Chapter II: Part 2

In such pleasant converse the party arrived at Mánkúlam, and went to the headman’s house. It was crowded inside and out by an excited, curious throng. The púsári made his way into the hut. On a bed, in the middle of it, lay the body of the múdliya. A wound in the throat, exposed to view, showed how he had come by his death, and indications were not wanting that he had struggled hard for life. A number of women, relatives of the deceased, were shrieking in chorus the death-wail over the corpse. In a corner of the hut sat a young man, a minor headman from a neighbouring village, busily engaged in inquiring into all the circumstances of the murder. He was occupied in making a list, from the statements of the murdered man’s relatives, of the missing articles of jewellery. The strong-box from which they had been stolen stood, with its lid broken, before him. Lying on the floor beside him was a knife, which the púsári immediately recognised as his own, though how it got there and came to be covered with blood, was more than he could guess. As he listened to the questions of the headman and heard the remarks of the bystanders, the púsári began to feel a kind of grim satisfaction in the fact of his being invisible, so black seemed the case against him. He could not but feel that the evidence produced more than justified them all in believing him to be the murderer.

As he moved invisibly about the hut, he suddenly caught sight of his enemy Iyan Elúvan entering the door. Iyan was accompanied by his younger brother Valan, Vallee’s lover, a tall, well-made young man, with handsome, pleasant features. The two men were very unlike each other in every way—in features, expression, and manner, and no stranger would have thought them to be brothers. On catching sight of Iyan, the púsári moved close to him and watched him keenly. He had a nervous downcast air, very different from his usual hard, bold expression. He looked furtively and quickly round, and the púsári noticed a peculiar expression pass over his face as he glanced at the corpse and then hurriedly averted his eyes. A thought, a suspicion suddenly rushed into the púsári’s mind. There stood the murderer! It was Iyan Elúvan who had taken the múdliya’s life; and he had used his enemy’s knife, of which he had in some way got possession, in order to cast the suspicion on him. As the thought struck him, the púsári stepped fiercely forward to seize and denounce him; then he recollected his strange position, and with a strong effort, restrained himself. For some moments he stood glaring malevolently but invisibly at his enemy.

‘This is an awful thing, Iyan,’ remarked a man standing by.

‘Ay,’ he responded in a gruff, harsh voice. ‘I felt sure that mad fool Ráman Ummiyan would do this. I met him yesterday on his way here, and heard him swear he would have the múdliya’s life.’

On hearing this lie, the púsári’s rage boiled over, but he could do nothing but utter inaudible curses and threats. He soon tired, however, of his useless ravings, and calmed down once more. Iyan did not remain long in the house; he went to the headman, who took down his statement, to which he swore, adding many cunning and malicious embellishments, which made the lie seem very like truth. As he left the hut accompanied by his brother, the púsári followed them. The brothers separated in the village, and Iyan started for Pandiyán with his unseen enemy behind him. The púsári could not rid himself of the feeling that he was still visible, and so followed at some distance. Iyan walked fast, glancing over his shoulder from time to time and muttering as he went.

The púsári followed his enemy about all day. Iyan did but little work of any kind, but sat moody and restless in his hut all the afternoon, only going occasionally to the door and glancing anxiously around. He was alone in the hut, as he was a widower and had no children, while Valan, who lived with him, was absent at Mánkúlam. Late in the afternoon he began to make preparations for cooking the evening meal, but in a very preoccupied, desultory manner. When it grew dusk, he suddenly stopped, went to the door, and looked out to see if he was being watched; and seeing he was not, slipped out, through the fence, into the jungle at the back of his hut. The púsári followed him. Iyan pushed his way through the dense undergrowth for some distance till he came to a huge hollow tree that had been blasted by lightning; here he stopped for a few minutes in a listening attitude. Hearing nothing to alarm him, he fell on his knees and thrust his arm into a hole under the roots and drew out something tied up in a cloth. The púsári saw his enemy open the bundle, and then his suspicion that he was the murderer of the headman was fully confirmed, for it was full of jewellery and rupees. For some minutes Iyan remained gloating over his ill-gotten wealth, counting the money and fingering the jewels. Once he started, and a look of terror passed over his face. He had heard a rustle overhead; but it was only caused by a small monkey in the tree above, which was watching his movements with intense curiosity. At length Iyan tied up his booty and replaced it in the hollow tree, and then sneaked back to his hut, unseen by any one but his invisible enemy. Soon afterwards, his brother Valan returned home, and the two men cooked and ate their evening meal almost in silence. After watching them for some time, the púsári went off to his own house.

He found Vallee lying moaning in a corner, utterly prostrated by the heavy blow that had fallen on her. A kind-hearted woman of the village had brought her some food, as she had not cooked anything for herself; but the weeping girl refused to eat, and lay moaning and sobbing as if her heart was breaking. The púsári longed to be able to speak to her and assure her of his innocence; but made no attempt to do so, knowing how useless it would be. At length the woman went away, and the púsári sat for a long time watching with an aching heart his sorrowing, unhappy daughter. At last, exhausted by her weeping and grief, Vallee fell asleep. Seeing this, he rose, and went out into the village. It was now quite dark, and nearly every one had retired to rest. He wandered aimlessly about till he found himself before the little temple on the dam of the tank. All was dark within save where a faint light shone through a hole in the roof on to the hideous little idol. He entered the temple and stood before the shrine. Long and earnestly did he pray to the god to deliver him from the spell that had been cast on him, and many were the promises and vows he made should his prayer be granted. Then he began to dance before the idol, chanting sacred manthras or hymns. All night long did the púsári remain in the temple, sometimes offering púja, sometimes praying, and at other times dancing wildly before the shrine. But the little stone god stood black and silent in its niche, and no answer came to the púsári’s passionate prayers.

A NIGHT-RAID ON DONEGAL SMUGGLERS.

On a wild, stormy evening, some years ago, the writer was returning to Ballyroughan, a miserable little town on the bleak coast of Donegal. It had rained heavily all day, but having cleared up a little, I drew rein as I approached the town. On such an evening the scene was far from inspiriting. The road followed the windings of the seashore, here bounded by huge rocks, over which the waves were dashing furiously, like demons storming a fort. About five miles from the mainland lay the little island of Innismurry, almost shrouded in mist, and only discernible by the ring of white foam which marked its coast. Beyond, stretched the Atlantic, raging with all the force and passion of a November storm. I had barely time to take in this scene, when I was accosted by a man, who seemed to rise out of the road at my side.

‘It’s a sevare day, yer honour,’ said he, politely touching his hat. ‘God be good to them that’s at sea on an evening like that.’

‘It is very stormy, indeed; but I think the worst of it is now over.’

‘God sind it, thin, for it’s hard times for the fishermen; though it’s mighty good for the stillin’.’

‘Good for the stilling!’ I said. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Why, I mane there’s little fear of “the boys” being interrupted in weather like that.’

‘Interrupted at what?’

‘Why, at the stillin’, av coorse; and by the same token, yonder they’re at it;’ and he pointed to the little island already referred to, now partially disrobed of its mist.

‘Do you mean to say that there is illicit distillation now going on at that island?’

‘Faix and you’ve just guessed it; and sure it comes mighty handy, by rayson that the fair is on Monday.’

I need not weary the reader with all that passed between me and my chance companion, whom I recognised as Mickey Mehaffey, a hanger-on about one of the hotels in the town. From Mickey I learned that the inhabitants of Innismurry consisted of about a score of families, who obtained a living by fishing and illicit distillation, and I grieve to say, chiefly by the latter. There were no police on the island, and as in stormy weather it was wholly unapproachable from the mainland, they could carry on their nefarious business without fear of ‘disturbance.’ At other times their scouts could give at least half-an-hour’s warning of approaching danger, and this was sufficient to enable them to secrete their contraband goods before the ‘inimy’ arrived. And when hard pressed, the Atlantic always formed a safe and capacious storehouse. They had also their agents and confederates on the mainland, who assisted them to land and dispose of the poteen prior to fairs, wakes, and marriages, these being the favourite channels of ‘home consumption.’

But to return to Mickey. He still kept a wistful eye on the island, particularly on one little curl of blue smoke that he assured me arose from the identical cabin where the stills were at that moment being ‘fired.’

‘They’ll be sure to land it on Sunday night,’ said he, ‘as Monday is the fair. The new gauger is very sevare, I’m towld, and means to make a raid on them.’

‘Who told you that?’ I asked.

‘Oh, the divil a one; sure, I’ve been dhraming it, or something.’

‘Well, Mickey,’ said I, ‘since you’ve been so very free with your information, I don’t mind telling you that I am the “new gauger” myself, and certainly mean to put a stop to this smuggling, if possible.’

‘Oh, the saints protect us!’ piously ejaculated Mickey. ‘Bad luck to the tongue of me! I’ve been an informer all unknownst to meself; but your honour won’t betray me?’

‘Never fear. I knew already most of what you told me.’

‘Arrah! did you, now? Well, and if you want any more information about them same smugglers, sure Mickey Mehaffey’s the boy that can find it out for ye.’

I was certainly rather amused at Mickey’s sudden change of principles; and telling him to call on me next day, if he had further information to give, I put spurs to my horse and trotted in to town.

I had only been recently appointed to Ballyroughan, with special instructions to do my utmost to suppress smuggling, which was at that time very prevalent in the district. And from all the information I could gather, I came to the conclusion that the most effectual way of doing this was to intercept the landing of the goods from the island. The supply, I reasoned, would soon cease, if I succeeded in cutting off the demand.

Mickey kept his promise about giving me further information. I had just thrown myself on the lounge next evening after dinner, when a fiery altercation broke in upon my rest. It was my landlady and Mickey on the stairs. ‘Ye can’t disturb him now, I’m telling ye; he’s only afther his dinner.’

‘But I want to see him particular,’ persisted Mickey, endeavouring to pass her on the stairs.

‘And it’s want ye’ll meet with, thin; ye can watch for him as he goes out in the mornin’.’

‘It’s a matther of life and death, I’m tellin’ ye; and the mornin’ wouldn’t do at all, at all.’

‘Well, and what if it _is_ a matther of life and death? Sure, _he_ isn’t the docthor.’

I now thought proper to interfere. ‘If that is Mickey Mehaffey,’ I said, ‘you may allow him to come up, Mrs M‘Ketchup.’

‘Very well, sor.—Bad luck to the dirthy boots o’ ye!’ This last to Mickey in an undertone.

‘Well, Mickey, shut the door, and let me hear what you have got to say.’

‘I’ve learned it all, sor. Hugh’s Shan gave me all the news this mornin’ afther chapel. He’s wan of the smugglers, ye know, from the island.’

‘What “news” did he give you?’

‘Why, about the landing of the poteen for the fair. It’s just as I towld ye. They’re to land it to-night about twelve o’clock, as the moon will be dark by that time.’

‘Where do they usually land it?’ I asked.

‘Well, sor, there are only two places where a boat can put in with safety: wan of these, “the Smugglers’ Pier,” is just between the high rocks forninst Ballyroughan; and the other is about a quarter of a mile farther along the shore. It’s not so safe in the dark as the Smugglers’ Pier, and so they never land at it.’

After arranging with Mickey to meet me that night at a certain point, I dismissed him, and proceeded to mature my plan for trapping the smugglers. It was this. I arranged with the coastguard officer to meet me at the Smugglers’ Pier about eleven o’clock. He was to bring two boats and three boatmen with him, and row up silently from the station to the place appointed. Three constables of the ‘Royal Irish’ were also detailed to meet me at the same time and place. Mickey, as previously stated, was to go with myself and act as guide. The rendezvous was about a mile from the town, so I started off about half-past ten on my secret expedition. Fortunately, Ballyroughan retires early to rest, so not a soul was to be seen as I passed through the town. A subdued cough at the outskirts told me that Mickey was true to his appointment.

We walked in silence to the place, and found the ‘palers,’ as Mickey called them, waiting. The coastguard officer and his men had not yet arrived. They came, however, shortly afterwards, and I then gave my final instructions. One boat, manned by the coastguard officer, a boatman, and one of the constables, was to row about four hundred yards out, and lie on its oars, out of the track of the smugglers, but ready to intercept them on their return to the island, if they escaped us. A shot from my revolver was the signal for them to be on the alert. The other boat, I directed to be kept out of sight between the rocks, but ready for action at a moment’s notice. These arrangements completed, every one waited quietly at his post to watch the turn of events. It was now midnight; and though the moon had been down almost half an hour, there was no sign of the smugglers. Could it be that Mickey was playing us false? This thought had just occurred to me, when my ear caught the sound of distant oars.

‘Did you hear anything, sir?’ one of the constables whispered.

‘Hush! Listen,’ I said.

Yes; there was no mistake. Nearer and clearer came the plash of the oars and the creaking of the rowlocks; and in a few minutes afterwards, the boat grated on the gravel within a few yards of where we lay concealed. I saw through the darkness that there were only two men in the boat, with a boy to steer. The former proceeded at once to land the goods. They brought a keg ashore; but before I could give the order for capture, a ludicrous incident betrayed us. Mickey, I noticed, had been nodding with sleep for some time, and at the most critical moment began to snore so loudly, that the men at once dropped the keg and made a rush for the boat.

‘Arrest them!’ I shouted, and one of the policemen succeeded in catching hold of an oar just as the boat was being pushed off; but the smuggler was equal to the occasion. He drew the oar towards the boat, then pushed it rapidly back again, and next moment the unfortunate constable was left sprawling in the water. ‘Man the boat!’ I shouted, as I observed they were about to escape us. ‘You,’ I said to the policeman who got the ducking, ‘will remain on shore to guard the seizure, and Mickey may keep you company.—All ready?’ I asked, stepping into the boat, and at the same time discharging my revolver, as a signal to the coastguard officer in the other boat.

‘All right, sir.’

‘Then pull off;’ and away we went in the wake of the smugglers. The chase was an exciting one. They had got about twenty yards ahead; but our boat was the swifter, and we soon came up with them. ‘Now we have them,’ I exclaimed, as our other boat came into view, intercepting their course to the island. They were not, however, to be caught so easily. Making a rapid double to the left, our boat was shot far ahead of them before we could turn. I now saw that the advantage did not all lie on our side; for although we had greater speed and greater numbers, on the other hand, the smugglers’ boat was so formed as to twist and turn about with the greatest rapidity, rendering it very difficult for us to come into close quarters with them. Again we came up with them, and again they made a double towards the mainland, leaving us still at a distance.

I now adopted a different mode of operations. Both our boats were between the smugglers and Innismurry, and I directed them to separate about twenty yards, and row close behind the enemy, keeping the latter always in front and between the two boats. This plan was perfectly successful. The smugglers were now compelled to ‘move on’ before us towards the mainland, any attempt to turn aside being prevented by either boat. Their only escape now was landward, and they made a spurt to reach the shore before us, heading directly for the Smugglers’ Pier; but their boat had scarcely touched the gravel, when our men, jumping into the water, surrounded it, and took the occupants in charge ere they had time to land.

I now directed my attention to matters on shore. Mickey was still there, but the constable was nowhere to be seen. A feeble groan from behind the rocks led Mickey to explain.

‘It’s the paler, yer honour,’ said he. ‘He tuk mighty bad after you left.’

‘Has he been to the keg?’ I asked.

‘Faix, and he has, thin; and it didn’t agree with him.’

It evidently did not. The ground beside him bore witness to the fact.

‘Confound the stuff!’ growled one of the boatmen, who had taken the opportunity to follow the paler’s example and have a pull at the keg. He was expectorating at a furious rate and making horrible grimaces.

‘Is it poison?’ feebly groaned the policeman.

‘Poison? Confound it!’ said the boatman; ‘it’s water, and as salt as blazes.’

It was indeed water, fresh drawn from the Atlantic. The constable, it seems, feeling cold after his immersion, broached the keg in our absence, and had taken a good pull at it before he discovered that it wasn’t the ‘rale Innishowen.’ It produced such a nausea and sickness of stomach, that the poor fellow thought he was poisoned, and became frightened into the ludicrous state of distress in which we found him.

I now examined the contents of another keg in the boat. Salt water also. Meanwhile, our three prisoners, who understood not a word of English, stood composedly looking on, and seemed quite satisfied with their position. Our own position was certainly a novel one. There we stood, eight men in Her Majesty’s service, with three prisoners in charge, and for what? For having two kegs of salt water in their possession, whilst the broad Atlantic rolled at our feet. No one appeared to be able to give any explanation of our peculiar ‘seizure;’ and we were about to leave the place in disgust, when the coastguard drew my attention to the sound of oars farther up the shore, and we could dimly discern a boat putting off towards the island.

‘Depend upon it,’ said he, ‘that boat has just been landing the poteen; and this has only been a decoy, to divert our attention from the real culprits.’

This indeed was the true explanation of the mystery, so I discharged my prisoners, who coolly tossed the kegs into their boat and pulled off towards Innismurry.

I afterwards learned that Mickey, with all his apparent simplicity, was a shrewd confederate of the smugglers, and that it was really he who planned and set us on this ‘wildgoose chase.’ They expected, it seems, a raid made on them that night; and Mickey was deputed, under cover of giving information, to learn the mode of attack, and, if possible to thwart it. In this he was but too successful. And although, on many subsequent occasions, I had ample revenge for the trick played on me that night, I must confess that these later and more successful experiences appear to me but tame and commonplace, compared with my first encounter with the Donegal smugglers.

SOME FAROE LEGENDS.

_Adapted from the Danish._

I. THE SEAL-GIRL.

Seals have their origin in human beings who of their own free-will have drowned themselves in the sea. Once a year—on Twelfth-night—they slip off their skins and amuse themselves like men and women in dancing and other pleasures, in the caves of the rocks and the big hollows of the beach. A young man in the village of Mygledahl, in Kalsoe, had heard talk of this conduct of the seals, and a place in the neighbourhood of the village was pointed out to him where they were said to assemble on Twelfth-night.

In the evening of that day he stole away thither and concealed himself. Soon he saw a vast multitude of seals come swimming towards the place, cast off their skins, and lie down upon the rocks. He noticed that a very fair and beautiful girl came out of one of the seal-skins and lay down not far from where he was hidden. Then he crept towards her and took her in his arms. The man and the seal-girl danced together throughout the whole night; but when day began to break, every seal went in search of its skin. The seal-girl alone was unsuccessful in the search for her skin; but she tracked it by its smell to the Mygledahl-man, and when he, in spite of her entreaties, would not give it back to her, she was forced to follow him to Mygledahl. There they lived together for many years, and many children were born to them; but the man had to be perpetually on the watch lest his wife should be able to lay hands on her seal-skin, which, accordingly, he kept locked in the bottom of his chest, the key of which was always about his person.

One day, however, he was out fishing, when he remembered that he had left the key at home. He called out sorrowfully to the other men: ‘This day I shall lose my wife.’ They pulled up their lines and rowed home quickly; but when they came to the house, his wife had disappeared, and only the children were at home. That no harm might come to them when she left them, their mother had extinguished the fire on the hearth and put the knives out of sight. In the meantime, she had run down to the beach, attired herself in her seal-skin, and directed her course to the sea, where another seal, who had formerly been her lover, came at once to her side. This animal had been lying outside the village all these years waiting for her.

And now, when the children of the Mygledahl-man used to come down to the beach, they often saw a seal lift its head above the water and look towards the land. The seal was supposed to be the mother of the children.

A long time passed away, and again it chanced that the Mygledahl-man was about to hunt the seals in a big rock-hole. The night before this was to happen, the Mygledahl-man dreamed that his lost wife came to him and said that if he went seal-hunting in that cave he must take care not to kill a large seal which stood in front of the cave, because that was her mate; and the two young seals in the heart of the cave, because they were her two little sons; and she informed him of the colour of their skins. But the man took no heed of his dream, went away after the seals, and killed all he could lay hands upon. The spoil was divided when they got home, and the man received for his share the whole of the large male seal and the hands and feet of the two young seals.

That same evening, they had cooked the head and paws of the large seal for supper, and the meat was put up in a trough, when a loud crash was heard in the kitchen. The man returned thither and saw a frightful witch, who sniffed at the trough, and cried: ‘Here lies the head, with the upstanding nose of a man, the hand of Haarek, and the foot of Frederick. Revenged they are, and revenged they shall be on the men of Mygledahl, some of whom shall perish by sea, and others fall down from the rocks, until the number of the slain shall be so great that by holding each other’s hands they may gird all Kalsoe.’ When she had uttered this communication, the witch vanished from the room and was seen no more.

Many Mygledahl-men soon afterwards came to a violent end. Some were drowned in the sea by Kalsoe while fishing; others fell from the rocks while catching the seafowl: so that the witch’s curse might be said to have taken partial effect. The number of the dead, however, is not yet so large that they can encircle the whole of the island hand in hand.[2]

II. HOW TO BECOME RICH.

If you would be rich, you must go out on Twelfth-night to a cross-road where five ways meet, one of which leads to a church; and you must take with you in your hands a gray calfskin and an axe. When you reach the cross-road, you must sit down on the calfskin, the tail of which must be extended in the direction of the road which leads to the churchyard. Then you must look fixedly at the axe, which must be made as sharp as possible. Towards midnight, the goblins will come in multitudes and put gold in great heaps round you, to try and make you look up, and they will chatter, grimace, and grin at you. But when at length they have failed in causing you to look aside, they will begin to take hold of the tail of the calfskin and drag it away, with you upon it. Then you will be fortunate if you can succeed in cutting off the tail with the axe without looking about you and without damaging the axe. If you succeed, the goblins will vanish, and all the gold will remain by you. Otherwise, if you look about you or damage the axe, it will be all up with you.

III. THE LUCKY-STONE.

The ‘lucky-stone’ is a good thing to possess, because the man who has it is always fortunate and victorious in every struggle; nor can any man or evil spirit harm him. Success follows him wherever he goes; everything happens according to his wishes; he is every one’s favourite. It is not wonderful, therefore, that men are eager to bargain for a stone that can work so much good for its owner. Unfortunately, however, no man knows where to find it; only the raven knows this; and now you shall hear how the raven may be induced to discover it. It is a common saying that this bird mates in February, lays its eggs in March, and hatches its young in April. Now, when the raven has laid its eggs, the man who determines to have the lucky-stone must climb the rock wherein the raven has its nest. There he must sit still without letting the raven see him, until the bird flies away from its nest. Immediately afterwards the man must hasten to the nest, take the eggs therefrom, go away and boil them hard, and then lay them in the nest again, so that the raven when it comes back may not notice anything amiss. The bird then resumes its attempt to hatch the eggs. When, however, it has sat past the ordinary hatching-time without young ones coming out of the eggs, it gets impatient and tired of sitting any longer. Away it flies after the lucky-stone, to place this in the nest between the eggs, so that by its help the young may get out of the shell; and, in readiness for its return, the man must station himself by the nest and shoot the bird when it reappears. Then he may take the lucky-stone out of the raven’s beak and go home with it.[3]

IV. THE SKARVEN AND THE EIDER-DUCK.

The skarven and the eider-duck both wished to wear down, and could not determine which of them should have that privilege. They came to a decision that it should belong to that one of them who first saw the sun rise next morning and cried to the other: ‘The sun is up!’ Accordingly, they seated themselves among the rocks side by side that evening. The eider-duck fell asleep immediately after sunset; but the skarven, knowing that he was a sound sleeper, formed the wicked resolution not to go to sleep that night, lest he should oversleep himself. Thus he became almost assured that he, and not the eider-duck, should get the down. The skarven sat full of pride in his resolve to keep awake the whole night. This was easy enough at the outset; but later on in the night his head grew heavy and he had to fight hard with sleep; however, he held out until it began to be light in the east; then, elated with joy, he cried: ‘Now the east becomes blue!’ But by this outcry, the skarven awoke the eider-duck, who had enjoyed his accustomed sleep; while, on the other hand, the skarven could no longer keep his eyes open. When the sun really rose, the eider-duck was not slow to cry to the skarven: ‘The sun rises over the sea!’ Thus the eider-duck received the down. As for the skarven, his punishment was very severe. Because he could not keep silence, but by his outcry awoke the eider-duck, from that time forward he has been tongue-tied as well as without down.

V. A TALE OF SANDOE.

West of the town of Sand is a great hole deep in the ground, where a witch used to live. A man from Sand once went down into this hole and saw a woman standing crushing gold in a hand-mill, and a little child sitting by her playing with a gold stick. The old crone was blind. After a little reflection, the man went softly up to the woman and took away the gold which she was crushing. Hereupon she said: ‘Either a mouse is being crushed, or a thief is stealing, or else something is wrong with the quern.’ The man left her, took the gold stick from the child, whom he struck and made to cry. The old woman now instantly divined that something was wrong. She jumped up and groped after the man in the hole. But he was no sooner out of the cave than he ran home at a gallop with the gold. The witch then called a neighbour crone, related her misfortune, and besought her help. The neighbour forthwith ran with all speed after the man. She jumped across certain lakes on the way, and here her footprints may be seen in the stone on each side of the water to this day. But the man escaped her until he came to a marshy tract of land, where she succeeded in laying hold of his horse’s tail. However, he whipped the horse forward so that its tail broke off. Nor did this stop him. On he went until he came in sight of the church. Here the witch could do him no harm, but was obliged to turn back. To this day, it is said that one may hear the old blind witch crushing gold in the cave.[4]

VI. THE MAN AND THE BROWNIES.

The village of Gaasedahl, in Waagoe, has no level beach, but is almost fifteen fathoms straight up from the sea, so that boats could not very well be kept there. Moreover, the inhabitants are too few to man a large boat for sea-fishing. They have, therefore, their boat jointly with the neighbouring village of Boe, with the men whereof they associate in fishing. One night a man from Gaasedahl went by appointment east to Akranes, where the men from Boe wanted to take him in the boat to row with them to the fishing. When he had come to Skardsaa, he observed a boat which lay by the land in the appointed place; and, fearful lest he should delay the others, he hurried down to it. He saw that there were seven in the boat, and that a place was vacant by one of the thwarts. He believed, therefore, that all was as it should be, although he could not recognise any of the men, because of the darkness. Then he jumped briskly into the boat and sat down by his oar; but, to his great terror, he now perceived that he knew none of the men, and he did not fail to understand that he had got among the brownie folk. Still, he would not let them see that he was afraid, but sat down to row as capably as the others. They steered north of Waagoe towards Ravnemulen, a fishing-place to which the men of Waagoe are accustomed to row.

The elves now began to put bait on their hooks and to cast out; but the Gaasedahl-man sat still because he had only a line with him; his hooks were in Boe. Then the leader of the elves gave him both hooks and bait, with which he made a cast, and immediately caught a big cod. When he had pulled up the fish and killed it, the leader took and marked it, and in the same way he marked every other fish caught by the man. They fished until the boat was full, then rowed home, and touched the land by Akranes, where the Gaasedahl-man had come to them. The brownies threw on shore to him all the fish he had caught. When he was going away, the Gaasedahl-man remembered that he had left his knife behind him in the boat, and said to the brownies that ‘the sharp thing by his thigh’ was left in the boat. The brownie thereupon took the knife and threw it at him to hurt him, but it did not hit him. Then he said: ‘You were a doomed man; but you are a lucky man;’ and the other brownies then rowed off, abusing him because he would not thank them for the use of the boat.[5]

VII. ABOUT WITCHES.

It is said that witches are fond of visiting people’s houses, especially when they find them empty. North of Núgvunes, in Borgardahl, on the island of Myggenes, there is a little but well-built house for shepherds to pass the night in, when at certain times in the year they come here to look after the sheep, because this part of the island is far away from a village. One night, at an unusual time, one of these shepherds went thither; but when he was about to take shelter in the house, he heard much noise and racket within the building. He stationed himself by a little window, and perceived that the house was full of witches, who were holding carnival. They danced and sang: ‘Cold is the witches’ home in the hills. It is better within the house on the cliff by Skálavellir—trum, trum, trallarei—to dance close to the doors.’

But it was much worse at Troldenes, which is the most northerly village in Kalsoe. Thither the witches used to come every Twelfth-night in such multitudes that the townsfolk were at that time forced to flee to the nearest town, Mygledahl, and stay there while this witches’ revelry lasted; hence this town got the name of Troldenes (Witches’ Point). It happened once that an old woman was not able to flee with the others to Mygledahl on Twelfth-night. She lay under a table in the kitchen and hid herself from the witches. In the evening, she saw the witches come in and begin to shout and dance. But in the height of their merriment the old woman under the table cried out: ‘Jesus, be merciful to me!’ When the witches heard the blessed name of Jesus, which they hate and tremble at, they began to scream, and said to each other: ‘Gydja[6] disturbs the dance.’ Thereupon they disappeared from Troldenes, and they have not dared since to trouble that village. When the people came back from Mygledahl after the festival, they expected to find the old woman dead, but she then told them of her adventure with the witches.

VIII. THE TWO SISTERS.

Once upon a time there was a man and a woman. They had one daughter; and when the child was a year old, her mother died. The man, poor creature, was now left alone with this little girl. No wonder, therefore, that he, like so many other men in a similar plight, began to think of taking a second wife, and duly married again. By this second wife also he had a daughter. The two girls were nearly of the same age, there being not much more than two years’ difference between them. They grew up together in the house; but it may be imagined which of them the woman made the most of; for, whilst she gave her own daughter everything that was nice, and let her have her way both in good and evil, she could not bear the sight of the elder child, her step-daughter, but struck and trounced her both early and late. The poor girl was made to do all the worst work: to clean the cowhouses in winter; to crush every grain of corn that was eaten in the house; to pick the wool, and the like. In summer, she had to go into the fields to milk the cows both morning and evening, often a long way up the mountains, without anything to eat.

The step-mother was perpetually gnawed with envy of the elder of the girls because she was as beautiful as the finest summer apple, red and white like blood upon snow; whilst the younger was ugly in appearance and disgusted every man. The wicked woman wanted, therefore, to spoil her step-daughter’s pretty face; and with this intention, compelled her to do all the worst and hardest work both at home and in the fields; but in spite of it all, she grew yet more beautiful, while her half-sister became pale and sickly from sitting indoors and never stirring out to lend a helping hand to any one.

The woman now resolved to make her step-daughter so thin by starvation that she could not fail to lose her beauty, and come to be as insignificant as her own daughter. She refused to give her any supper, so that the poor girl had to go into the fields to do the milking without having had anything to eat the previous evening, and without breakfast that day. With a heavy heart and a hungry stomach, she now left home with the milk-pail on her back, not knowing how to get anything to eat. While she went along crying, and so exhausted that she was ready to fall to the ground, she saw a hill straight before her open, and a table standing there decked with meat and drink. She asked God to guide her, went in, and refreshed herself with the meat and drink. Then she thanked God for the meal, and went on joyfully in quest of the cattle. The hill opened for her in the same place every morning and evening, and by this means she kept so strong and healthy that her step-mother’s scheme quite failed.

The younger sister now asked how it was that she herself, who had good things every day and all she wanted, did yet not thrive so well as the other, who was always working and got little to eat? But the elder sister would not at first answer her questions; she simply said that she had taken nothing from her or her mother. In the end, however, she told her that she got meat and drink in the hill. When the younger sister heard this, she immediately wanted to go into the fields and milk the cows, that she might see what took place in the hill, and she besought her mother’s permission to go the very next day. This the mother granted at once, though she wondered that her daughter should conceive such a fancy. Accordingly, the girl went. The hill was open. She sat down, ate and drank of the good things, and never bethought herself how they came thither; nor, when she had finished eating, did she think of asking God to be with her or of thanking Him. This she was not accustomed to do. In the evening, she would not eat at home, so that she might eat the more when she went again on to the hill. But the second time, when she was come thither, the hill was shut for her; so she had for once to experience what it was to go hungry into the fields and look after the cows. She had to go high up the mountains and search a long time before she found the animals; and she returned home in the evening angry, and said that she would not make many such excursions.

And so the elder sister had again to go in the old way; but for her the hill was never closed. She went without shoes and dressed in rags, like the most miserable of beggars; and the worse she looked, the better pleased was the step-mother.

One day, when the poor girl came to the hill, her rags were ready to fall off her, so that she had good cause to cry and grieve over herself. How great, then, was her joy when she saw some beautiful clothes held towards her within the hill, and heard a voice say that they were for her. She hastened to dress herself in these new clothes, and sat down in the field, the better to examine them. But she had no sooner seated herself, than a grand king’s son, with a large suite of attendants, came riding towards her, and entered into conversation with the fair maid. The king’s son liked her so much that he fell in love with her immediately and asked whom she was. The girl replied to his declaration of love, that if he did not change his mind within a year, then he might come back to her parents and ask their consent; she herself would not say him ‘Nay.’ On this understanding they separated.

When she reached home again, the girl said not a word about this meeting. Her fine clothes were taken from her by her half-sister, and again she had to go to the fields in her rags, as before.

When the year had gone by, the king’s son came riding into the farmyard as a suitor. He shone with gold from top to toe, and likewise the man who accompanied him. He explained his mission, and asked for the hand of the farm-people’s daughter. They consented to the match; but the woman went away and locked up her step-daughter in the strong-room, made her own daughter array herself in the clothes which the king’s son had seen on the elder of the girls, and brought her before him. The prince said that he had never seen this girl before, and had not come to court her. The mother replied that the girl was the same, but that she had been so disfigured by a severe illness as to be unrecognisable. When the king’s son heard this, his blood rushed to his heart, and he begged her to go apart alone with him. The girl followed behind him; but no sooner were they out of the house, than she fell down and burst asunder.

Then the king’s son re-entered the house. He perceived that the woman had deceived him, and he threatened to kill them all unless they instantly gave him the real girl whom he had come to court. They could go out and see the consequence of having already lied to him.

The man now fetched his elder daughter, and the king’s son was joyful when he saw her. He gave her the choicest clothes and presents; then he set her upon a fine horse; and they rode away home to his kingdom. When the king his father died, the prince himself became king, and the poor girl his queen, and they lived happy together all the rest of their days.

As for the wicked step-mother, she died of grief and vexation.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] Kalsoe is about ten miles long by about one mile and a half in width.

[3] Sysselman Müller of Thorshavn, Faroe, possesses one of these stones. It is brown, and rather common to look at; but no doubt the fact that Herr Müller is reputed to be the richest man in the Isles, as he is certainly the most influential, is due to the virtue of this stone. Herr Müller sits in the upper house of the Danish government; and this also may be attributable to his lucky-stone.

[4] This story, it is obvious, is allied to the Ayrshire traditions on which Burns founded his _Tam o’ Shanter_.

[5] It is necessary to explain that in talking to a brownie one must not call a knife, a sword, an axe, or anything of the kind by its right name, but indicate it by a paraphrase, ‘The sharp thing,’ &c. Nor must one say ‘Thank you’ to the brownies, if they do one a service, because, if so, it gives them power to injure the person who thanks them.

[6] Gydja is Faroese for an old wife, crone, or aged woman.

THE OLD VIKING.

AN ADAPTATION FOR MUSIC.

Why ’midst these shadowy woods should I
In grave-like loneness, lingering, die?
’Tis ours to unfurl the sail, and ride
Away as of old on the flashing tide.

How bleak these beetling crags, and bare!
What lifeless gloom broods everywhere!
In this poor mousetrap of a hold,
How can a warrior’s heart be bold?

The billows dark, the galley strong,
I learned to love when life was young;
Why then should I, with whitened hair,
Die like an old wolf in his lair?

Oh, better far it were for me
To risk my life on the rolling sea,
To die as died my fathers brave,
And sleep with them in their ocean-grave!

Farewell, ye woods and crags, farewell!
My bark rides brave on the billowy swell;
The tall mast swings, the sail flaps free,
And our home once more is the boundless sea.

JOHN RUSSELL.

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