In this exercise I once met an accident, which had like to have cost me my life; for, one of the pages having put my boat into the trough, the governess who attended Glumdalclitch very officiously lifted me up, to place me in the boat; but I happened to slip through her fingers, and should infallibly have fallen down forty feet, upon the floor, if, by the luckiest chance in the world, I had not been stopped by a corking-pin that stuck in the good gentlewoman’s stomacher; the head of the pin passed between my shirt and the waistband of my breeches, and thus I was held by the middle in the air, till Glumdalclitch ran to my relief.
Another time, one of the servants, whose office it was to fill my trough every third day with fresh water, was so careless to let a huge frog (not perceiving it) slip out of his pail. The frog lay concealed till I was put into my boat, but then seeing a resting-place, climbed up, and made it to lean so much on one side, that I was forced to balance it with all my weight on the other to prevent overturning. When the frog was got in, it hopped at once half the length of the boat, and then over my head, backward and forward, daubing my face and clothes with its odious slime. The largeness of its features made it appear the most deformed animal that can be conceived. However, I desired Glumdalclitch to let me deal with it alone. I banged it a good while with one of my sculls, and at last forced it to leap out of the boat.
But the greatest danger I underwent in that kingdom was from a monkey, who belonged to one of the clerks of the kitchen. Glumdalclitch had locked me up in her closet, while she went somewhere upon business, or a visit. The weather being very warm, the closet window was left open, as well as the windows and door of my bigger box, in which I usually lived, because of its largeness and conveniency. As I sat quietly meditating at my table, I heard something bounce in at the closet-window, and skip about from one side to the other; whereat, although I was much alarmed, yet I ventured to look out, but not stirring from my seat; and then I saw this frolicsome animal frisking and leaping up and down, till at last he came to my box, which he seemed to view with great pleasure and curiosity, peeping in at the door and every window. I retreated to the further corner of my room, or box; but the monkey, looking in at every side, put me into such a fright, that I wanted presence of mind to conceal myself under the bed, as I might easily have done. After some time spent in peeping, grinning, and chattering, he at last espied me; and reaching one of his paws in at the door, as a cat does when she plays with a mouse, although I often shifted place to avoid him, he at length seized the lappet of my coat (which being made of that country silk, was very thick and strong), and dragged me out. He took me up in his right forefoot, and held me as a nurse does a child; and when I offered to struggle, he squeezed me so hard, that I thought it more prudent to submit. I have good reason to believe that he took me for a young one of his own species, by his often stroking my face very gently with his other paw. In these diversions he was interrupted by a noise at the closet door, as if somebody were opening it; whereupon he suddenly leaped up to the window, at which he had come in, and thence upon the leads and gutters, walking upon three legs, and holding me in the fourth, till he clambered up to a roof that was next to ours. I heard Glumdalclitch give a shriek the moment he was carrying me out. The poor girl was almost distracted; that quarter of the palace was all in an uproar; the servants ran for ladders; the monkey was seen by hundreds in the court, sitting upon the ridge of a building, holding me like a baby in one of his fore-paws, and feeding me with the other, by cramming into my mouth some victuals he had squeezed out of the bag on one side of his chaps, and patting me when I would not eat; whereat many of the rabble below could not forbear laughing; neither do I think they justly ought to be blamed, for, without question, the sight was ridiculous enough to everybody but myself. Some of the people threw up stones, hoping to drive the monkey down; but this was strictly forbidden, or else, very probably, my brains had been dashed out.
The ladders were now applied, and mounted by several men; which the monkey observing, and finding himself almost encompassed, not being able to make speed enough with his three legs, let me drop on a ridge tile, and made his escape. Here I sat for some time, five hundred yards from the ground, expecting every moment to be blown down by the wind, or to fall by my own giddiness, and come tumbling over and over from the ridge to the eaves: but an honest lad, one of my nurse’s footmen, climbed up, and putting me into his breeches pocket, brought me down—safe.
I was almost choked with the filthy stuff the monkey had crammed down my throat; but my dear little nurse picked it out of my mouth with a small needle, and then I fell a-vomiting, which gave me great relief. Yet I was so weak and bruised in the sides with the squeezes given me by this odious animal, that I was forced to keep my bed a fortnight. The king, queen, and all the court, sent every day to inquire after my health, and her Majesty made me several visits during my sickness. The monkey was killed, and an order made that no such animal should be kept about the palace.
When I attended the king after my recovery, to return him thanks for his favors, he was pleased to rally me a good deal upon this adventure. He asked me, what my thoughts and speculations were while I lay in the monkey’s paw? how I liked the victuals he gave me? his manner of feeding? and whether the fresh air on the roof had sharpened my stomach? He desired to know what I would have done upon such an occasion in my own country? I told his Majesty, that in Europe we had no monkeys except such as were brought for curiosities from other places, and so small that I could deal with a dozen of them together, if they presumed to attack me. And as for that monstrous animal, with whom I was so lately engaged (it was indeed as large as an elephant), if my fears had suffered me to think so far as to make use of my hanger (looking fiercely, and clapping my hand upon the hilt, as I spoke) when he poked his paw into my chamber, perhaps I should have given him such a wound, as would have made him glad to withdraw it, with more haste than he put it in. This I delivered in a firm tone, like a person who was jealous lest his courage should be called in question. However, my speech produced nothing else beside a loud laughter, which all the respect due to his Majesty from those about him could not make them contain. This made me reflect, how vain an attempt it is for a man to endeavor to do himself honor among those who are out of all degree of equality or comparison with him. And yet I have seen the moral of my own behavior very frequently in England since my return; where a little contemptible varlet, without the least title to birth, person, wit, or common-sense, shall presume to look with importance, and put himself upon a foot with the greatest persons of the kingdom.
THE HILL-MAN AND THE HOUSEWIFE
BY JULIANA HORATIA EWING
It is well known that the good people cannot stand mean ways. Now, there once lived a house-wife who had a sharp eye to her own good in this world, and gave alms of what she had no use, for the good of her soul.
One day a man knocked at her door. “Can you lend us a saucepan, good mother?” said he. “There’s a wedding on the hill, and all the pots are in use.” “Is he to have one?” asked the servant girl who opened the door. “Ay, to be sure,” said the house-wife.
But when the maid was taking a saucepan from the self, she pinched her arm and whispered sharply, “Not that, you stupid; get the old one out of the cupboard. It leaks and the hill-men are so neat and such nimble workers that they are sure to mend it before they send it home. So one does a good turn to the good people and saves sixpence from the tinker.”
The maid fetched the saucepan, which had been laid by till the tinker’s next visit, and gave it to the dwarf, who thanked her and went away.
The saucepan was soon returned neatly mended and ready for use. At supper time the maid filled the pan with milk and set it on the fire for the children’s supper, but in a few minutes the milk was so burnt and smoked that no one could touch it, and even the pigs would not drink the wash into which it was thrown.
“Ah, you good-for-nothing slut!” cried the house-wife, as she this time filled the pan herself. “You
would ruin the richest, with your careless ways; there’s a whole quart of good milk spoilt at once.” “And that’s twopence,” cried a voice from the chimney, a queer whining voice like some old body who was always grumbling over something.
The house-wife had not left the saucepan for two minutes when the milk boiled over, and it was all burnt and smoked as before. “The pan must be dirty,” cried the house-wife in a rage; “and there are two full quarts of milk as good as thrown to the dogs.” “And that’s fourpence,” said the voice in the chimney.
After a long scrubbing the saucepan was once more filled and set on the fire, but it was not the least use, the milk was burnt and smoked again, and the house-wife burst into tears at the waste, crying out, “Never before did such a thing happen to me since I kept house! Three quarts of milk burnt for one meal!” “And that’s sixpence,” cried the voice from the chimney. “You didn’t save the tinker after all,” with which the hill-man himself came tumbling down the chimney, and went off laughing through the door. But from that time the saucepan was as good as any other.
HOW THOMAS CONNOLLY MET THE BANSHEE
BY J. TODHUNTER
Aw, the banshee, sir? Well, sir, as I was striving to tell ye, I was going home from work one day, from Mr. Cassidy’s that I tould ye of, in the dusk o’ the evening. I had more nor a mile—aye, it was nearer two mile—to thrack to, where I was lodgin’ with a dacent widdy woman I knew, Biddy Maguire be name, so as to be near me work.
It was the first week in November, an’ a lonesome road I had to travel, an’ dark enough, wid threes above it; an’ about half-ways there was a bit of a brudge I had to cross, over one o’ them little sthrames that runs into the Doddher. I walked on in the middle iv the road, for there was no toe-path at that time, Misther Harry, nor for many a long day afther that; but, as I was sayin’, I walked along till I come nigh upon the brudge, where the road was a bit open, an’ there, right enough, I seen the hog’s back o’ the ould-fashioned brudge that used to be there till it was pulled down, an’ a white mist steamin’ up out o’ the wather all around it.
Well, now, Misther Harry, often as I’d passed by the place before, that night it seemed sthrange to me, an’ like a place ye might see in a dhrame; an’ as I come up to it I began to feel a could wind blowin’ through the hollow o’ me heart. “Musha Thomas,” sez I to meself, “is it yerself that’s in it?” sez I; “or, if it is, what’s the matter wid ye at all, at all?” sez I; so I put a bould face on it, an’ I made a sthruggle to set one leg afore the other, ontil I came to the rise o’ the brudge. And there, God be good to us! in a cantle o’ the wall I seen an ould woman, as I thought, sittin’ on her hunkers, all crouched together, an’ her head bowed down, seemin’ly in the greatest affliction.
Well, sir, I pitied the ould craythur, an’ thought I wasn’t worth a thraneen, for the mortial fright I was in, I up an’ sez to her, “That’s a cowld lodgin’ for ye, ma’am.” Well, the sorra ha’porth she sez to that, nor tuk no more notice o’ me than if I hadn’t let a word out o’ me, but kep’ rockin’ herself to an’ fro, as if her heart was breakin’; so I sez to her again, “Eh, ma’am, is there anythin’ the matther wid ye?” An’ I made for to touch her on the shouldher, on’y somethin’ stopt me, for as I looked closer at her I saw she was no more an ould woman nor she was an ould cat. The first thing I tuk notice to, Misther Harry, was her hair, that was sthreelin’ down over her showldhers, an’ a good yard on the ground on aich side of her. O, be the hoky farmer, but that was the hair! The likes of it I never seen on mortial woman, young or ould, before nor sense. It grew as sthrong out of her as out of e’er a young slip of a girl ye could see; but the colour of it was a misthery to describe. The first squint I got of it I thought it was silvery grey, like an ould crone’s; but when I got up beside her I saw, be the glance o’ the sky, it was a soart iv an Iscariot colour, an’ a shine out of it like floss silk. It ran over her showldhers and the two shapely arms she was lanin’ her head on, for all the world like Mary Magdalen’s in a picther; and then I persaved that the grey cloak and the green gownd undhernaith it was made of no earthly matarial I ever laid eyes on. Now, I needn’t tell ye, sir, that I seen all this in the twinkle of a bed-post—long as I take to make the narration of it. So I made a step back from her, an’ “The Lord be betune us an’ harm!” sez I, out loud, an’ wid that I blessed meself. Well, Misther Harry, the word wasn’t out o’ me mouth afore she turned her face on me. Aw, Misther Harry, but ’twas that was the awfullest apparation ever I seen, the face of her as she looked up at me! God forgive me for sayin’ it, but ’twas more like the face of the “Axy Homo” beyand in Marlboro Sthreet Chapel nor like any face I could mintion—as pale as a corpse, an’ a most o’ freckles on it, like the freckles on a turkey’s egg; an’ the two eyes sewn in wid red thread, from the terrible power o’ crying the’ had to do; an’ such a pair iv eyes as the’ wor, Misther Harry, as blue as two forget-me-nots, an’ as cowld as the moon in a boghole of a frosty night, an’ a dead-an’-live look in them that sent a cowld shiver through the marra o’ me bones. Be the mortial! ye could ha’ rung a tay cupful o’ cowld paspiration out o’ the hair o’ me head that minute, so ye could. Well, I thought the life ’ud lave me intirely when she riz up from her hunkers, till, bedad! she looked mostly as tall as Nelson’s Pillar; an’ wid the two eyes gazin’ back at me, an’ her two arms stretched out before hor, an’ a keine out of her that riz the hair o’ me scalp till it was as stiff as the hog’s bristles in a new hearth broom, away she glides—glides round the angle o’ the brudge, an’ down with her into the sthrame that ran undhernaith it. ’Twas then I began to suspect what she was. “Wisha, Thomas!” says I to meself, sez I; an’ I made a great struggle to get me two legs into a throt, in spite o’ the spavin o’ fright the pair o’ them wor in; an’ how I brought meself home that same night the Lord in heaven only knows, for I never could tell; but I must ha’ tumbled agin the door, and shot in head foremost into the middle o’ the flure, where I lay in a dead swoon for mostly an hour; and the first I knew was Mrs. Maguire stannin’ over me with a jorum o’ punch she was pourin’ down me throath (throat), to bring back the life into me, an’ me head in a pool of cowld wather she dashed over me in her first fright. “Arrah, Mister Connolly,” shashee, “what ails ye?” shashee, “to put the scare on a lone woman like that?” shashee. “Am I in this world or the next?” sez I. “Musha! where else would ye be on’y here in my kitchen?” shashee. “O, glory be to God!” sez I, “but I thought I was in Purgathory at the laste, not to mintion an uglier place,” sez I, “only it’s too cowld I find meself, an’ not too hot,” sez I. “Faix, an’ maybe ye wor more nor half-ways there, on’y for me,” shashee; “but what’s come to you at all, at all? Is it your fetch ye seen, Mister Connolly?” “Aw, naboclish!” sez I. “Never mind what I seen,” sez I. So be degrees I began to come to a little; an’ that’s the way I met the banshee, Misther Harry!
“But how did you know it really was the banshee after all, Thomas?”
“Begor, sir, I knew the apparition of her well enough; but ’twas confirmed by a sarcumstance that occurred the same time. There was a Misther O’Nales was come on a visit, ye must know, to a place in the neighborhood—one o’ the ould O’Nales iv the county Tyrone, a rale ould Irish family—an’ the banshee was heard keening round the house that same night, be more then one that was in it; an’ sure enough, Misther Harry, he was found dead in his bed the next mornin’. So if it wasn’t the banshee I seen that time, I’d like to know what else it could a’ been.”
THE COMING OF FINN
BY STANDISH JAMES O’GRADY
It was the Eve of Samhain, which we Christians call All Hallows’ Eve.
The King of Ireland, Conn, the Hundred-Fighter, sat at supper in his palace at Tara. All his chiefs and mighty men were with him. On his right hand was his only son, Art the Solitary, so called because he had no brothers. The Sons of Morna, who kept the boy Finn out of his rights and were at the time trying t
o kill him if they could, were here too. Chief amongst them was Gaul mac Morna, a huge and strong warrior, and Captain of all the Fians ever since that battle in which Finn’s father had been killed.
And Gaul’s men were with him. The great long table was spread for supper. A thousand wax candles shed their light through the chamber, and caused the vessels of gold, silver, and bronze to shine. Yet, though it was a great feast, none of these warriors seemed to care about eating or drinking; every face was sad, and there was little conversation, and no music. It seemed as if they were expecting some calamity. Conn’s sceptre, which was a plain staff of silver, lay beside him on the table, and there was a canopy of bright bronze over his head. Gaul mac Morna, Captain of the Fians, sat at the other end of the long table. Every warrior wore a bright banqueting mantle of silk or satin, scarlet or crimson, blue, green, or purple, fastened on the breast either with a great brooch or with a pin of gold or silver. Yet, though their raiment was bright and gay, and though all the usual instruments of festivity were there, and a thousand tall candles shed their light over the scene, no one looked happy.
Then was heard a low sound like thunder, and the earth seemed to tremble, and after that they distinctly heard a footfall like the slow, deliberate tread of a giant. These footfalls sent a chill into every heart, and every face, gloomy before, was now pale.
The King leaned past his son Art the Solitary, and said to a certain Druid who sat beside Art, “Is this the son of Midna come before his time?” “It is not,” said the Druid, “but it is the man who is to conquer Midna. One is coming to Tara this night before whose glory all other glory shall wax dim.”
Irish Stories and Folklore Page 19