Chapter II: Part 2

It is time to say a word about the narrators of these stories. The people who can recite them are, as far as my researches have gone, to be found only amongst the oldest, most neglected, and poorest of the Irish-speaking population. English-speaking people either do not know them at all, or else tell them in so bald and condensed a form as to be useless. Almost all the men from whom I used to hear stories in the County Roscommon are dead. Ten or fifteen years ago I used to hear a great many stories, but I did not understand their value. Now when I go back for them I cannot find them. They have died out, and will never again be heard on the hillsides, where they probably existed for a couple of thousand years; they will never be repeated there again, to use the Irish phrase, while grass grows or water runs. Several of these stories I got from an old man, one Shawn Cunningham, on the border of the County Roscommon, where it joins Mayo. He never spoke more than a few words of English till he was fifteen years old. He was taught by a hedge schoolmaster from the South of Ireland out of Irish MSS. As far as I could make out from him the teaching seemed to consist in making him learn Irish poems by heart. His next schoolmaster, however, tied a piece of stick round his neck, and when he came to school in the morning the schoolmaster used to inspect the piece of wood and pretend that it told him how often he had spoken Irish when at home. In some cases the schoolmasters made the parents put a notch in the stick every time the child failed to speak English. He was beaten then, and always beaten whenever he was heard speaking a word of Irish, even though at this time he could hardly speak a word of English. His son and daughter now speak Irish, though not fluently, his grandchildren do not even understand it. He had at one time, as he expressed it, “the full of a sack of stories,” but he had forgotten them. His grandchildren stood by his knee while he told me one or two, but it was evident they did not understand a word. His son and daughter laughed at them as nonsense. Even in Achill where, if anywhere, one ought to find folk-stories in their purity, a fine-looking dark man of about forty-five, who told me a number of them, and could repeat Ossian’s poems, assured me that now-a-days when he went into a house in the evening and the old people got him to recite, the boys would go out; “they wouldn’t understand me,” said he, “and when they wouldn’t, they’d sooner be listening to géimneaċ na mbó,” “the lowing of the cows.” This, too, in an island where many people cannot speak English. I do not know whether the Achill schoolmasters make use of the notch of wood to-day, but it is hardly wanted now. It is curious that this was the device universally employed all over Connacht and Munster to kill the language. This took place under the eye of O’Connell and the Parliamentarians, and, of course, under the eye and with the sanction of the Catholic priesthood and prelates, some of whom, according to Father Keegan, of St. Louis, distinguished themselves by driving the Irish teachers out of their dioceses and burning their books. At the present day, such is the irony of fate, if a stranger talks Irish he runs a good chance of being looked upon as an enemy, this because some attempts were made to proselytize “natives” by circulating Irish bibles, and sending some Irish scripture-readers amongst them. Surely nothing so exquisitely ludicrous ever took place outside of this island of anomalies, as that a stranger who tries to speak Irish in Ireland runs the serious risk of being looked upon as a proselytizing Englishman. As matters are still progressing gaily in this direction, let nobody be surprised if a pure Aryan language which, at the time of the famine, in ’47, was spoken by at least four million souls (more than the whole population of Switzerland), becomes in a few years as extinct as Cornish. Of course, there is not a shadow of necessity, either social or economical, for this. All the world knows that bi-linguists are superior to men who know only one language, yet in Ireland everyone pretends to believe the contrary. A few words from the influential leaders of the race when next they visit Achill, for instance, would help to keep Irish alive there in _sæcula sæculorum_, and with the Irish language, the old Aryan folk-lore, the Ossianic poems, numberless ballads, folk-songs, and proverbs, and a thousand and one other interesting things that survive when Irish is spoken, and die when it dies. But, from a complexity of causes which I am afraid to explain, the men who for the last sixty years have had the ear of the Irish race have persistently shown the cold shoulder to everything that was Irish and racial, and while protesting, or pretending to protest, against West Britonism, have helped, more than anyone else, by their example, to assimilate us to England and the English, thus running counter to the entire voice of modern Europe, which is in favour of extracting the best from the various races of men who inhabit it, by helping them to develop themselves on national and racial lines. The people are not the better for it either, for one would fancy it required little culture to see that the man who reads Irish MSS., and repeats Ossianic poetry, is a higher and more interesting type than the man whose mental training is confined to spelling through an article in _United Ireland_.[15]

I may mention here that it is not as easy a thing as might be imagined to collect Irish stories. One hears that tales are to be had from such and such a man, generally, alas! a very old one. With difficulty one manages to find him out, only to discover, probably, that he has some work on hand. If it happens to be harvest time it is nearly useless going to him at all, unless one is prepared to sit up with him all night, for his mind is sure to be so distraught with harvest operations that he can tell you nothing. If it is winter time, however, and you fortunately find him unoccupied, nevertheless it requires some management to get him to tell his stories. Half a glass of _ishka-baha_, a pipe of tobacco, and a story of one’s own are the best things to begin with. If, however, you start to take down the story _verbatim_ with pencil and paper, as an unwary collector might do, you destroy all, or your shanachie becomes irritable. He will not wait for you to write down your sentence, and if you call out, “Stop, stop, wait till I get this down,” he will forget what he was going to tell you, and you will not get a third of his story, though you may think you have it all. What you must generally do is to sit quietly smoking your pipe, without the slightest interruption, not even when he comes to words and phrases which you do not understand. He must be allowed his own way to the end, and then after judiciously praising him and discussing the story, you remark, as if the thought had suddenly struck you, “buḋ ṁaiṫ liom sin a ḃeiṫ agam air ṗáipeur,” “I’d like to have that on paper.” Then you can get it from him easily enough, and when he leaves out whole incidents, as he is sure to do, you who have just heard the story can put him right, and so get it from him nearly in its entirety. Still it is not always easy to write down these stories, for they are full of old or corrupted words, which neither you nor your narrator understand, and if you press him too much over the meaning of these he gets confused and irritable.

The present volume consists of about half the stories in the _Leabhar Sgeuluigheachta_, translated into English, together with some half dozen other stories given in the original together with a close English translation. It is not very easy to make a good translation from Irish into English, for there are no two Aryan languages more opposed to each other in spirit and idiom. Still, the English spoken by three-fourths of the people of Ireland is largely influenced by Gaelic idioms, for most of those expressions which surprise Englishmen are really translations from that Irish which was the language of the speaker’s father, grandfather, or great-grandfather—according to the part of the country you may be in—and there have perpetuated themselves, even in districts where you will scarce find a trace of an Irish word. There are, however, also hundreds of Gaelic idioms not reproduced in the English spoken by the people, and it is difficult to render these fitly. Campbell of Islay has run into rather an extreme in his translations, for in order to make them picturesque, he has rendered his Gaelic originals something too literally. Thus, he invariably translates _bhain se an ceann deth_, by “he reaped the head off him,” a form of speech which, I notice, a modern Irish poet and M.P. has adopted from him; but bain, though it certainly means “reap” amongst other things, is the word used for taking off a hat as well as a head. Again, he always translates _thu_ by “thou,” which gives his stories a strange antique air, which is partly artificial, for the Gaelic “thou” corresponds to the English “you,” the second person plural not being used except in speaking of more than one. In this way, Campbell has given his excellent and thoroughly reliable translations a scarcely legitimate colouring, which I have tried to avoid. For this reason, I have not always translated the Irish idioms quite literally, though I have used much unidiomatic English, but only of the kind used all over Ireland, the kind the people themselves use. I do not translate, for instance, the Irish for “he died,” by “he got death,” for this, though the literal translation, is not adopted into Hibernian English; but I do translate the Irish _ghnidheadh se sin_ by “he used to do that,” which is the ordinary Anglo-Irish attempt at making—what they have not got in English—a consuetudinal tense. I have scarcely used the pluperfect at all. No such tense exists in Irish, and the people who speak English do not seem to feel the want of it, and make no hesitation in saying, “I’d speak sooner if I knew that,” where they mean, “if I had known that I would have spoken sooner.” I do not translate (as Campbell would), “it rose with me to do it,” but “I succeeded in doing it,” for the first, though the literal translation of the Irish idiom, has not been adopted into English; but I do translate “he did it and he drunk,” instead of, “he did it while he was drunk;” for the first phrase (the literal translation of the Irish) is universally used throughout English-speaking Ireland. Where, as sometimes happens, the English language contains no exact equivalent for an Irish expression, I have rendered the original as well as I could, as one generally does render for linguistic purposes, from one language into another.

In conclusion, it only remains for me to thank Mr. Alfred Nutt for enriching this book as he has done, and for bearing with the dilatoriness of the Irish printers, who find so much difficulty in setting Irish type, that many good Irishmen have of late come round to the idea of printing our language in Roman characters; and to express my gratitude to Father Eugene O’Growney for the unwearying kindness with which he read and corrected my Irish proofs, and for the manifold aid which he has afforded me on this and other occasions.

POSTSCRIPT BY ALFRED NUTT.

I had hoped to accompany these tales with as full a commentary as that which I have affixed to the Argyllshire _Märchen_, collected and translated by the Rev. D. MacInnes. Considerations of business and health prevent me from carrying out this intention, and I have only been able to notice a passage here and there in the Tales; but I have gladly availed myself of my friend, Dr. Hyde’s permission, to touch upon a few points in his Introduction.

Of special interest are Dr. Hyde’s remarks upon the relations which obtain between the modern folk-tale current among the Gaelic-speaking populations of Ireland and Scotland, and the Irish mythic, heroic and romantic literature preserved in MSS., which range in date from the eleventh century to the present day.

In Ireland, more than elsewhere, the line of demarcation between the tale whose genesis is conscious, and that of which the reverse is true, is hard to draw, and students will, for a long while to come, differ concerning points of detail. I may thus be permitted to disagree at times with Dr. Hyde, although, as a rule, I am heartily at one with him.

Dr. Hyde distinguishes between an older stratum of folk-tale (the “old Aryan traditions,” of p. xix.) and the newer stratum of “bardic inventions.” He also establishes a yet younger class than these latter, the romances of the professional story-tellers of the eighteenth century, who “wrote them down as modern novelists do their stories.” Of these last he remarks (p. xxxiv.), that he has found no remnant of them among the peasantry of to-day; a valuable bit of evidence, although of course, subject to the inconclusiveness of all merely negative testimony. To revert to the second class, he looks upon the tales comprised in it as being rather the inventions of individual brains than as old Aryan folk-tales (p. xx.) It must at once be conceded, that a great number of the tales and ballads current in the Gaelic-speaking lands undoubtedly received the form under which they are now current, somewhere between the twelfth and the sixteenth centuries; that the authors of that form were equally undoubtedly the professional bards and story-tellers attached to the court of every Gaelic chieftain; and that the method of their transmission was oral, it being the custom of the story-tellers both to teach their tales to pupils, and to travel about from district to district.

The style of these stories and ballads enables us to date them with sufficient precision. Dr. Hyde also notes historical allusions, such as the reference to O’Connor Sligo, in the story of the “Slim Swarthy Champion,” or to the Turks in the story of “Conall Gulban.” I cannot but think, however, that it is straining the evidence to assert that the one story was invented after 1362, or the other after the fall of Constantinople. The fact that “Bony” appears in some versions of the common English mumming play does not show that it originated in this century, merely that these particular versions have passed through the minds of nineteenth century peasants; and in like manner the Connaught fourteenth century chieftain may easily have taken the place of an earlier personage, the Turks in “Conall Gulban,” of an earlier wizard-giant race. If I cannot go as far as Dr. Hyde in this sense, I must equally demur to the assumption (p. xl.), that community of incident between an Irish and a Bohemian tale necessarily establishes the pre-historic antiquity of the incident. I believe that a great many folk-tales, as well as much else of folk-lore, has been developed _in situ_, rather than imported from the outside; but I, by no means, deny importation in principle, and I recognise that its agency has been clearly demonstrated in not a few cases.

The main interest of Irish folk-literature (if the expression be allowed) centres in the bardic stories. I think that Dr. Hyde lays too much stress upon such external secondary matters as the names of heroes, or allusions to historical events; and, indeed, he himself, in the case of Murachaidh MacBrian, states what I believe to be the correct theory, namely, that the Irish bardic story, from which he derives the Scotch Gaelic one, is, as far as many of its incidents go, not the invention of the writer, but genuine folk-lore thrown by him into a new form (p. xxii.)

Had we all the materials necessary for forming a judgment, such is, I believe, the conclusion that would in every case be reached. But I furthermore hold it likely that in many cases the recast story gradually reverted to a primitive folk-type in the course of passing down from the court story-teller to the humbler peasant reciters, that it sloughed off the embellishments of the _ollamhs_, and reintroduced the older, wilder conceptions with which the folk remained in fuller sympathy than the more cultured bard. Compare, for instance, as I compared ten years ago, “Maghach Colgar,” in Campbell’s version (No. 36), with the “Fairy Palace of the Quicken Trees.” The one tale has all the incidents in the wildest and most fantastic form possible; in the other they are rationalised to the utmost possible extent and made to appear like a piece of genuine history. I do not think that if this later version was _invented_ right out by a thirteenth or fourteenth century _ollamh_, it could have given rise to the former one. Either “Maghach Colgar” descends from the folk-tale which served as the basis of the Irish story, or, what is more likely, the folk, whilst appreciating and preserving the new arrangement of certain well-known incidents, retained the earlier form of the incidents themselves, as being more consonant with the totality of its conceptions, both moral and æsthetic. This I hold to be the vital lesson the folk-lorist may learn from considering the relations of Gaelic folk-tale and Gaelic romance (using the latter term in the sense of story with a conscious genesis): that romance, to live and propagate itself among the folk, must follow certain rules, satisfy certain conceptions of life, conform to certain conventions. The Irish bards and story-tellers had little difficulty, I take it, in doing this; they had not outgrown the creed of their countrymen, they were in substantial touch with the intellectual and artistic laws that govern their subject-matter. Re-arrange, rationalise somewhat, deck out with the questionable adornment of their scanty and ill-digested book-learning—to this extent, but to this extent only, I believe, reached their influence upon the mass of folk-conceptions and presentments which they inherited from their fathers, and which, with these modifications and additions, they handed on to their children.

But romance must not only conform to the conventions, it must also fit in with the _ensemble_ of conditions, material, mental and spiritual, which constitute the culture (taking this much-abused word in its widest sense) of a race. An example will make this clear.

Of all modern, consciously-invented fairy tales I know but one which conforms fully to the folk-tale convention—“The Shaving of Shagpat.” It follows the formula as closely and accurately as the best of Grimm’s or of Campbell’s tales. To divine the nature of a convention, and to use its capabilities to the utmost, is a special mark of genius, and in this, as in other instances, whatever else be absent from Mr. Meredith’s work, genius is indubitably present. But I do not think that “The Shaving of Shagpat” could ever be acclimatised as a folk-tale in this country. Scenery, conduct of story, characterisation of personages, are all too distinctively Oriental. But let an Eastern admirer of Mr. Meredith translate his work into Arabic or Hindi, and let the book fall into the hands of a Cairene or Delhi story-teller (if such still exist), I can well imagine that, with judicious cuts, it should win praise for its reciter in market-place or bazaar. Did this happen, it would surely be due to the fact that the story is strictly constructed upon traditional lines, rather than to the brilliant invention and fancy displayed on every page. Strip from it the wit and philosophy of the author, and there remains a fairy tale to charm the East; but it would need to be reduced to a skeleton, and reclothed with new flesh before it could charm the folk of the West.

To bring home yet more clearly to our minds this necessity for romance to conform to convention, let us ask ourselves, what would have happened if one of the Irish story-tellers who perambulated the Western Isles as late as the seventeenth century, had carried with him a volume of Hakluyt or Purchas, or, supposing one to have lingered enough, Defoe or Gil Blas? Would he have been welcomed when he substituted the new fare for the old tales of “Finn and the Fians?” and even if welcomed, would he have gained currency for it? Would the seed thus planted have thriven, or would it not rather, fallen upon rocky places, have withered away?

It may, however, be objected that the real difference lies not so much in the subject-matter as in the mode of transmission; and the objection may seem to derive some force from what Dr. Hyde notes concerning the prevalence of folk-tales in Wicklow, and the nearer Pale generally, as contrasted with Leitrim, Longford, and Meath (p. xii.). It is difficult to over-estimate the interest and importance of this fact, and there can hardly be a doubt that Dr. Hyde has explained it correctly. It may, then, be urged that so long as oral transmission lasts the folk-tale flourishes; and only when the printed work ousts the story-teller is it that the folk-tale dies out. But this reasoning will not hold water. It is absurd to contend that the story-teller had none but a certain class of materials at his disposal till lately. He had the whole realm of intellect and fancy to draw upon; but he, and still more his hearers, knew only one district of that realm; and had it been possible for him to step outside its limits his hearers could not have followed him. I grant folk fancy has shared the fortunes of humanity together with every other manifestation of man’s activity, but always within strictly defined limits, to transgress which has always been to forfeit the favour of the folk.

What, then, are the characteristic marks of folk-fancy? The question is of special interest in connection with Gaelic folk-lore. The latter is rich in transitional forms, the study of which reveal more clearly than is otherwise possible the nature and workings of the folk-mind.

The products of folk-fancy (putting aside such examples of folk-wisdom and folk-wit as proverbs, saws, jests, etc.), may be roughly divided among two great classes:

Firstly, stories of a quasi-historical or anecdotic nature, accepted as actual fact (of course with varying degrees of credence) by narrator and hearer. Stories of this kind are very largely concerned with beings (supernatural, as we should call them) differing from man, and with their relations to and dealings with man. Not infrequently, however, the actors in the stories are wholly human, or human and animal. Gaelic folk-lore is rich in such stories, owing to the extraordinary tenacity of the fairy belief. We can hardly doubt that the Gael, like all other races which have passed through a certain stage of culture, had at one time an organised hierarchy of divine beings. But we have to piece together the Gaelic god-saga out of bare names, mere hints, and stories which have evidently suffered vital change. In the earliest stratum of Gaelic mythic narrative we find beings who at some former time had occupied divine rank, but whose relations to man are substantially, as therein presented, the same as those of the modern fairy to the modern peasant. The chiefs of the Tuatha de Danann hanker after earthly maidens; the divine damsels long for and summon to themselves earthly heroes. Though undying, very strong, and very wise, they may be overpowered or outwitted by the mortal hero. As if conscious of some source of weakness we cannot detect, they are anxious, in their internecine struggles, to secure the aid of the sons of men. Small wonder that this belief, which we can follow for at least 1,200 years, should furnish so many elements to the folk-fancy of the Gael.

In stories of the second class the action is relegated to a remote past—once upon a time—or to a distant undefined region, and the narrative is not necessarily accepted as a record of actual fact. Stories of this class, whether in prose or verse, may again be subdivided into—humorous, optimistic, tragic; and with regard to the third sub-division, it should be noted that the stories comprised in it are generally told as having been true once, though not in the immediate tangible sense of stories in the first class.

These different narrative groups share certain characteristics, though in varying proportions.

Firstly, the fondness for and adherence to a comparatively small number of set formulas. This is obviously less marked in stories of the first class, which, as being in the mind of the folk a record of what has actually happened, partake of the diversity of actual life. And yet the most striking similarities occur; such an anecdote, for instance, as that which tells how a supernatural changeling is baffled by a brewery of egg-shells being found from Japan to Brittany.

Secondly, on the moral side, the unquestioning acceptance of fatalism, though not in the sense which the Moslem or the Calvinist would attach to the word. The event is bound to be of a certain nature, provided a certain mode of attaining it be chosen. This comes out well in the large group of stories which tell how a supernatural being helps a mortal to perform certain tasks, as a rule, with some ulterior benefit to itself in view. The most disheartening carelessness and stupidity on the part of the man cannot alter the result; the skill and courage of the supernatural helper are powerless without the mortal co-operation. In what I have termed the tragic stories, this fatalism puts on a moral form, and gives rise to the conception of Nemesis.

Thirdly, on the mental side, animism is prevalent, _i.e._, the acceptance of a life common to, not alone man and animals, but all manifestations of force. In so far as a distinction is made between the life of man and that of nature at large, it is in favour of the latter, to which more potent energy is ascribed.

Just as stories of the first class are less characterised by adherence to formula, so stories of the humorous group are less characterised by fatalism and animism. This is inevitable, as such stories are, as a rule, concerned solely with the relations of man to his fellows.

The most fascinating and perplexing problems are those connected with the groups I have termed optimistic and tragic. To the former belong the almost entirety of such nursery tales as are not humorous in character. “They were married and lived happily ever afterwards;” such is the almost invariable end formula. The hero wins the princess, and the villain is punished.

This feature the nursery tale shares with the god-saga; Zeus confounds the Titans, Apollo slays the Python, Lug overcomes Balor, Indra vanquishes Vritra. There are two apparent exceptions to this rule. The Teutonic god myth is tragic; the Anses are ever under the shadow of the final conflict. This has been explained by the influence of Christian ideas; but although this influence must be unreservedly admitted in certain details of the passing of the gods, yet the fact that the Iranian god-saga is likewise undecided, instead of having a frankly optimistic ending, makes me doubt whether the drawn battle between the powers of good and ill be not a genuine and necessary part of the Teutonic mythology. As is well known, Rydberg has established some striking points of contact between the mythic ideas of Scandinavia and those of Iran.

In striking contradiction to this moral, optimistic tendency are the great heroic sagas. One and all well-nigh are profoundly tragic. The doom of Troy the great, the passing of Arthur, the slaughter of the Nibelungs, the death of Sohrab at his father’s hands, Roncevalles, Gabhra, the fratricidal conflict of Cuchullain and Ferdiad, the woes of the house of Atreus; such are but a few examples of the prevailing tone of the hero-tales. Achilles and Siegfried and Cuchullain are slain in the flower of their youth and prowess. Of them, at least, the saying is true, that whom the gods love die young. Why is it not equally true of the prince hero of the fairy tale? Is it that the hero-tale associated in the minds of hearers and reciters with men who had actually lived and fought, brought down to earth, so to say, out of the mysterious wonderland in which god and fairy and old time kings have their being, becomes thereby liable to the necessities of death and decay inherent in all human things? Some scholars have a ready answer for this and similar questions. The heroic epos assumed its shape once for all among one special race, and was then passed on to the other races who remained faithful to the main lines whilst altering details. If this explanation were true, it would still leave unsolved the problem, why the heroic epos, which for its fashioners and hearers was at once a record of the actual and an exemplar of the ideal, should, among men differing in blood and culture, follow one model, and that a tragic one. Granting that Greek and Teuton and Celt did borrow the tales which they themselves conceived to be very blood and bone of their race, what force compelled them all to borrow one special conception of life and fate?

Such exceptions as there are to the tragic nature of the heroic saga are apparent rather than real. The Odyssey ends happily, like an old-fashioned novel, but Fénélon long ago recognised in the Odyssey—“un amas de contes de vieille.”

Perseus again has the luck of a fairy-tale prince, but then the story of his fortunes is obviously a fairy-tale, with named instead of anonymous personages.

Whilst the fairy-tale is akin in tone to the god saga, the ballad recalls the heroic epos. The vast majority of ballads are tragic. Sir Patrick Spens must drown, and Glasgerion’s leman be cheated by the churl; Clerk Saunders comes from the other world, like Helge to Sigrun; Douglas dreams his dreary dream, “I saw a dead man win a fight, and that dead man was I.” The themes of the ballad are the most dire and deadly of human passions; love scorned or betrayed, hate, and revenge. Very seldom, too, do the plots of ballad and märchen cross or overlap. Where this does happen it will, as a rule, be found that both are common descendants of some great saga.

We find such an instance in the Fenian saga, episodes of which have lived on in the Gaelic folk memory in the double form of prose and poetry. But it should be noted that the poetry accentuates the tragic side—the battle of Gabhra, the death of Diarmaid—whilst the prose takes rather some episode of Finn’s youth or manhood, and presents it as a rounded and complete whole, the issue of which is fortunate.

The relations of myth and epos to folk-lore may thus be likened to that of trees to the soil from which they spring, and which they enrich and fertilize by the decay of their leaves and branches which mingle indistinguishably with the original soil. Of this soil, again, rude bricks may be made, and a house built; let the house fall into ruins, and the bricks crumble into dust, it will be hard to discriminate that dust from the parent earth. But raise a house of iron or stone, and, however ruined, its fragments can always be recognised. In the case of the Irish bardic literature the analogy is, I believe, with soil and tree, rather than with soil and edifice.

Reverting once more to the characteristics of folk-fancy, let us note that they appear equally in folk-practice and folk-belief. The tough conservatism of the folk-mind has struck all observers: its adherence to immemorial formulas; its fatalistic acceptance of the mysteries of nature and heredity, coupled with its faith in the efficacy of sympathetic magic; its elaborate system of custom and ritual based upon the idea that between men and the remainder of the universe there is no difference of kind.

A conception of the Cosmos is thus arrived at which, more than any religious creed, fulfils the test of catholicity; literally, and in the fullest significance of the words, it has been held _semper, ubique et ab omnibus_. And of this conception of the universe, more universal than any that has as yet swayed the minds of man, it is possible that men now living may see the last flickering remains; it is well-nigh certain that our grandchildren will live in a world out of which it has utterly vanished.

For the folk-lorist the Gospel saying is thus more pregnant with meaning than for any other student of man’s history—“the night cometh wherein no man may work.” Surely, many Irishmen will take to heart the example of Dr. Hyde, and will go forth to glean what may yet be found of as fair and bounteous a harvest of myth and romance as ever flourished among any race.

LE h-AIS NA TEINEAḌ.

AN TAILIUR AGUS NA TRI ḂEIṪIGEAĊ.

Ḃí táiliúr aon uair aṁam i nGailliṁ, agus ḃí sé ag fuaiġeál eudaiġ. Ċonnairc se dreancuid ag éiriġe amaċ as an eudaċ agus ċaiṫ se an tsnáṫad léiṫe agus ṁarḃ sé an dreancuid. Duḃairt se ann sin “Naċ breáġ an gaisgiḋeaċ mise nuair a ḃí mé abalta air an dreancuid sin do ṁarḃaḋ!”

Duḃairt sé ann sin go gcaiṫfeaḋ sé dul go B’l’acliaṫ go cúirt an ríġ, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé an dtiucfaḋ leis a deunaṁ. Ḃí an ċúirt sin ’gá ḋeunaṁ le fada, aċt an méad dí do gníṫiḋe ann san lá do leagaiḋe ann san oiḋċe é, agus níor ḟeud duine air biṫ a ċur suas mar ġeall air sin. ’S iad tri ḟáṫaċ a ṫigeaḋ ’san oiḋċe a ḃideaḋ ’gá leagaḋ. D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na ṁáraċ agus do ṫug se leis an uirlis, an spád agus an tsluasad.

Níor ḃfada ċuaiḋ sé gur casaḋ capall bán dó, agus ċuir se forán air. “Go mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit,” ar san capall, “cá ḃfuil tu dul?” “Tá mé dul go B’l’acliaṫ,” ar san táiliúr, “le deunaṁ cúirte an ríġ, go ḃfáġ mé bean-uasal, má ṫig liom a deunaṁ,” mar do ġeall an ríġ go dtiúḃfaḋ sé a inġean féin agus a lán airgid léiṫe don té sin a ṫiucfaḋ leis an ċúirt sin do ċur suas. “An ndeunfá poll dam?” ar san sean-ġearrán bán, “raċainn i ḃfolaċ ann nuair atá na daoine mo ṫaḃairt ċum an ṁuilinn agus ċum an aṫa i rioċt naċ ḃfeidfiḋ siad mé, óir tá mé cráiḋte aca, ag deunaṁ oibre ḋóiḃ.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin go deiṁin,” ar san táiliúr, “agus fáilte.” Ṫug sé an spád leis agus an tsluasad, agus rinne sé poll, agus duḃairt sé leis an g-capall bán dul síos ann, go ḃfeicfeaḋ sé an ḃfóirfeaḋ sé ḋó. Ċuaiḋ an capall bán síos ann san bpoll, aċt nuair d’ḟeuċ sé do ṫeaċt suas arís as, níor ḟeud sé.

“Deun áit dam anois,” ar san capall bán, “a ṫiucfas mé aníos as an bpoll so nuair a ḃéiḋeas ocaras orm.” “Ní ḋeunfad,” ar san táiliúr, “fan ann sin go dtigiḋ mé air m’ais, agus tógfaiḋ mé aníos ṫu.”

D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na máraċ, agus casaḋ ḋó an sionnaċ, “Go mbeannuiġ Dia ḋuit,” ar san sionnaċ. “Go mbeannuiġ Dia ’gus Muire ḋuit.” “Cá ḃfuil tu dul?” “Tá mé dul go B’l’acliaṫ go ḃfeuċaiḋ mé an dtiucfaiḋ liom cúirt ḋeunaṁ do’n ríġ.” “An ndeunfá áit dam, a raċfainn i ḃfolaċ innti,” ar san sionnaċ, “tá an ċuid eile de na sionnaiġiḃ do m’ ḃualaḋ agus ní leigeann siad dam aon niḋ iṫe ’nna g-cuideaċta.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin duit,” ar san táiliúr. Ṫug sé leis a ṫuaġ agus a ṡáḃ agus ḃain se slata, go ndearnaiġ sé, mar ḋeurfá, cliaḃ dó, agus duḃairt sé leis an tsionnaċ dul síos ann, go ḃfeicfeaḋ se an ḃfóirfeaḋ sé ḋó. Ċuaid an sionnaċ ann, agus nuair fuair an táiliúr ṡíos é, leag sé a ṫóin air an bpoll a ḃí ann. Nuair a ḃí an sionnaċ sásta faoi ḋeireaḋ go raiḃ áit ḋeas aige d’iarr sé air an táiliúr a leigean amaċ, agus d’ḟreagair an táiliúr naċ leigfeaḋ, “Fan ann sin go dtigiḋ mise air m’ais,” ar sé.

D’imṫiġ an táiliúr an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ní fada ḃí sé siúḃal gur casaḋ madr’-alla ḋó, agus ċuir an mádr’-alla forán air, agus dḟiafruiġ sé ḋé cá raiḃ sé ag triall. “Tá me dul go B’l’acliaṫ go ndeunfaiḋ mé cúirt do’n ríġ má ṫig liom sin ḋeunaṁ,” ar san táiliúr. “Dá ndeunfá ceuċt dam,” ar san madr’-alla, “ḃeiḋeaḋ mise agus na madr’-alla eile ag treaḃaḋ agus ag forsaḋ, go mbeiḋeaḋ greim againn le n-iṫe ann san ḃfóġṁar.” “Deunfaiḋ mé sin duit,” ar san táiliúr. Ṫug sé leis a ṫuaġ ’s a ṡáḃ, agus rinne sé ceuċt. Nuair ḃí an ceuċt deunta ċuir sé poll ann san mbéam (sail) agus duḃairt se leis an madr’-alla dul asteaċ faoi an g-ceuċt go bḟeicfeaḋ sé an raiḃ treaḃaċ maiṫ ann. Ċuir sé a earball asteaċ ann san bpoll a rinne sé, agus ċuir sé “peg” ann-sin ann, agus níor ṫáinig leis an madr’-alla a earball ṫarraing amaċ as arís. “Sgaoil mé anois,” ar ran madr’-alla, “agus deasóċamaoid féin agus treaḃfamaoid.” Duḃairt an táiliúr naċ sgaoilfeaḋ sé é no go dtiucfaḋ sé féin air ais. D’ḟág sé ann sin é agus ċuaiḋ sé go B’l’acliaṫ.

Nuair ṫáinig sé go B’l’acliaṫ ċuir sé páipeur amaċ an méad luċd’ céirde do ḃí ag tógḃáil na cúirte do teaċt ċuige-sean, agus go n-íocfaḋ seisean iad——agus ní ḃíḋeaḋ daoine ag fáġail ’san am sin aċt píġin ’san lá. Do ċruinniġ a lán luċd céirde an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ṫosaiġ siad ag obair dó. Ḃí siad ag dul a ḃaile anḋiaiġ an laé nuair duḃairt an tailiúr leó “an ċloċ ṁór sin do ċur suas air ḃárr na h-oibre a ḃí deunta aige.” Nuair d’ árduiġeaḋ suas an ċloċ ṁór sin, ċuir an tailiúr sliġe éigin fúiṫi go leagfaḋ sé anuas í nuair a ṫiucfaḋ an faṫaċ ċoṁ fada léiṫe. D’imṫiġ an luċd oibre a ḃaile ann sin, agus ċuaiḋ an tailiúr i ḃfolaċ air ċúl na cloiċe móire. Nuair ṫáinig dorċadas na h-oiḋċe ċonnairc sé na trí faṫaiġ ag teaċt, agus ṫosuiġ siad ag leagaḋ na cúirte no go dtáinig siad ċoṁ fada leis an áit a raiḃ an táiliúr ṡuas, agus ḃuail fear aca buille d’á ord air an áit a raiḃ sé í ḃfolaċ. Leag an tailiúr an ċloċ anuas air, agus, ṫuit sí air, agus ṁarḃ sí é. D’imṫiġ siad a ḃaile ann sin, agus d’ḟág siad an méad a ḃí ann gan leagan, ó ḃí fear aca féin marḃ.

Ṫáinig an luċt céirde arís, an lá air na ṁáraċ, agus ḃí siad ag obair go dtí an oiḋċe, agus nuair a ḃí siad dul aḃaile duḃairt an tailiúr leó an ċloċ ṁór do ċur suas air ḃárr na h-oibre mar ḃí rí an oiḋċe roiṁe sin. Rinne siad sin dó, agus d’imṫiġ siad aḃaile, agus cuaiḋ an tailiúr i ḃfolaċ, mar ḃí sé an traṫnóna roiṁe sin. Nuair ḃí na daoine uile imṫiġṫe ’nna suaiṁneas, ṫáinig an dá ḟaṫaċ, agus ḃí siad ag leagan an ṁéid a ḃí rompa; agus nuair ṫosuiġ siad, ċuir siad dá ġlaoḋ asta. Ḃí an tailiúr air siúḃal agus é ag obair no gur leag sé anuas an ċloċ ṁór gur ṫuit sí air ċloigionn an ḟaṫaiġ a ḃí fúiṫi agus ṁarḃ sí é. Ní raiḃ ann sin aċt an t-aon ḟaṫaċ aṁáin ann, agus ní ṫáinig seisean go raiḃ an ċúirt críoċnuiġṫe.

Ċuaiḋ an táiliúr ċum an riġ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, a ḃean agus a ċuid airgid do ṫaḃairt dó, mar do ḃí an ċúirt déanta aige, aċt duḃairt an ríġ leis naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé aon ḃean dó, no go marḃfaḋ sé an faṫaċ eile, agus naċ dtiúḃraḋ sé dadaṁ dó anois no go marḃfaḋ sé an fear deireannaċ. Duḃairt an táiliúr ann sin go marḃfaḋ sé an faṫaċ eile ḋó, agus fáilte, naċ raiḃ aon ṁaille air biṫ air sin.

D’imṫiġ an táiliúr ann sin, go dtáinig sé ċum na h-áite a raiḃ an faṫaċ eile, agus d’ḟiafruiġ ar ṫeastuig buaċaill uaiḋ. Duḃairt an faṫaċ gur ṫeastuiġ, dá ḃfáġaḋ sé buaċaill a ḋeunfaḋ an rud a deunfaḋ sé féin. “Rud air biṫ a ḋeunfas tusa, deunfaiḋ mise é,” ar san tailiúr.

Ċuaid siad ċum a ndinéir ann sin, agus nuair ḃí sé iṫte aca duḃairt an faṫaċ leis an táiliúr an dtiucfaḋ leis an oiread anḃruiṫ ól agus é féin, aníos as a ḟiucaḋ. “Tiucfaiḋ,” ar san tailiúr, “aċt go dtiúḃraiḋ tu uair dam sul a ṫosóċamaoid air.” “Ḃéarfaiḋ mé sin duit,” ar san faṫac. Ċuaiḋ an tailiúr amaċ ann sin, agus fuair se croicionn caoraċ agus d’ḟuaiġ sé suas é, go ndearnaiġ sé mála ḋé agus ḋeasuiġ sé ṡíos faoi na ċóta é. Táinig sé asteaċ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ galún de’n anḃruiṫ ól i dtosaċ. D’ól an faṫaċ sin aníos as a ḟiuċaḋ.

“Deunfaiḋ mise sin,” ar san táiliúr. Ḃí sé air siúḃal gur ḋóirt sé asteaċ san g-croicionn é, agus ṡaoil an faṫaċ go raiḃ sé ólta aige. D’ól an faṫaċ galún eile ann sin, agus leig an táiliúr galún eile síos ’san g-croicionn, aċt ṡaoil an faṫaċ, go raiḃ sé ’gá ól. “Déanfaiḋ mise rud anois naċ dtiucfaiḋ leat-sa ḋeunaṁ,” ar san táiliúr. “Ní ḋéanfá,” ar san faṫaċ, “creud é sin do ḋéanfá?”

“Poll do ḋeunaṁ, agus an t-anḃruiṫ do leigean amaċ arís,” ar san táiliúr. “Déan ṫu féin i dtosaċ é,” ar san faṫaċ. Ṫug an táiliúr “prad” de’n sgín, agus leig sé amaċ an t-anḃruiṫ as an g-croicionn. “Déan, ṫusa, sin,” ar sé leis an ḃfaṫaċ. “Déanfad,” ar san faṫaċ ag taḃairt prad de’n sgín ’nna ḃuilg féin gur ṁarḃ sé é féin. Sin é an ċaoi a ṁarḃ sé an tríoṁaḋ faṫaċ.

Ċuaiḋ sé do’n ríġ ann sin, agus duḃairt sé leis, an ḃean agus a ċuid airgid do ċur amaċ ċuige, agus go leagfaḋ se an ċúirt muna ḃfáġaḋ sé an ḃean. Bí faitċios orra ann sin go leagfaḋ sé an ċúirt arís, agus cuir siad an ḃean amaċ ċuige.

Nuair ḃí sé lá imṫiġṫe, é féin agus a ḃean, ġlac siad aiṫreaċas agus lean siad é, go mbainfeaḋ siad an ḃean dé arís. Bí an ṁuinntir do ḃí ’nna ḋiaiġ ’gá leanaṁaint no go dtáinig siad suas do’n áit a raiḃ an madr’-alla, agus duḃairt an madr’-alla leó. “Ḃí an táiliúr agus a ḃean ann so andé, ċonnairc mise iad ag dul ṫart, agus má sgaoileann siḃ mise anois tá mé níos luaiṫe ’ná siḃ-se, agus leanfaiḋ mé iad go mbéarfaiḋ mé orra.” Nuair ċualaiḋ siad sin sgaoil siad amaċ an madr’alla.

D’imṫig an madr’-alla agus muinntir Ḃ’l’acliaṫ, agus ḃí siad dá leanaṁaint go dtáinig siad d’on áit a raiḃ an sionnaċ, agus ċuir an sionnaċ forán orra, agus duḃairt sé leó, “ḃí an táiliúr agus a ḃean ann so air maidin andiú, agus má sgaoilfiḋ siḃ amaċ mé tá mé níos luaiṫe ’ná siḃ agus leanfaiḋ mé iad agus béarfaiḋ mé orra.” Sgaoil siad amaċ an sionnaċ ann sin.

D’imṫiġ an madr’-alla agus an sionnaċ, agus arm Ḃ’l’acliaṫ ann sin, ag feuċaint an ngaḃaḋ siad an táiliúr, agus táinig siad do’n áit a raiḃ an sean-ġearrán bán, agus duḃairt an sean-ġearrán bán leó, go raib an táiliúr, agus a ḃean ann sin air maidin, “agus sgaoiligiḋe amaċ mé,” ar sé, “tá mé níos luaite ná siḃ-se agus béarfaiḋ mé orra.” Sgaoil siad amaċ an sean ġearrán bán, agus lean an sean-ġearrán bán, an sionnaċ, an madr’-alla, agus arm Ḃ’l’acliaṫ an táiliúr ’s a ḃean, i g-cuideaċt a ċéile, agus níor ḃfada go dtáinig siad suas leis an táiliúr, agus ċonnairc siad é féin ’s a ḃean amaċ rompa.

Nuair ċonnairc an táiliúr iad ag tíġeaċt ṫáinig sé féin ’s a ḃean amaċ as an g-cóiste, agus ṡuiḋ sé síos air an talaṁ.

Nuair ċonnairc an sean-ġearrán bán an táiliúr ag suiḋe síos duḃairt sé, “Sin é an cuma a ḃí sé nuair rinne sé an poll daṁsa, nár ḟeud mé teaċt amaċ as, nuair ċuaiḋ mé asteaċ ann; ní raċfaiḋ mé níos foigse ḋó.”

“Ní h-eaḋ,” ar san sionnaċ, “aċt is mar sin, do ḃí sé nuair ḃí se déanaṁ an ruid daṁ-sa, agus ní raċfaiḋ mise níos foigse ḋó.”

“Ní h-eaḋ!” ar san madr’-alla, “aċt is mar sin do ḃí sé nuair ḃí sé déanaṁ an ċeuċta ’nna raiḃ mise gaḃṫa. Ni raċfaiḋ mise níos foigse ḋó.”

D’imṫiġ siad uile uaiḋ ann sin, agus d’ḟill siad. Ṫáinig an táiliúr agus a ḃean a ḃaile go Gailliṁ. Ṫug siad dam stocaiḋ páipéir agus bróga bainne raṁair—ċaill mé iad ó ṡoin. Fuair siad-san an t-áṫ agus mise an loċán, báiṫeaḋ iad-san agus ṫáinig mise.

THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS.

There was once a tailor in Galway, and he was sewing cloth. He saw a flea springing up out of the cloth, and he threw his needle at it and killed it. Then he said: “Am I not a fine hero when I was able to kill that flea?”

Then he said that he must go to Blackleea (Dublin), to the king’s court, to see would he be able to build it. That court was a’building for a long time; but as much of it as would be made during the day used to be thrown down again during the night, and for that reason nobody could build it up. It was three giants who used to come in the night and throw it. The day on the morrow the tailor went off, and brought with him his tools, the spade and the shovel.

He had not gone far till he met a white horse, and he saluted him.

“God save you,” said the horse. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to Dublin,” said the tailor, “to build a court for the king, and to get a lady for a wife, if I am able to do it;” for the king had promised that he would give his own daughter, and a lot of money with her, to whoever would be able to build up his court.

“Would you make me a hole,” said the old white garraun (horse), “where I could go a’hiding whenever the people are for bringing me to the mill or the kiln, so that they won’t see me, for they have me perished doing work for them?”

“I’ll do that, indeed,” said the tailor, “and welcome.”

He brought the spade and shovel, and he made a hole, and he said to the old white horse to go down into it till he would see if it would fit him. The white horse went down into the hole, but when he tried to come up again he was not able.

“Make a place for me now,” said the white horse, “by which I’ll come up out of the hole here, whenever I’ll be hungry.”

“I will not,” said the tailor; “remain where you are until I come back, and I’ll lift you up.”

The tailor went forward next day, and the fox met him.

“God save you,” said the fox.

“God and Mary save you.”

“Where are you going?”

“I’m going to Dublin, to try will I be able to make a court for the king.”

“Would you make a place for me where I’d go hiding?” said the fox. “The rest of the foxes do be beating me, and they don’t allow me to eat anything along with them.”

“I’ll do that for you,” said the tailor.

He took with him his axe and his saw, and he cut rods, until he made, as you would say, a thing like a cleeve (creel), and he desired the fox to get into it till he would see whether it would fit him. The fox went into it, and when the tailor got him down, he clapped his thigh on the hole that the fox got in by. When the fox was satisfied at last that he had a nice place of it within, he asked the tailor to let him out, and the tailor answered that he would not.

“Wait there until I come back again,” says he.

The tailor went forward the next day, and he had not walked very far until he met a modder-alla (lion?) and the lion greeted him, and asked him where was he going.

“I’m going to Dublin till I make a court for the king, if I’m able to make it,” said the tailor.

“If you were to make a plough for me,” said the lion, “I and the other lions could be ploughing and harrowing until we’d have a bit to eat in the harvest.”

“I’ll do that for you,” said the tailor.

He brought his axe and his saw, and he made a plough. When the plough was made, he put a hole in the beam of it, and he said to the lion to go in under the plough till he’d see was he any good of a ploughman. He placed the tail in the hole he had made for it, and then clapped in a peg, and the lion was not able to draw out his tail again.

“Loose me out now,” said the lion, “and we’ll fix ourselves and go ploughing.”

The tailor said he would not loose him out until he came back himself. He left him there then, and he came to Dublin.

When he came to Dublin he put forth a paper, desiring all the tradesmen that were raising the court to come to him, and that he would pay them; and at that time workmen used only to be getting one penny in the day. A number of tradesmen gathered the next day, and they began working for him. They were going home again after their day, when the tailor said to them “to put up that great stone upon the top of the work that they had done.” When the great stone was raised up, the tailor put some sort of contrivance under it, that he might be able to throw it down as soon as the giant would come as far as it. The work people went home then, and the tailor went in hiding behind the big stone.

When the darkness of the night was come he saw the three giants arriving, and they began throwing down the court until they came as far as the place where the tailor was in hiding up above, and a man of them struck a blow of his sledge on the place where he was. The tailor threw down the stone, and it fell on him and killed him. They went home then, and left all of the court that was remaining without throwing it down, since a man of themselves was dead.

The tradespeople came again the next day, and they were working until night, and as they were going home the tailor told them to put up the big stone on the top of the work, as it had been the night before. They did that for him, went home, and the tailor went in hiding the same as he did the evening before.

When the people had all gone to rest, the two giants came, and they were throwing down all that was before them, and as soon as they began they put two shouts out of them. The tailor was going on manœuvring until he threw down the great stone, and it fell upon the skull of the giant that was under him, and it killed him. There was only the one giant left in it then, and he never came again until the court was finished.

Then when the work was over he went to the king and told him to give him his wife and his money, as he had the court finished, and the king said he would not give him any wife, until he would kill the other giant, for he said that it was not by his strength he killed the two giants before that, and that he would give him nothing now until he killed the other one for him. Then the tailor said that he would kill the other giant for him, and welcome; that there was no delay at all about that.

The tailor went then, till he came to the place where the other giant was, and asked did he want a servant-boy. The giant said he did want one, if he could get one who would do everything that he would do himself.

“Anything that you will do, I will do it,” said the tailor.