but one and all agreein' it was no _good_;
and that's the very mill forninst you.
But when the colonel heered it he was more throubled than any, of
coorse, and began to conthrive what else he could think iv to keep
himself out iv the claws of the _owld one_. Well, he often heerd tell
that there was one thing the divil never could do, and I darsay you
heerd it too, sir,--that is, that he couldn't make a rope out of the
sands of the say; and so when the _owld one_ kem to him the next day
and said his job was done, and that now the mill was built he must
either tell him somethin' else he wanted done, or come away wid him.
So the colonel said he saw it was all over wid him. 'But,' says he, 'I
wouldn't like to go wid you alive, and sure it's all the same to you,
alive or dead?'
'Oh, that won't do,' says his frind; 'I can't wait no more,' says he.
'I don't want you to wait, my dear frind,' says the colonel; 'all I
want is, that you'll be plased to kill me before you take me away.'
'With pleasure,' says Owld Nick.
'But will you promise me my choice of dyin' one partic'lar way?' says
the colonel.
'Half a dozen ways, if it plazes you,' says he.
'You're mighty obleegin',' says the colonel; 'and so,' says he, 'I'd
rather die by bein' hanged with a rope _made out of the sands of the
say_,' says he, lookin' mighty knowin' at the _owld fellow_.
'I've always one about me,' says the divil, 'to obleege my frinds,'
says he; and with that he pulls out a rope made of sand, sure enough.
'Oh, it's game you're makin',' says the colonel, growin' as white as a
sheet.
'The _game is mine_, sure enough,' says the owld fellow, grinnin',
with a terrible laugh.
'That's not a sand-rope at all,' says the colonel.
'Isn't it?' says the divil, hittin' him acrass the face with the ind
iv the rope, and the sand (for it _was_ made of sand, sure enough)
went into one of his eyes, and made the tears come with the pain.
'That bates all I ever seen or heerd,' says the colonel, sthrivin' to
rally and make another offer; 'is there anything you _can't_ do?'
'Nothing you can tell me,' says the divil, 'so you may as well leave
off your palaverin' and come along at wanst.'
'Will you give me one more offer,' says the colonel.
'You don't desarve it,' says the divil; 'but I don't care if I do';
for you see, sir, he was only playin' wid him, and tantalising the
owld sinner.
'All fair,' says the colonel, and with that he ax'd him could he stop
a woman's tongue.
'Thry me,' says Owld Nick.
'Well then,' says the colonel, 'make my lady's tongue be quiet for the
next month and I'd thank you.'
'She'll never trouble you agin,' says Owld Nick; and with that the
colonel heerd roarin' and cryin', and the door of his room was thrown
open and in ran his daughter, and fell down at his feet, telling him
her mother had just dhropped dead.
The minit the door opened, the divil runs and hides himself behind a
big elbow-chair; and the colonel was frekened almost out of his siven
sinses by raison of the sudden death of his poor lady, let alone the
jeopardy he was in himself, seein' how the divil had _forestalled_ him
every way; and after ringin' his bell and callin' to his sarvants and
recoverin' his daughter out of her faint, he was goin' away wid her
out of the room, whin the divil caught howld of him by the skirt of
the coat, and the colonel was obleeged to let his daughter be carried
out by the sarvants, and shut the door afther them.
'Well,' says the divil, and he grinn'd and wagg'd his tail, all as one
as a dog when he's plaised; 'what do you say now?' says he.
'Oh,' says the colonel, 'only lave me alone until I bury my poor
wife,' says he, 'and I'll go with you then, you villain,' says he.
'Don't call names,' says the divil; 'you had better keep a civil
tongue in your head,' says he; 'and it doesn't become a gintleman to
forget good manners.'
'Well, sir, to make a long story short, the divil purtended to let him
off, out of kindness, for three days antil his wife was buried; but
the raison of it was this, that when the lady his daughter fainted, he
loosened the clothes about her throat, and in pulling some of her
dhress away, he tuk off a goold chain that was on her neck and put it
in his pocket, and the chain had a diamond crass on it (the Lord be
praised!) and the divil darn't touch him while he had _the sign of the
crass_ about him.
Well, the poor colonel (God forgive him!) was grieved for the loss of
his lady, and she had an _illigant berrin_--and they say that when the
prayers was readin' over the dead, the owld colonel took it to heart
like anything, and the word o' God kem home to his poor sinful sowl at
last.
Well, sir, to make a long story short, the ind of it was, that for the
three days o' grace that was given to him the poor deluded owld sinner
did nothin' at all but read the Bible from mornin' till night, and bit
or sup didn't pass his lips all the time, he was so intint upon the
Holy Book, but he sat up in an owld room in the far ind of the house,
and bid no one disturb him an no account, and struv to make his heart
bould with the words iv life; and sure it was somethin' strinthened
him at last, though as the time drew nigh that the _inimy_ was to
come, he didn't feel aisy, and no wondher; and, bedad the three days
was past and gone in no time, and the story goes that at the dead hour
o' the night, when the poor sinner was readin' away as fast as he
could, my jew'l, his heart jumped up to his mouth at gettin' a tap on
the shoulder.
'Oh, murther!' says he, 'who's there?' for he was afeard to look up.
'It's me,' says the _owld one_, and he stood right forninst him, and
his eyes like coals o' fire, lookin' him through, and he said, with a
voice that almost split his owld heart, 'Come!' says he.
'Another day!' cried out the poor colonel.
'Not another hour,' says Sat'n.
'Half an hour!'
'Not a quarther,' says the divil, grinnin' with a bitther laugh;
'give over your reading I bid you,' says he, 'and come away wid me.'
'Only gi' me a few minits,' says he.
'Lave aff your palaverin' you snakin' owld sinner,' says Sat'n; 'you
know you're bought and sould to me, and a purty bargain I have o' you,
you owld baste,' says he; 'so come along at wanst,' and he put out his
claw to ketch him; but the colonel tuk a fast hould o' the Bible, and
begged hard that he'd let him alone, and wouldn't harm him antil the
bit o' candle that was just blinkin' in the socket before him was
burned out.
'Well, have it so, you dirty coward,' says Owld Nick, and with that he
spit an him.
But the poor owld colonel didn't lose a minit (for he was cunnin' to
the ind), but snatched the little taste o' candle that was forninst
him out o' the candlestick, and puttin' it an the Holy Book before
him, he shut down the cover of it and quinched the light. With that
the divil gave a roar like a bull, and vanished in a flash o' fire,
and the poor colonel fainted away in his chair; but the sarvants heerd
the noise (for the divil tore aff the roof o' the house when he left
it), and run into the room, and brought their master to himself agin.
And from that day he was an althered man, and used to have the Bible
read to him every day, for he couldn't read himself any more, by
raison of losin' his eyesight when the divil hit him with the rope of
sand in the face, and afther spit an him--for the sand wint into one
eye, and he lost the other that-a-way, savin' your presence.
FERGUS O'MARA AND THE AIR-DEMONS
BY DR. P. W. JOYCE
Of all the different kinds of goblins that haunted the lonely places
of Ireland in days of old, air-demons were most dreaded by the people.
They lived among clouds, and mists, and rocks, and they hated the
human race with the utmost malignity. In those times lived in the
north of Desmond (the present county of Cork) a man man named Fergus
O'Mara. His farm lay on the southern slope of the Ballyhoura
Mountains, along which ran the open road that led to his house. This
road was not shut in by walls or fences; but on both sides there were
scattered trees and bushes that sheltered it in winter, and made it
dark and gloomy when you approached the house at night. Beside the
road, a little way off from the house, there was a spot that had an
evil name all over the country, a little hill covered closely with
copsewood, with a great craggy rock on top, from which, on stormy
nights, strange and fearful sounds had often been heard--shrill
voices, and screams, mingled with loud fiendish laughter; and the
people believed that it was the haunt of air-demons. In some way it
had become known that these demons had an eye on Fergus, and watched
for every opportunity to get him into their power. He had himself been
warned of this many years before, by an old monk from the neighbouring
monastery of Buttevant, who told him, moreover, that so long as he
led a blameless, upright life, he need have no fear of the demons; but
that if ever he yielded to temptation or fell into any great sin, then
would come the opportunity for which they were watching day and night.
He never forgot this warning, and he was very careful to keep himself
straight, both because he was naturally a good man, and for fear of
the air-demons.
Some time before the occurrence about to be related, one of Fergus's
children, a sweet little girl about seven years of age, fell ill and
died. The little thing gradually wasted away, but suffered no pain;
and as she grew weaker she became more loving and gentle than ever,
and talked in a wonderful way, quite beyond her years, of the bright
land she was going to. One thing she was particularly anxious about,
that when she was dying they should let her hold a blessed candle in
her hand. They thought it very strange that she should be so
continually thinking and talking of this; and over and over again she
made her father and mother promise that it should be done. And with
the blessed candle in her hand she died so calmly and sweetly that
those round her bed could not tell the exact moment.
About a year after this, on a bright Sunday morning in October, Fergus
set out for Mass. The place was about three miles away, and it was not
a chapel,[6] but a lonely old fort, called to this day Lissanaffrin,
the fort of the Mass. A rude stone altar stood at one side near the
mound of the fort, under a little shed that sheltered the priest also;
and the congregation worshipped in the open air on the green plot in
the centre. For in those days there were many places that had no
chapels; and the people flocked to these open-air Masses as
faithfully as we do now to our stately comfortable chapels. The family
had gone on before, the men walking and the women and children riding;
and Fergus set out to walk alone.
[Footnote 6: A fort is the same as a rath (see p. 70); a few are
fenced in with unmortared stone walls instead of clay ditches.]
Just as he approached the Demons' Rock he was greatly surprised to
hear the eager yelping of dogs, and in a moment a great deer bounded
from the covert beside the rock, with three hounds after her in full
chase. No man in the whole country round loved a good chase better
than Fergus, or had a swifter foot to follow, and without a moment's
hesitation he started in pursuit. But in a few minutes he stopped up
short; for he bethought him of the Mass, and he knew there was little
time for delay. While he stood wavering, the deer seemed to slacken
her pace, and the hounds gained on her, and in a moment Fergus dashed
off at full speed, forgetting Mass and everything else in his
eagerness for the sport. But it turned out a long and weary chase.
Sometimes they slackened, and he was almost at the hounds' tails, but
the next moment both deer and hounds started forward and left him far
behind. Sometimes they were in full view, and again they were out of
sight in thickets and deep glens, so that he could guide himself only
by the cry of the hounds. In this way he was decoyed across hills and
glens, but instead of gaining ground he found himself rather falling
behind.
Mass was all over and the people dispersed to their homes, and all
wondered that they did not see Fergus; for no one could remember that
he was ever absent before. His wife returned, expecting to find him at
home; but when she arrived there was trouble in her heart, for there
were no tidings of him, and no one had seen him since he had set out
for Mass in the morning.
Meantime Fergus followed up the chase till he was wearied out; and at
last, just on the edge of a wild moor, both deer and hounds
disappeared behind a shoulder of rock, and he lost them altogether. At
the same moment the cry of the hounds became changed to frightful
shrieks and laughter, such as he had heard more than once from the
Demons' Rock. And now, sitting down on a bank to rest, he had full
time to reflect on what he had done, and he was overwhelmed with
remorse and shame. Moreover, his heart sank within him, thinking of
the last sounds he had heard; for he believed that he had been allured
from Mass by the cunning wiles of the demons, and he feared that the
dangerous time had come foretold by the monk. He started up and set
out for his home, hoping to reach it before night. But before he had
got half-way night fell and a storm came on, great wind and rain and
bursts of thunder and lightning. Fergus was strong and active,
however, and knew every turn of the mountain, and he made his way
through the storm till he approached the Demons' Rock.
Suddenly there burst on his ears the very same sounds that he had
heard on losing sight of the chase--shouts and shrieks and laughter. A
great black ragged cloud, whirling round and round with furious gusts
of wind, burst from the rock and came sweeping and tearing towards
him. Crossing himself in terror and uttering a short prayer, he rushed
for home. But the whirlwind swept nearer, till at last, in a sort of
dim, shadowy light, he saw the black cloud full of frightful faces,
all glaring straight at him and coming closer and closer. At this
moment a bright light dropped down from the sky and rested in front of
the cloud; and when he looked up, he saw his little child floating in
the air between him and the demons, holding a lighted candle in her
hand. And although the storm was raging and roaring all round, she
was quite calm--not a breath of air stirred her long yellow hair--and
the candle burned quietly. Even in the midst of all his terror he
could observe her pale gentle face and blue eyes just as when she was
alive, not showing traces of sickness or sadness now, but lighted up
with joy. The demons seemed to start back from the light, and with
great uproar rushed round to the other side of Fergus, the black cloud
still moving with them and wrapping them up in its ragged folds; but
the little angel floated softly round, still keeping between them and
her father. Fergus ran on for home, and the cloud of demons still kept
furiously whirling round and round him, bringing with them a whirlwind
that roared among the trees and bushes and tore them from the roots;
but still the child, always holding the candle towards them, kept
floating calmly round and shielded him.
At length he arrived at his house; the door lay half-open, for the
family were inside expecting him home, listening with wonder and
affright to the approaching noises; and he bounded in through the
doorway and fell flat on his face. That instant the door--though no
one was near--was shut violently, and the bolts were shot home. They
hurried anxiously round him to lift him up, but found him in a
death-like swoon. Meantime the uproar outside became greater than
ever; round and round the house it tore, a roaring whirlwind with
shouts and yells of rage, and great trampling, as if there was a whole
company of horsemen. At length, however, the noises seemed to move
away farther and farther off from the house, and gradually died away
in the distance. At the same time the storm ceased, and the night
became calm and beautiful.
The daylight was shining in through the windows when Fergus recovered
from his swoon, and then he told his fearful story; but many days
passed over before he had quite recovered from the horrors of that
night. When the family came forth in the morning there was fearful
waste all round and near the house, trees and bushes torn from the
roots, and the ground all trampled and torn up. After this the revelry
of the demons was never again heard from the rock; and it was believed
that they had left it and betaken themselves to some other haunt.
THE MAN WHO NEVER KNEW FEAR
TRANSLATED FROM THE GAELIC BY DOUGLAS HYDE
There was once a lady, and she had two sons whose names were Louras
(Lawrence) and Carrol. From the day that Lawrence was born nothing
ever made him afraid, but Carrol would never go outside the door from
the time the darkness of the night began.
It was the custom at that time when a person died for people to watch
the dead person's grave in turn, one after another; for there used to
be destroyers going about stealing the corpses.
When the mother of Carrol and Lawrence died, Carrol said to Lawrence--
'You say that nothing ever made you afraid yet, but I'll make a bet
with you that you haven't courage to watch your mother's tomb
to-night.'
'I'll make a bet with you that I have,' said Lawrence.
When the darkness of the night was coming, Lawrence put on his sword
and went to the burying-ground. He sat down on a tombstone near his
mother's grave till it was far in the night and sleep was coming upon
him. Then he saw a big black thing coming to him, and when it came
near him he saw that it was a head without a body that was in it. He
drew the sword to give it a blow if it should come any nearer, but it
didn't come. Lawrence remained looking at it until the light of the
day was coming, then the head-without-body went, and Lawrence came
home.
Carrol asked him, did he see anything in the graveyard.
'I did,' said Lawrence, 'and my mother's body would be gone, but that
I was guarding it.'
'Was it dead or alive, the person you saw?' said Carrol.
'I don't know was it dead or alive,' said Lawrence; 'there was nothing
in it but a head without a body.'
'Weren't you afraid?' says Carrol.
'Indeed I wasn't,' said Lawrence; 'don't you know that nothing in the
world ever put fear on me.'
'I'll bet again with you that you haven't the courage to watch
to-night again,' says Carrol.
'I would make that bet with you,' said Lawrence, 'but that there is a
night's sleep wanting to me. Go yourself to-night.'
'I wouldn't go to the graveyard to-night if I were to get the riches
of the world,' says Carrol.
'Unless you go your mother's body will be gone in the morning,' says
Lawrence.
'If only you watch to-night and to-morrow night, I never will ask of
you to do a turn of work as long as you will be alive,' said Carrol,
'but I think there is fear on you.'
'To show you that there's no fear on me,' said Lawrence, 'I will
watch.'
He went to sleep, and when the evening came he rose up, put on his
sword, and went to the graveyard. He sat on a tombstone near his
mother's grave. About the middle of the night he heard a great sound
coming. A big black thing came as far as the grave and began rooting
up the clay. Lawrence drew back his sword, and with one blow he made
two halves of the big black thing, and with the second blow he made
two halves of each half, and he saw it no more.
Lawrence went home in the morning, and Carrol asked him did he see
anything.
'I did,' said Lawrence, 'and only that I was there my mother's body
would be gone.'
'Is it the head-without-body that came again?' said Carrol.
'It was not, but a big black thing, and it was digging up my mother's
grave until I made two halves of it.'
Lawrence slept that day, and when the evening came he rose up, put on
his sword, and went to the churchyard. He sat down on a tombstone
until it was the middle of the night. Then he saw a thing as white as
snow and as hateful as sin; it had a man's head on it, and teeth as
long as a flax-carder. Lawrence drew back the sword and was going to
deal it a blow, when it said--
'Hold your hand; you have saved your mother's body, and there is not a
man in Ireland as brave as you. There is great riches waiting for you
if you go looking for it.'
Lawrence went home, and Carrol asked him did he see anything.