Part 11

The following story is an extract from a much longer piece in prose and verse, which I take from a manuscript in my own possession made by Patrick O Prunty (grand-uncle, I think of Charlotte Brontë), in 1764. It is called "the Counsel of Mac Lava from Aughanamullin to Red Archy, that is Red Shane, son of Bradach, son of Donal the gloomy, son of Shane, son of Torlogh, etc." In a manuscript in the Royal Irish Academy I find it entitled "The Counsel of Mac Lavy from Aughanamullin to his cousin Red Archy Litis on his forsaking his wife to take the yoke of piety on him, that is of Priestifying; or, the 'Priest of the Stick' by Laurence Faneen." In another MS. of mine, written by the well-known scribe Labhrás O Fuartháin from Portlaw in Co. Waterford, in 1786, it is called "The Counsel of Mac Clava from Aughanamullin to Red Archy Mac a Brady."

The poem is entirely satirical, and the gist of it is that the writer advises Archy not to be working like a poor man in dirt and misery, but from himself to earn the reputation of having a little Latin, and to become a _bullaire_, a comic word for bull-promulgator or priest. Any kind of Latin he tells him will do with an uneducated congregation, such as "Parva nec invideo" or "Hanc tua Penelope," or "Tuba mirum spargens sonum" or "ego te teneo, Amen!" The poet tells his victim that when he is reading he can twist and stifle his voice "like a melodious droning and partly a humming (?) through the nose, and partly the smothering of a cough, and then the wealthy full-ignorant laity amongst the congregation shall say that it is a great pity the shortness of breath, the pressure on the chest, and the tightness round the breast that strikes the blessed, loud-voiced, big-worded priest at the time of service." He then proceeds to tell him the following story, in the style of the Irish romances common in the eighteenth century. For the original Irish and the poem and notes, see vol. I., p. 180, "Religious Songs of Connacht."

THE STORY.

O, Cousin Archy, I must now tell you a little allegory which has a bearing upon your own present case, about a greedy, fat-boned, stoop-headed, bashful fellow of a son, that a long-bearded, broad-sided, cow-herd-ful, large-flock-having Farmer had, who was once on a time residing by the side of the island and the illustrious Church of Clonmacnois. And this aforesaid Farmer was accustomed to double his alms to a godly-blessed hermit who was living close by him, [giving] with excess of diligence beyond [the rest of] the congregation, in order that he might have the aid of this hermit in putting forward that blockhead (?) of a son towards the priesthood.

At last, on the priest of that parish in which they were, dying, the Farmer promulgates and lays bare to the hermit the secret conception and intention which he had stored up for a long time before that, and it was what he said to him, that he considered, himself, that there was no person at all who would better suit that congregation as a parish priest than this son of his own, from the love of the priesthood which he had.

The Farmer beseeches and begs him--giving him large offerings on the head of it--to go with his son to the presence of the Bishop of Clonmacnois. They set forth all three, side by side, on that journey, the farmer, the hermit, and the farmer's son, together with a great congregation of their friends and cousins, and of the Farmer's acquaintance accompanying him to the strand and harbour of that island of Clonmacnois.

It was then a gentleman who was in the assembly asked the Farmer with prophesying truly-wise words whether he knew if his lad of a son were wise [educated] enough to receive the grade of priesthood on that occasion. He answered that he knew, himself, that he was, without any doubt, because he had been for seven years clerk of salt and water [_i.e._, acolyte] to the blessed godly Father who departed to heaven from us but now, and moreover, that he was plentiful with his Amens at time of mass or marriage, and that in this respect he had generally too much rather than too little. "Oh, I am satisfied," said the gentleman, turning his back on him, bursting into a fit of laughing.

However, upon the Farmer thus satisfying the gentleman's question, they were all silent, until the hermit's lad the "Shouting Attendant" (?) gave a shout at the beach, asking for a curach and means of transport to row to the island. After that comes to them a broad-wombed, long-timbered boat, with eight loutish, big-biting, lumpish (?), dawdling (?), raw-nosed (?), great-sleeping spalpeens of the parish on the left hand of the Farmer's son. They enjoin on the Farmer with his people to wait on the beach of the harbour until they themselves should come back. This they do.

In the meantime, on the above-mentioned couple going into the bishop's presence, the hermit discloses the reason and meaning of his journey. The bishop consents, at the request of the hermit, to confer the degrees of priesthood on the Farmer's son, and makes some of the clergy who were along with him put scholarly questions to the youth, so that they might have some knowledge of the amount of his learning to give the bishop. However, they found nothing either great or small of any kind of learning whatsoever in him. After that they report to the bishop about the youth's ability.

The bishop is angry at the clergy on hearing their report, and 'twas what he said that it was shame or fright (?) they put on the youth, and he himself calls him with him far apart, to the brink and very margin of the lake, in solitude, so that they came within the view of the Farmer and his people on the opposite side, and he addresses him in Latin with courteous truly-friendly words, and 'twas what he said--

_Quid est sacramentum in nomine Domini?_

_Qui fecit coelum et terram_, says the fellow.

_Numquam accedes ad altare Dei_, says the bishop.

_Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam_, says the lad.

_Non fies sacerdos per me in sæcula sæculorum_, says the bishop.

_Amen_, says he.

Then was the bishop excessively enraged against the Farmer's son, and raised his arm with a thick-butted apple-knotted * * * *? cudgel of a stick, that he had in his right hand, and begins lacing and leathering and whaling the Farmer's son without sparing, so that his blood and inwards ran down to the very ground.

"Ow! but that's sad, my son's case now," says the Farmer, "and I think myself that every comfort and satisfaction (?) and roasted hen and every bottle that he shall get like a prolute (prelate?) sitting in his coverlet with kindness from this out, is not to be begrudged him; for it's hard and pitiably, it's patiently, gently, meekly and humbly my child takes the religious yoke and the grade of priesthood on him this night, and it's not easily it will be forgotten by him to the termination of his career and his life, for it's diligently, piously, firmly, and soundly, the blessed bishop drives it into his memory with swift hand-blows of the large stick."

However, on the bishop's parting from the Farmer's son, the aforesaid spalpeens came up to the young priest and asked his blessing. He lifted up his hands cleric-like and piously above their heads, and gave them general absolution, saying _Asperges me Domine hysoppo et mundabor, lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor_.

They carried him with them to the curach after that, and leapt into it, flowingly and high-spiritedly, until they reached land on the other side, and all that were in the island harbour made the same reverence to the Farmer's son, and they asked him where was his bull or charter of priesthood.

He said he had no charter but the bull of the race of stoop-headed Conor Mac Lopus of Cavan to the Vicarage of Leargan,--the will of the people.

They swore by the God of the elements that he never could have a better charter than that, and they bound themselves by the sun and the moon to defend that parish for him to the end of his term and his life. And they did so.

* * * * *

And now Archy, the story which does not concern a smotàn (?) is good, for it is you that the application of this story concerns, and it is the good advice to you to take the same grade of priesthood, and if blows of a stick be struck on you, it is small damage compared with every comfort and ease that you will get on the head of it, and in addition to every other advice I have given you, here are a couple of little ranns for you which shall be in your memory continually, so that they may be a good help in every pinch that is before you. * * * * * *

SHAUN THE TINKER.

PREFACE.

I wrote down this story carefully from the mouth of Mártain Ruadh O Giollarnáth from near Monivea, Co. Galway. He had no English. The story is a well-known one. It is the basis of Father O'Leary's delightful book "Séadna." It has been examined at great length with much learning and perspicacity by Carl Marstrander in the Miscellany presented to Kuno Meyer, pp. 386 ff., to which I refer the reader.

According to a Donegal story, called "Domhnall O Dochartaigh," taken down and given me by the late Mr. Larminie, Death is the being who is tricked. But, according to a Galway story which I heard, the Tinker had a son whose godfather was Death. He became a doctor and cured everybody at whose feet he saw Death standing. Death gave him leave to do this. Attracted one day by a huge bribe he turned round the bed where the patient lay so that Death, who had been at the patient's head with intent that he should die, was now at the patient's foot, who consequently recovered. After this Death is tricked in much the same way as the Devil in our story.

THE STORY.

They were poor, both of them, the man and his wife. The man had no other means in the world except his day's pay, going here and going there, and earning his day's wages from place to place.

The beginning of the harvest was come now, and he went in to the wife and said to her--Elleesh was the wife's name--"Elleesh," says he, "stand up," says he, "and make ready my meal for me until I go to Kildare to-morrow."

Elleesh got ready the meal for him as well as ever she was able, and she washed him and tidied him up and put good clean trousers on him, and himself got ready to be going. And the poor man did go, off he went. He had no provisions going away then, only four shillings to pay his way.

He was going then and journeying until he came to the top of a bridge, and there he met with a stumble and was thrown on one knee. "Oh, musha," says he, "the devil break my neck when I'll pass this way again."

He went on then and he never stopped until he came into Kildare, and he settled with a farmer there and spent four years with him without coming home at all. He never took one penny from the farmer in the course of the four years except as much as put clothing on him. Now at the end of the four years he took it into his head to be going home again.

And this was what he was getting in the year--five pounds. And likely enough, when he took it into his head to be going, that he said to the farmer and to the farmer's wife that he was to be departing in the morning. They gave him his share of money then. Then he made for home, and fifteen pounds was what he had coming home of him. He never spent but five pounds on his clothes all the time he was with the farmer.

He was coming and ever-coming along the road until he came to a corner where four roads met. A poor man met him and asked alms of him. "God salute you," says he.

"God and Mary salute you," says Shaun.

"In Kildare you were," says he.

"Well, yes," says Shaun.

"You have money so," says he, "and I am asking my alms of you in honour of God and of Mary."

He gave him alms then--five pounds he gave him. "Now Shaun," says the poor man, when he was going away from him. "I don't like you to go away without giving you [your] earned reward for your five pounds. What is the thing that you most wish for?"

"Anything that I desire," says Shaun, "me to have lots of money for it in my pocket. And anything that would be putting trouble on me, me to have leave to shut it up in this bottle which I have in my hand."

"You'll get that," says he.

He was going along then until he came to the corner of four other roads and another poor man met him. "God salute you," says the poor man. "God and Mary salute you." "You were in Kildare," said the poor man. "That's the place I was," says Shaun. "If you are coming back out of Kildare you're not without money, and I am asking my alms of you in honour of God and Mary." "It's short till I have my money spent," says Shaun. "But here," says he, putting the hand in his pocket, "here's five pounds for you."

When he gave it to him, the poor man said, "I don't like you to go away without giving you a reward for your five pounds. What sort of a thing is it that you'd like best to have?" "Any person that would be doing anything at all out of the way with me [me to be able] to put him into my budget and him to remain there until myself would give him leave to go away, or until myself would let him out." "You'll have that to get," says he.

He went away, then, and he was travelling until he went where four other roads met. There was another poor man before him there. "This is the third man," says Shaun. "God salute you, Tinker Shaun," says he as soon as Shaun came up with him. "God and Mary salute you." "You're coming out of Kildare, Shaun," says he. "I am, indeed," says Shaun. But he said to himself, "Isn't it well how every man recognises me and without me recognising them." "I am asking my alms of you in honour of God and of Mary if you have any money with you coming from Kildare." "Oh, musha, I'll give you that and my blessing. I met another pair before this and I gave five pounds to each man of them, and here's five pounds for you." "I don't like you to go away Shaun without your reward, and what is the thing you'd have most desire for?" "Well, then," says Shaun, "when I was at home I had an apple tree in the garden at the back of the house, and I used to be troubled with gossoons coming there and stealing the apples. I should like, since I am going home again now, that every person except myself who shall lay his hand on that tree that his hand should stick to it, and that he should have no power of himself to go away without leave from me." "You'll get that Shaun," says he.

He was travelling then until he came to the bridge where he had stumbled as he was going to Kildare the time he was thrown on one knee. Who should be standing on the bridge before him but the Devil. "Who are you?" says Tinker Shaun. "I am the Devil," says he.

"And what sent you here?" says Shaun.

"Well," says he, "when you went this way before didn't you say that if you were to go this way again might the Devil break your neck?"

"I said that," says Shaun.

"Well, I've come before you now that I may break your neck."

"Try if you can," said Shaun. The Devil moved over towards him and was going to kill him, when Shaun said, "In with you into my bag this moment and don't be troubling me." The Devil had to go into the bag because Shaun had that power.

Shaun was going along then, and the Devil in the bag slung over his back. When he came to the next bridge he stood to take a rest and there were two women washing there. "I'll give ye five pounds and give my bag a good dressing with the beetles." They began beating it. "The bag is harder than the Devil himself," say they. "It is the Devil himself that's in it," says Shaun, "and lay on him." They beat it really then until they gave him enough.

He threw it up over his back then and off he went until he came to a forge. He went into the forge. "I'll give you five pounds," says he to the smith, "and strike a good spell on this bag." There were two smiths there and they began leathering the bag. "Why, then," says one of the smiths, "your bag is harder than the Devil himself." "It is the Devil himself that's in it," says Shaun, "and lay on him, ye, and beat him." One of the men put a hole in the bag with the blow he gave it and he looked in on the hole and he saw the Devil's eye at the hole. The poker was in the fire and it red hot. The smith stuck it into the hole in such a way that he put it into the Devil's eye, and that's the thing which has left the old Devil half blind ever since.

He raised the bag on his back then, and he was going away when the Devil rose up and burst the bag and departed from him. Shaun came home.

At the end of a quarter of a year when Shaun was at home with the wife the Devil came to him again "You must come with me, Shaun," says he; "make your soul," says he, "I'll give you death without respite."

"I'll go with you," says Shaun; "but give me respite until to-morrow until I have everything ready, and I'll go with you then and welcome."

"I won't give you any respite at all; neither a day nor an hour, you thief."

"I won't ask you for any respite," says Shaun, "only as long as I would be eating a single apple off that tree. Pull me one yourself, and I'll be with you."

The old Devil moved over to the tree, and took hold of a branch to pluck an apple off it and he stuck to the branch, and was not able to loose himself. He remained there on the branch during seven years.

One day that Shaun was in the garden again by himself he was not thinking, but he went gathering a bundle of kippeens for Elleesh, to make a fire for her, and what was the branch it should fall to him to cut for Elleesh but the branch in which the Devil was. The Devil gave a leap into the air. "Now Shaun," says he, "be ready; you will never go either forward nor back. You must come with me on the spot."

"Well I'll go," says Shaun; "I'll go with you," says he; "but it's a long time we are at odds with one another, and we ought to have a drink together. Elleesh has a good bottle and come in till we drink a drop of it before we go." "Why, then, I'll go with you," says the Devil, as there was the Devil's thirst on him after his being up in the tree so long. They drank their enough then inside in Elleesh's hovel, and when the Devil had the bottle empty he rose up standing, that he might get a grip of Shaun's throat to choke him. "In with you into the bottle," says Shaun. "In with you this moment," says he. "Did you think that you would play on me," says he. The Devil had to go into the bottle, and he spent seven years inside the bottle, with Shaun, without being let out.

Now it fell out that Elleesh had a young son, and there was a bottle wanting to go for stuff for Elleesh. What was the bottle they should bring with them but the bottle in which the Devil was down, and when they took the cork out of it the Devil went off with himself.

Shaun was gone away looking for gossips for his son. The Son of God met him.

"God salute you, Shaun," says he.

"God and Mary salute you."

"Where were you going now, Shaun?" says he.

"I was hunting for gossips for my son," says Shaun.

"Would you give him to me, and I'll stand for him?"

"Who are you?" says Tinker Shaun.

"I am the Son of God," says he.

"Well, then, indeed, I won't give him to you," says Shaun, "you give seven times their enough to some people, and you don't give their half enough to other people."

The Son of God departed.

The King of Sunday met him then and they saluted one another.

"Where were you going?" says the King of Sunday.

"Well, then, I was going hunting for a gossip for my son."

"Will you give him to me?" says the King of Sunday.

"Who are you?" says Shaun.

"I am the King of Sunday."

"Indeed, then, I won't give him," says Shaun. "You have only a single day in the week and you're not able to do much good that day itself."

In this way he refused him, and the King of Sunday departed from him.

Who should meet him then and he coming home but the Death. [The Devil was afraid to go near him again, but he sent the Death to meet him.] "Make your soul now Shaun," says he, "I have you."

"Oh, you wouldn't give me death now," says Shaun, "until I baptise my son."

"All right, baptise him," said the Death. "Who will you put to stand for him?"

"I don't see any person," says Shaun, "better than yourself. It's you who will leave him longest alive," says he.

When he got the son baptised he gave death to Shaun. He would not allow him to be humbugging him.

MARY AND ST. JOSEPH AND THE CHERRY TREE.

PREFACE.

I wrote down this poem from the mouth of Michael Mac Ruaidhri or Rogers, from near Ballycastle, in the Co. Mayo. The last five verses of it, which he had not got, I obtained from Martin O'Callaly (or Caldwell in English) in Erris, in the same county. There is a cherry tree carol in English, and an excellent one in German. The original legend was probably told of a date tree. A fifteenth century Dutch carol retains the date tree. In a legendary life of the Blessed Virgin, quoted by Jewitt in his book "The Nativity in Art and Song," we are told that the Blessed Virgin, during the flight into Egypt, resting in the heat of the noon day, saw a palm loaded with dates and desired them, but they were high up out of reach. Then the child Jesus, who was yet in the arms of Mary and had never spoken, lifted up his voice and said to the palm tree, "bend thy branches O tree, bow down and offer thy fruits to My mother," and immediately the tree bent down its top even to the feet of Mary, and all were nourished with the fruits it bore. And the palm tree remained bent to the earth awaiting that He whom it had obeyed should bid it again to rise. And Jesus said, "Arise, O palm tree; thou shalt be the companion of the trees which grow in the paradise of my father." And while He was yet speaking behold an angel of the Lord appeared, and taking a branch from the tree he flew through the midst of heaven holding the palm in his hand.

The story has found its way into art. In "A Flight into Egypt," by Martin Schongaur, angels bow the palm tree and St. Joseph gathers the dates. In a work of Andrea Solario (Milanese School) St. Joseph is seen giving the fruit with one hand to the Virgin, and with the other to her Divine Son.

This poem was at one time known in the Highlands as well as Ireland, for Carmichael recovered a very poor and imperfect version of eight verses, which he printed in his monumental work "Carmina Gadelica," vol. II., p. 162.

A very pretty anonymous sixteenth century German Christmas hymn appears to allude to our story in the first verse, which runs as follows:--

Als Gott der Herr geboren war Da war es kalt, Was sieht Maria am Wege stehn Ein Feigenbaum. Maria lass du die Feigen noch stehn Wir haben noch dreissig Meilen zu gehn. Es wird uns spat.

The word "Als" must here be taken as equivalent to "Ehe."

THE STORY.

Holy was good St. Joseph When marrying Mary Mother, Surely his lot was happy, Happy beyond all other.

Refusing red gold laid down, And the crown by David worn, With Mary to be abiding And guiding her steps forlorn.

One day when the twain were talking, And walking through gardens early, Where cherries were redly growing, And blossoms were blowing rarely,

Mary the fruit desired, For faint and tired she panted, At the scent on the breezes' wing Of the fruit that the King had planted.

Then spake to Joseph, the Virgin, All weary and faint and low, O pull me yon smiling cherries That fair on the tree do grow,

"For feeble I am, and weary, And my steps are but faint and slow, And the works of the King of the graces I feel within me grow."

Then out spake the good St. Joseph, And stoutly indeed spake he, "I shall not pluck thee one cherry, Who art unfaithful to me.