* This was, and in remote parts of the country still
is, one of the strongest instances of belief in the
power of the Fairies. The injury, which, if not
counteracted by a charm from the lips of a “Fairy-man,”
or “Fairy-woman,” was uniformly inflicted on the animal
by what was termed an elf-stone—which was nothing
more nor less than a piece of sharp flint, from three
to four or five ounces in weight. The cow was supposed
to be struck upon the loin with it by these mischievous
little beings, and the nature of the wound was indeed
said to be very peculiar—that is, it cut the midriff
without making any visible or palpable wound on the
outward skin. All animals dying of this complaint,
were supposed to be carried to the good people, and
there are many in the country who would not believe
that the dead carcass of the cow was that of the real
one at all, but an old log or block of wood, made to
resemble it. All such frauds, however, and deceptions
were inexplicable to every one, but such as happened to
possess a four-leaved shamrock, and this enabled its
possessor to see the block or log in its real shape,
although to others it appeared to be the real carcass.
Such was Mary Sullivan, as she sat at her own hearth, quite alone, engaged as we have represented her. What she may have been meditating on we cannot pretend to ascertain; but after some time, she looked sharply into the “backstone,” or hob, with an air of anxiety and alarm. By and by she suspended her knitting, and listened with much earnestness, leaning her right ear over to the hob, from whence the sounds to which she paid such deep attention proceeded. At length she crossed herself devoutly, and exclaimed, “Queen of saints about us!—is it back ye are? Well sure there's no use in talkin', bekase they say you know what's said of you, or to you—an' we may as well spake yez fair.—Hem—musha, yez are welcome back, crickets, avourneenee! I hope that, not like the last visit ye ped us, yez are comin' for luck now! Moolyeen (* a cow without horns) died, any way, soon afther your other kailyee, (* short visit) ye crathurs ye. Here's the bread, an' the salt, an' the male for yez, an' we wish ye well. Eh?—saints above, if it isn't listenin' they are jist like a Christhien! Wurrah, but ye are the wise an' the quare crathurs all out!”
She then shook a little holy water over the hob, and muttered to herself an Irish charm or prayer against the evils which crickets are often supposed by the peasantry to bring with them, and requested, still in the words of the charm, that their presence might, on that occasion, rather be a presage of good fortune to man and beast belonging to her.
“There now, ye dhonans (* a diminuitive, delicate little thing) ye, sure ye can't say that ye're ill-thrated here, anyhow, or ever was mocked or made game of in the same family. You have got your hansel, an' full an' plenty of it; hopin' at the same time that you'll have no rason in life to cut our best clothes from revinge. Sure an' I didn't desarve to have my brave stuff long body (* an old-fashioned Irish gown) riddled the way it was, the last time ye wor here, an' only bekase little Barny, that has but the sinse of a gorsoon, tould yez in a joke to pack off wid yourself somewhere else. Musha, never heed what the likes of him says; sure he's but a caudy, (* little boy) that doesn't mane ill, only the bit o' divarsion wid yez.”
She then resumed her knitting, occasionally stopping, as she changed her needles, to listen, with her ear set, as if she wished to augur from the nature of their chirping, whether they came for good or for evil. This, however, seemed to be beyond her faculty of translating their language; for—after sagely shaking her head two or three times, she knit more busily than before.*
* Of the origin of this singular superstition I can
find no account whatsoever; it is conceived, however,
in a mild, sweet, and hospitable spirit. The visits of
these migratory little creatures, which may be termed
domestic grasshoppers, are very capricious and
uncertain, as are their departures; and it is, I should
think, for this reason, that they are believed to be
cognizant of the ongoings of human life. We can easily
suppose, for instance, that the coincidence of their
disappearance from a family, and the occurrence of a
death in that family, frequently multiplied as such
coincidences must be in the country at large, might
occasion the people, who are naturally credulous, to
associate the one event with the other; and on that
slight basis erect the general superstition. Crickets,
too, when chirupping, have a habit of suddenly ceasing,
so that when any particularly interesting conversation
happens to go on about the rustic hearth, this stopping
of their little chaunt looks so like listening, that it
is scarcely to be wondered at that the country folks
think they understand every word that is spoken. They
are thought, also, to foresee both good and evil, and
are considered vindictive, but yet capable of being
conciliated by fair words and kindness. They are also
very destructive among wearing-apparel, which they
frequently nibble into holes; and this is always looked
upon as a piece of revenge, occasioned by some
disrespectful language used towards them, or some
neglect of their little wants. This note was necessary
in order to render the conduct and language of Mary
Sullivan perfectly intelligible.
At this moment, the shadow of a person passing the house darkened the window opposite which she sat, and immediately a tall female, of a wild dress and aspect, entered the kitchen.
“Gho manhy dhea ghud, a ban chohr! the blessin' o' goodness upon you, dacent woman,” said Mrs. Sullivan, addressing her in those kindly phrases so peculiar to the Irish language.
Instead of making her any reply, however, the woman, whose eye glistened with a wild depth of meaning, exclaimed in low tones, apparently of much anguish, “Husht, husht', dherum! husht, husht, I say—let me alone—I will do it—will you husht? I will, I say—I will—there now—that's it—be quiet, an' I will do it—be quiet!” and as she thus spoke, she turned her face back over her left shoulder, as if some invisible being dogged her steps, and stood bending over her.
“Gho manhy dhea ghud, a ban chohr, dherhum areesh! the blessin' o' God on you, honest woman, I say again,” said Mrs. Sullivan, repeating that sacred form of salutation with which the peasantry address each other. “'Tis a fine evenin', honest woman, glory be to him that sent the same, and amin! If it was cowld, I'd be axin' you to draw your chair in to the fire: but, any way, won't you sit down?”