Irish Fairy and Folk Tales (28 page)

The poor Hibernian was in the cart proceeding on his last journey, with a label on his back, and another on his breast,
announcing him as the remorseless villain who for the last month had been draining the casks in my lord’s vault every night. He was surprised to hear himself addressed by his name, and in his native tongue, by an old woman in the crowd. “Ach, Shemus, alanna! is it going to die you are in a strange place without your
cappeen d’yarrag?
”
^*
These words infused hope and courage into the poor victim’s heart. He turned to the lord and humbly asked leave to die in his red cap, which he supposed had dropped from his head in the vault. A servant was sent for the head-piece, and Shemus felt lively hope warming his heart while placing it on his head. On the platform he was graciously allowed to address the spectators, which he proceeded to do in the usual formula composed for the benefit of flying stationers: “Good people all, a warning take by me;” but when he had finished the line, “My parents reared me tenderly,” he unexpectedly added: “By yarrow and rue,” etc., and the disappointed spectators saw him shoot up obliquely through the air in the style of a skyrocket that had missed its aim. It is said that the lord took the circumstance much to heart, and never afterward hung a man for twenty-four hours after his offence.

Tom Bourke lives in a low, long farmhouse, resembling in outward appearance a large barn, placed at the bottom of the hill, just where the new road strikes off from the old one, leading from the town of Kilworth to that of Lismore. He is of a class of persons who are a sort of black swans in Ireland; he is a wealthy farmer. Tom’s father had, in the good old times, when
a hundred pounds were no inconsiderable treasure, either to lend or spend, accommodated his landlord with that sum, at interest; and obtained as a return for his civility a long lease, about half-a-dozen times more valuable than the loan which procured it. The old man died worth several hundred pounds, the greater part of which, with his farm, he bequeathed to his son Tom. But besides all this, Tom received from his father, upon his deathbed, another gift, far more valuable than worldly riches, greatly as he prized and is still known to prize them. He was invested with the privilege, enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of communicating with those mysterious beings called “the good people.”

Tom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active man, about fifty-five years of age. His hair is perfectly white, short and bushy behind, but rising in front erect and thick above his forehead, like a new clothes brush. His eyes are of that kind which I have often observed with persons of a quick, but limited intellect—they are small, gray, and lively. The large and projecting eyebrows under, or rather within, which they twinkle, give them an expression of shrewdness and intelligence, if not of cunning. And this is very much the character of the man. If you want to make a bargain with Tom Bourke you must act as if you were a general besieging a town, and make your advances a long time before you can hope to obtain possession; if you march up boldly, and tell him at once your object, you are for the most part sure to have the gates closed in your teeth. Tom does not wish to part with what you wish to obtain; or another person has been speaking to him for the whole of the last week. Or, it may be, your proposal seems to meet the most favorable reception. “Very well, sir”; “That’s true, sir”; “I’m very thankful to your honor,” and other expressions of kindness and confidence greet you in reply to every sentence; and you part from him wondering how he can
have obtained the character which he universally bears, of being a man whom no one can make anything of in a bargain. But when you next meet him the flattering illusion is dissolved: you find you are a great deal further from your object than you were when you thought you had almost succeeded; his eye and his tongue express a total forgetfulness of what the mind within never lost sight of for an instant; and you have to begin operations afresh, with the disadvantage of having put your adversary completely upon his guard.

Yet, although Tom Bourke is, whether from supernatural revealings, or (as many will think more probable) from the tell-truth experience, so distrustful of mankind, and so close in his dealings with them, he is no misanthrope. No man loves better the pleasures of the genial board. The love of money, indeed, which is with him (and who will blame him?) a very ruling propensity, and the gratification which it has received from habits of industry, sustained throughout a pretty long and successful life, have taught him the value of sobriety, during those seasons, at least, when a man’s business requires him to keep possession of his senses. He has, therefore, a general rule, never to get drunk but on Sunday. But in order that it should be a general one to all intents and purposes, he takes a method which, according to better logicians than he is, always proves the rules. He has many exceptions; among these, of course, are the evenings of all the fair and market days that happen in his neighborhood; so also all the days in which funerals, marriages, and christenings take place among his friends within many miles of him. As to this last class of exceptions, it may appear at first very singular, that he is much more punctual in his attendance at the funerals than at the baptisms or weddings of his friends. This may be construed as an instance of disinterested affection for departed worth, very uncommon in this selfish world. But I am afraid
that the motives which lead Tom Bourke to pay more court to the dead than the living are precisely those which lead to the opposite conduct in the generality of mankind—a hope of a future benefit and a fear of future evil. For the good people, who are a race as powerful as they are capricious, have their favorites among those who inhabit this world; often show their affection by easing the objects of it from the load of this burdensome life; and frequently reward or punish the living according to the degree of reverence paid to the obsequies and the memory of the elected dead.

Some may attribute to the same cause the apparently humane and charitable actions which Tom, and indeed the other members of his family, are known frequently to perform. A beggar has seldom left their farmyard with an empty wallet, or without obtaining a night’s lodging, if required, with a sufficiency of potatoes and milk to satisfy even an Irish beggar’s appetite; in appeasing which, account must usually be taken of the auxiliary jaws of a hungry dog, and of two or three still more hungry children, who line themselves well within, to atone for their nakedness without. If one of the neighboring poor be seized with a fever, Tom will often supply the sick wretch with some untenanted hut upon one of his two large farms (for he has added one to his patrimony), or will send his laborers to construct a shed at a hedgeside, and supply straw for a bed while the disorder continues. His wife, remarkable for the largeness of her dairy, and the goodness of everything it contains, will furnish milk for whey; and their good offices are frequently extended to the family of the patient, who are, perhaps, reduced to the extremity of wretchedness, by even the temporary suspension of a father’s or a husband’s labor.

If much of this arises from the hopes and fears to which I above alluded, I believe much of it flows from a mingled sense
of compassion and of duty, which is sometimes seen to break from an Irish peasant’s heart, even where it happens to be enveloped in a habitual covering of avarice and fraud; and which I once heard speak in terms not to be misunderstood: “When we get a deal, ’tis only fair we should give back a little of it.”

It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of those good people, with whom he is said to hold frequent and intimate communications. To the faithful, who believe in their power, and their occasional delegation of it to him, he seldom refuses, if properly asked, to exercise his high prerogative when any unfortunate being is
struck
in his neighborhood. Still he will not be won unsued; he is at first difficult of persuasion, and must be overcome by a little gentle violence. On these occasions he is usually solemn and mysterious, and if one word of reward be mentioned he at once abandons the unhappy patient, such a proposition being a direct insult to his supernatural superiors. It is true that, as the laborer is worthy of his hire, most persons gifted as he is do not scruple to receive a token of gratitude from the patients or their friends
after
their recovery. It is recorded that a very handsome gratuity was once given to a female practitioner in this occult science, who deserves to be mentioned, not only because she was a neighbor and a rival of Tom’s, but from the singularity of a mother deriving her name from her son. Her son’s name was Owen, and she was always called
Owen sa vauher
(Owen’s mother). This person was, on the occasion to which I have alluded,
persuaded
to give her assistance to a young girl who had lost the use of her right leg;
Owen sa vauher
found the cure a difficult one. A journey of about eighteen miles was essential for the purpose, probably to visit one of the good people who resided at that distance; and this journey could only be performed by
Owen sa vauher
traveling upon the back of a white hen. The visit, however, was accomplished; and at a particular hour, according to the prediction of this extraordinary woman, when the hen and her rider were to reach their journey’s end, the patient was seized with an irresistible desire to dance, which she gratified with the most perfect freedom of the diseased leg, much to the joy of her anxious family. The gratuity in this case was, as it surely ought to have been, unusually large, from the difficulty of procuring a hen willing to go so long a journey with such a rider.

To do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these occasions, as I have heard from many competent authorities, perfectly disinterested. Not many months since he recovered a young woman (the sister of a tradesman living near him), who had been struck speechless after returning from a funeral, and had continued so for several days. He steadfastly refused receiving any compensation, saying that even if he had not as much as would buy him his supper, he could take nothing in this case, because the girl had offended at the funeral of one of the
good people
belonging to his own family, and though he would do her a kindness he could take none from her.

About the time this last remarkable affair took place, my friend, Mr. Martin, who is a neighbor of Tom’s, had some business to transact with him, which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a conclusion. At last Mr. Martin, having tried all quiet means, had recourse to a legal process, which brought Tom to reason, and the matter was arranged to their mutual satisfaction, and with perfect good humor between the parties. The accommodation took place after dinner at Mr. Martin’s house, and he invited Tom to walk into the parlor and take a glass of punch, made of some excellent
poteen
, which was on the table: he had long wished to draw out his highly-endowed
neighbor on the subject of his supernatural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who was in the room, was rather a favorite of Tom’s, this seemed a good opportunity.

“Well, Tom,” said Mr. Martin, “that was a curious business of Molly Dwyer’s, who recovered her speech so suddenly the other day.”

“You may say that, sir,” replied Tom Bourke; “but I had to travel far for it: no matter for that now. Your health, ma’am,” said he, turning to Mrs. Martin.

“Thank you, Tom. But I am told you had some trouble once in that way in your own family,” said Mrs. Martin.

“So I had, ma’am; trouble enough; but you were only a child at that time.”

“Come, Tom,” said the hospitable Mr. Martin, interrupting him, “take another tumbler;” and he then added, “I wish you would tell us something of the manner in which so many of your children died. I am told they dropped off, one after another, by the same disorder, and that your eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary way, when the physician had given him over.”

“ ’Tis true for you, sir,” returned Tom; “your father, the doctor (God be good to him, I won’t belie him in his grave), told me, when my fourth boy was a week sick, that himself and Dr. Barry did all that man could do for him; but they could not keep him from going after the rest. No more they could, if the people that took away the rest wished to take him too. But they left him; and sorry to the heart I am I did not know before why they were taking my boys from me; if I did, I would not be left trusting to two of ’em now.”

“And how did you find it out, Tom?” inquired Mr. Martin.

“Why, then, I’ll tell you, sir,” said Bourke. “When your father said what I told you, I did not know very well what to
do. I walked down the little
bohereen
^*
you know, sir, that goes to the river-side near Dick Heafy’s ground; for ’twas a lonesome place, and I wanted to think of myself. I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me, when I thought I was to lose my little boy; and I did not well know how to face his mother with the news, for she doated down upon him. Besides, she never got the better of all she cried at his brother’s
berrin
^†
the week before. As I was going down the
bohereen
I met an old
bocough
, that used to come about the place once or twice a-year, and used always to sleep in our barn while he staid in the neighborhood. So he asked me how I was. ‘Bad enough, Shamous,’
^†
says I. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble,’ says he; ‘but you’re a foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son would be well enough if you would only do what you ought with him.’ ‘What more can I do with him, Shamous?’ says I; ‘the doctors give him over.’ ‘The doctors know no more what ails him than they do what ails a cow when she stops her milk,’ says Shamous; ‘but go to such a one,’ telling me his name, ‘and try what he’ll say to you.’ ”