Chapter VI (5)

'Then the king went to Mannanan of the Hill, and he said: "Come and give me your help against these men, or they will kill the whole army of Ulster." And Mannanan said: "I will give you no help; for I told you all this would come on you if you brought the girl away the time she was a baby in this place." But the king pressed him, and said: "Put blindness on them, the way they will not be able to kill my people."

'So Mannanan agreed to do that, and he put blindness on the three brothers. And when they went out next time to fight against the army, they could not see who was before them; and it was at each other they were striking; and at last all of them fell by each other's hand.

'And when Deirdre saw they were dead, she took up a sword or a dagger that was lying on the ground, and she put it through her own body, and she fell dead along with them.

'And she was buried on one side of a dry stone wall, and her husband on the other side. And a briar grew up on his grave, and a briar on hers; and they met over the wall, and joined with one another.'

* * * * *

A young man, narrow-chested and consumptive-looking, but with fun in his eyes, said then: 'There were three Irishmen joined the English army, and they didn't like it. And they were brought to India; and when they were there, they agreed to make away. So they went into a forest, where they would not be found. And they made a little cabin for themselves there; and two of them used to go hunting every day, and the other would stop at home to make ready the dinner.

'One day when the pot was on the fire, a little old man came into the house. "Bum-bum," he said; "give me something to eat out of the pot."

'So the soldier gave him a rabbit out of the pot. "Give me another," he said then. "I will not," said the soldier; "for there would not be enough for my friends' dinner when they come home from hunting." With that the little man took hold of the pot, and threw the scalding broth over the soldier, and made off, leaving nothing in the pot after him.

'And when the others came home, they found their comrade lying there on the ground, scalded, and he told them what had happened.

'The next day the second of them said he would watch the pot. And all happened the same as the first day; and they found him scalded and the pot empty when they came back.

'The third day the third of them said he would keep a watch, and that they might be sure they would get their dinner that evening.

'He put down the pot, and he put the tongs to redden in the fire; and when the pot was boiling, the little man came in. "Bum-bum," he said; "give me a bit from the pot." So the soldier gave him a bit. "Give me more now," he said, when he had the rabbit eaten. "I will not; I will keep it for my comrades," said the soldier. With that the little man took a hold of the pot; but if he did, the soldier took up the tongs that he was after making red-hot in the fire; and the little man made off, and the pot in his arms, and the soldier after him with the tongs. Then the little man dropped the pot; but the soldier took no notice, but followed after him till he went down a hole into the ground. Then he took a sapling, and tied his handkerchief on it, and stuck it where the hole was, and went back again to the cabin.

'When his comrades came back, he told them all that happened; and they all set out to where the hole was. And they looked down, and it was very deep; and they could see no end to it. So the third man said to the others: "One of you is a rope-maker, and the other is a cooper; and let you make a rope and a bucket now."

'So they made the rope and the bucket, and fastened one to the other; and the first man was let down. But after he went a good way, the rope came to an end, and there was no sign of a bottom; and he called to them to pull him up again. It happened the same with the second man; and he was pulled up again. Then the third said he would go, and that if the rope would not reach to the bottom, he would take a leap the rest of the way.

'So when the rope was all given out, he made a leap and came safe to the bottom. And it was in a hole he found himself; and he went through a great many rooms from that, till he came to where the little man was sitting by himself.

'And he gave him a welcome, and said: "You had good courage to get here. And have you enough courage now," he said, "to go straight before you for three hundred miles, to set free the King of Spain's three daughters that are in the power of three giants?" "I will do that," said the soldier.

'So the little man gave him directions what to do. "But when you are going to fight the giants," he said, "take no weapon but the little rusty sword you'll find at the back of their own door."

'The soldier set out then; and after he had gone a hundred miles in a straight line, he came to the first castle, and there was a copper crown over it.' (At this, we all looked up at the whitewashed boards of the shed, as if we expected to see the copper crown.) 'And there was a young lady looking out of the window, and she saw him coming. "You'd best not come here," she said: "or the giant that owns the castle will make an end of you." "It's to make an end of himself, I am come," says he, "and to set you free." "And do you think the like of you could stand against him?" says she; "it's what he's gone out for now," says she, "is for seven bullocks to make his dinner of." "I'm ready for him whenever he comes," says the soldier.

'Presently the giant came back, bringing the seven bullocks on his back. "It is to fight me you are come," says he. "Wait till I have my dinner eat, and I'll make a quick end of you."

'So he sat down and had his dinner off the seven bullocks, and then he got up to fight. "What weapons will you fight with?" he says, throwing down a brace of swords. "Is it one of these you will have?" "It is not," said the soldier; "but the little rusty sword that is behind the door."

'So he went in and got that; and the giant began to hit and to strike at him; and he began to tickle the giant's ankles and his calves. And at last the giant stooped down to scratch his ankle; and when he did, the soldier struck off his head.

'He let the princess out then, and bade her to go where the little man was waiting at the bottom of the hole, till he would come to her.'

'He went then to the second castle, that had a silver crown over the door; and then he went on to the third castle, that had a golden crown over the door; and the same thing happened as before, except that the second giant had fourteen bullocks and third giant twenty-one bullocks for his dinner.

'Then he brought the third princess back to the house, at the bottom of the hole, where the little man was sitting. And the little man gave him a whistle, and he blew it; and his comrades came and called down the hole that they were at the top, and he bade them to let the bucket down. And when they did, he put the first of the three princesses in it. They drew her up then; and when they saw so nice a girl come up, they began to quarrel which of them would have her for his wife. "Oh, don't quarrel about me," says she; "for there is a girl much handsomer than myself below yet." So they let the bucket down again, and she made off.

'Then the second princess came up in the bucket, and they began to quarrel for her, and she said: "You may let me go, for I am nothing at all beside the girl that is below in the hole yet."

'So they let her go; and then the third princess that was the most beautiful came up, and they began to quarrel for her. "You need not be quarrelling for me," says she; "for it is your comrade that is at the bottom of the hole yet, I am going to marry."

'So when they heard that, they let the bucket down again. But when the soldier below was going to get into it, the little man said: "Don't get in," he said; "but put stones in it; for your comrades will cut the rope when it is half way up."

'So he filled it with stones, and sure enough, when it was half way up, his comrades cut the rope, and the bucket fell to the bottom.'

('Oh! oh! oh!' There were indignant murmurs among the old men at this.)

'The soldier did not know then what way he would make his escape. But the little old man took his whistle, and blew on it; and presently a great big eagle came down the hole.

'The little man bade the soldier get on its back till it would bring him across the world; and he put seven bullocks on its back along with him.

'They set out then; and the soldier was cutting a bit off the bullocks and putting it into the eagle's beak whenever he would say "Quawk." But they were only a third of the way when all was gone, and they had to turn back again.

'He took fourteen bullocks the next time, but they gave out. But the third time the little old man gave twenty-one bullocks.

'So this time the eagle brought him to Spain, and left him down there. And at that time the King of Spain was making a great feast for the marriage of his eldest daughter that was the most beautiful. And when the soldier saw her, he knew she was the third of the princesses he had set free from the giant, and the other two were her two sisters.

'It was given out then that the princess would not marry anyone but the man that would bring her a golden crown, the same as the one that was hung over the castle where the giant had kept her. And all the goldsmiths were very busy, everyone employing them to make crowns. But they could not make the right one.

'Now the little man had given the soldier a ring before they parted, and had bade him rub it if he would want anything from him. So he rubbed it and a genii appeared before him. "Master, master, best master, what is your will?" "Bring me the golden crown from the third castle where I killed the giant," says the soldier.

'So the genii brought it; and Jack went to the king's court and put it down; and the princess said it was just the very same crown that was over the castle; and she knew it was the soldier had freed her, and she was willing to marry him.

'But the king was not pleased to see such a poor-looking husband coming for his daughter; and he said he would give her to no one but a man that would bring a coach for her.

'So the soldier went away, and he rubbed the ring, and the genii appeared; and it is what he bade him, to get him a coach that would be filled full up of mud. So the coach went up to the king's door, and the king himself came out to open it; and when he did, out came all the mud over him that he was near choked. And he filled it a second and a third time with pebbles and with stones, and the same thing happened.

'Then the soldier bade the genii to bring him a fine empty coach, and he got into it. And when he was in it, it is what he wished, to have the princess sitting beside him.

'And there she was on the minute, and they went away together. But the king gave his consent then, and a great deal of money and treasure.

'And they put down the teapot, and if they didn't live happy'--the end was lost in applause.

* * * * *

And when the applause had died away, an old, bright-eyed wrinkled man, said: 'There was a King of Leinster one time, and there was a lake beside his house. And every now and again twelve swans used to come to the lake; and they had been coming there for seven generations.

'And the king's son that was away came home. And one day he saw the swans coming to the lake; and he said: "I wonder I never heard any talk of these swans before, for they are the most beautiful I ever saw." And his people said: "They are coming here for seven generations, and no one ever took notice of them before."

'The next morning early the king's son went down and hid himself in the flags and the rushes by the lake. And after he had watched for a while, he saw the swans come flying to the edge of the lake. And then they took off their flying habits, and went bathing in the water; and they were not swans but beautiful young women; and there was one among them that was the most beautiful of all.

'After the king's son had watched for a while, he went to where they had left their flying habits; and he brought away the one that belonged to the most beautiful of the women. After a while they came to shore, and began to look for their flying habits, and when she could not find hers, she made great laments.

'The king's son came out to her then; and he asked her would she stop with him and be his wife. "I cannot do that," she said; "but give me back my wings now, and if you will come to the shore at such a place to-morrow, I will bring a ship, and you can come away with me." So he gave her back her habit, and she took the form of a swan again and flew away.

'The next day he was making ready for his journey before he would go to meet her; and the old woman that was in the house, and that was over eighty years old, came and asked could she go with him. So at last he gave her leave, and they went down to the shore to wait. And the nurse said: "Lie down now and put your head in my lap and rest awhile." So he laid his head in her lap; and when he did that, she took a sleeping-pin and put it in his ear, and he fell into a heavy sleep.

'And when he was asleep, the ship came over the sea, with music and playing in it, and came near the land. And when there was no one to meet it there, it went away again.

'The king's son awoke then, and the nurse said: "It is making a fool of you she was, for we have waited here all the day, and there has no ship come."

'So they went back home; but the next day he went down to the shore again, and the same thing happened. The young man lay down to rest, and the nurse put a sleeping-pin in his ear, and the ship came when he was asleep, and it went away again.

'But this time the lady in the ship wrote a letter and left it on the strand; and when the king's son awoke, and that the nurse told him there had no ship come, he was distracted, and went wandering about on the strand, and there he found the letter; and it told him what to do, and the way the nurse had deceived him.

'So the next day when he went to the shore and the nurse followed him, he brought her where there was a well, and put a stone about her neck and pushed her in, and she was seen no more.

'Then he went down to the shore, and he met the lady; but she said: "I cannot bring you with me now, but I will leave the ship with you, and you must follow till you find me."

'And he took the ship, and she gave him directions; and he went on till he came to a country a long way off, and a wood in it, and a house in the wood, and an old man sitting in it.

'And he told the old man all that had happened, and how he was looking for the lady. And the old man gave him clothes to put on, and a place to wash himself, till he was as fresh and fair as before he set out.

'And then he sent for a pony, and he said: "I will give you this pony that will bring you where she is; and when you get there, you must put the bridle on his neck, and put the saddle cross-ways, and turn his head back here again."

'So then he got on the pony's back; and it flew away with him through the air, till at last it put him down on land, near a great castle. And he turned the saddle cross-ways, and put the bridle on the pony's neck, and turned its head, and it went back to where it came from.

'Then he went on to the castle; and he went in and asked the Master to take him as a serving-man. And the Master said he would, and he said: "The work you have to do to-night is to attend to the horse that is in the stable, and that belongs to my daughter."

'But before the young man did that, he went to look for the young lady, and he saw her looking out of a window; and he went up to her, and she knew him, and gave him a welcome. And she said: "The Master of the house knows well who you are, and that it is to bring me away you are come; and that is the reason he bade you go to clean and to attend to the horse in the stable; for it is wicked, and it would make an end of you. But," says she, "take these brushes and these shammys and bring them along with you into the stable, and the horse will be as quiet as a lamb; and in place of wanting to kill you, he will love you. And when night comes," says she, "he will come to us, and we will get on his back, and he will bring us away."

'So all happened as she said, and the horse came at night, and they both of them got on his back; and away with him, and never stopped till he brought them back to Ireland, and to this country.

'And it was in this country they settled down; and some of their descendants are living in it yet.'

'What is their name?'

'Well, I think they, are the Persses of Roxborough; or maybe they are the Gregorys of Coole.'

* * * * *

A red-faced, farmer-like man says: 'There was a poor man one time--Jack Murphy his name was; and rent day came, and he hadn't enough to pay his rent. And he went to the landlord, and asked would he give him time. And the landlord asked when would he pay him; and he said he didn't know that. And the landlord said: "Well, if you can answer three questions I'll put to you, I'll let you off the rent altogether. But if you don't answer them, you will have to pay it at once, or to leave your farm. And the three questions are these:--How much does the moon weigh? How many stars are there in the sky? What is it I am thinking?" And he said he would give him till the next day to think of the answers.

'And Jack was walking along, very downhearted; and he met with a friend of his, one Tim Daly; and he asked what was on him; and he told him how he must answer the landlord's three questions on to-morrow, or to lose his farm. "And I see no use in going to him to-morrow," says he; "for I'm sure I will not be able to answer his questions right." "Let me go in your place," says Tim Daly; "for the landlord will not know one of us from the other; and I'm a good hand at answering questions, and I'll engage I'll get you through."

'So he agreed to that; and the next day Tim Daly went in to the landlord, and says he: "I'm come now to answer your three questions."

'Well, the first question the landlord put was: "What does the moon weigh?" And Tim Daly says: "It weighs four quarters."

'Then the landlord asked: "How many stars are in the sky?" "Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-nine," says Tim. "How do you know that?" says the landlord. "Well," says Tim, "if you don't believe me, go out yourself to-night and count them."

'Then the landlord asked him the third question: "What am I thinking now?" "You are thinking it's to Jack Murphy you're talking, and it is not, but to Tim Daly."

'So the landlord gave in then; and Jack had the farm free from that out.'

There was great laughter and applause at this story.

* * * * *

Then someone told this version of the _Taming of the Shrew_. I heard it told in Irish afterwards by an Aran girl at the Galway Feis:

'There was a farmer one time had three daughters; and two of them were very nice and civil, but the third had a very hot temper. And the two civil ones were married first; and then a gentleman came and asked for the third. So after the wedding they started for home; and the farmer said to his son-in-law: "God speed you--yourself and your Fireball."

'Well, on the way home, a hare started up; and the gentleman had a white hound, and it followed the hare; and he called to it to leave following it, but it would not till it had it killed. And it came back then, and the gentleman took out his pistol and shot the hound dead. "I did that because it would not obey me," he said.

'And after a little time they came to a stone wall that was very high; and he put the white horse he was riding at it, and the horse refused it, and he shot it dead. "I did that because he would not take the wall when I bade him," he said.

'They came home then; and there was a good deal of feasting made, and of good treatment for all the servants in the house; but as to the wife she got hardly enough given her, and that of the worst. She was angry then; and she said to the husband: "Why am I badly treated this way, and your servants are well treated?" "I have a good reason for that," says he; "for my servants are working hard for me, and doing all they can for me, and you are doing nothing at all."

'Well, whatever happened after that, all the daughters and the sons-in-law came back one time to the father's house to see him. And after the dinner, the daughters were playing cards together, and the sons-in-law were in another room with the father. And he asked the first of them how did he like his wife. "Very well," says he, "I have no fault to find with her, a very civil, obedient girl." The second son-in-law said the same; and then the father said to the man that married the hot-tempered one: "And what sort of an account have you to give of your missus?" "Very good," he said. "If her sisters are civil and obedient, she is three times more civil and obedient."

'They were surprised to hear him say that; and they said they would put it to the proof. And the first husband went to the door and called to his wife, "Come here a minute." "I can't come," says she; "I'm dealing the cards." Then the second husband went and called to his wife that he wanted her. "I can't come," says she; "I'm playing the game." Then the third went and called to his wife; and she rose up and put down the cards, and came out to him on the moment. "What were you doing when I called you?" says he. "I was playing the game," says she.

'They all wondered when they heard that, and they asked what made her, that was so hard to manage before, so quiet now.

'"I will tell you that," she said. And she told them the whole story of the horse and the hound being shot, and the servants being treated better than herself.

'And that's the end of my story.'

* * * * *

Then a young red-faced, one-eyed man was dragged forward, and he said:

'There was a farmer one time had met with great misfortunes; and at last of all his stock he had nothing left but one cow. And when he saw his children starving with the hunger, he made up his mind to sell the cow, and he set out with her to the fair.

'And on the road he met a man that asked would he sell the cow. "I will indeed; it's for that I'm going to the fair," says he. "Will you give her to me for this bottle?" says the man, holding out a bottle to him. "Do you know what my wife would do if I brought her home that bottle in place of the cow?" said the farmer. "I do not," said the man. "She'd break it on my head," said the farmer.

'Well, the man pressed him for a while; and at last he said the fair might be a bad one, and maybe he might as well chance the bottle and go home. So he took the bottle and gave the cow in place of it, and went home.

'When his wife knew what he had done, she went near losing her wits; and she called him all the names; and the children were crying with the hunger. And the poor man didn't know what to do; and he sat down, and he put the bottle on the table and opened it.

'And as soon as he did that, two men came out of it, and they began to lay a cloth, and to set out every sort of food on it. And the man and his wife and the children sat down and eat their fill.

'And everything the farmer would wish for after that, he had but to open the bottle and the two men would come out, and would bring him what he wanted. So he grew to be rich, and the neighbours heard how he came by his money. And his landlord got word of it, and he came and asked would he sell the bottle to him.

'But he refused to part with it; but after a while the landlord got him to his own house, and gave him drink; and, not being in his clear senses, he consented to give up the bottle for four acres of good land.

'But after a while he had all his riches spent, and someway nothing went well with him; and at last he found himself the same way he was before, with but one cow left of all his stock, and the children crying with hunger.

'So he set off with the one cow; and he went to the same place he met with the man with the bottle before, and he was there before him. And he told him all that had happened, and the way it was with him now; and the man gave him another bottle, and brought away the cow.

'So he hurried back home with the bottle, and set it on the table and drew the cork, and the children were waiting round the table for the good dinner they would have. But when the bottle was opened, two men came out with blackthorns in their hands, and they began to beat the farmer and his wife and all about them; and it was blows the poor children got in place of food.

'Well, as soon as the men went into the bottle again, the farmer put in the cork, and he went away to the landlord's house. And there was a great ball going on there; and the farmer asked could he see the landlord.

'So he came down to him, and the farmer said he had got a new bottle, and that maybe the ladies and gentlemen would like to see all it would do. So the landlord agreed, and brought him up to the ballroom, and he put down the bottle and opened the cork. And when it was open, the two men came out with their blackthorns, and they began to hit at the ladies and gentlemen near them, and to beat them, till they ran to hide in every corner. And the landlord called out for them to stop, but the farmer said they would not till he would get his own bottle again.

'So they gave it to him then, and he went home bringing the two bottles with him. And he lived in plenty ever after till he died.

'But someway at his wake, with all that was going on there, the two bottles got broken, or if they did not they were lost.'

* * * * *

Then another said: 'There was a servant-girl left to mind her master's house one time. And she heard a noise below the window, and she opened it to look out. And she saw the hand of a man on the window ledge, that was climbing up to rob the house. And when he put his hand up, she took a little hatchet she had and cut his hand off.

'The same thing happened with another man and another after him again, till she had killed six. But when she was striking at the seventh, he drew back, and all she cut off was his finger.

'When the master came back, she got great praise and great reward, so that she had plenty of money. And one day a man came to ask her in marriage; and she did not know him to be the robber that escaped, and she married him.

'But after a while he brought her out through the fields to where there was a little bridge over the river. And when they got to it, he told her he was the man she had cut the finger off, and that he had brought her there to kill her.

'"Give me time to say my prayers first," she said. So he gave her time for that, and she knelt down; and presently she turned round and he was on the bridge beside her, and she gave him a push into the water. And that was the end of the seventh of the robbers.

'And then she went home again. That's my story.'

* * * * *

And then the old man, whose brother has fought for the king, and hasn't sent him anything, said:

'Peace is made. That's my story. Will you give me tobacco for that?'

But this being the last day, they all had tobacco--story-tellers and all.

* * * * *

And here is the last story: 'There was a steward one time in the employment of a gentleman; and he was a good, honourable man. And he used to make the Sunday begin at twelve o'clock on Saturday; and to ring the bell then for the workmen to go home.

'He got sick at last, and his death was drawing near; and he asked one request of his master, and that was, that after his death he would put his body on a car, but not direct it anywhere; but to let it go what way the horse would bring it.

'So the master did that; and they put the body on a car, and the carman went along with it; but he did not direct the horse, but let it go what way it liked.

'And it went on a long way; and then they came to a path that was all full of spearheads sticking up through the ground. But the horse went on; and wherever it went, the spearheads would sink away before it.

'They came at last to a house, and the horse stopped at the door; and the people of the house came out and brought in the body; and the carman went along with it, and he lay down and slept awhile.

'And when he rose up, he said he would go back to his friends. But the people of the house said: "You can go back if you like, but you will find none of your friends before you; for your sleep has lasted for seven hundred years."

'So he went back; and there was nothing but grass and bushes in the village he came from. And he knelt down and made his repentance; and he was let up to heaven for the sake of the steward that was so good, and that made the Sunday begin at noon on Saturday.'

1902.

ON THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

Just where the road that runs by the bay turns northward to run by the Atlantic, a few white houses on either side turn it for a moment into a street. The grey road was not all grey yesterday, in spite of stones, and sea, and clouds, and a mist that blotted out the hills; for July had edged it with yellow rag-weed, the horses of the Sidhe, and with purple heather; and besides the tireless turf-laden donkeys, there were men in white and women in crimson flannel going towards the village. One woman sitting in a donkey-cart was chanting a song in Irish about a voyage across the sea; and when someone asked her if she was to try for a prize at the _Feis_, the Irish festival going on in the village, she only answered that she was 'lonesome after the old times.'

At the _Feis_, in the white schoolhouse, some boys and girls from schools and convents at the 'big town' many miles away were singing; and now and then a little bare-footed boy from close by would go up on the platform and sing the _Paistin Fionn_, or _Is truag gan Peata_. People from the scattered houses and villages about had gathered to listen; some had come in turf-boats from Aran, Irish-speakers, proud to show that the language that has been called dead has never died; and glad at the new life that is coming into it. Men in loose flannel-jackets sang old songs, many sad ones, but not all; for one that was addressed to a mother, who had broken off her daughter's marriage with the maker of the song, turned more to anger than to grief; and there was the love song, 'Courteous Bridget,' made perhaps a hundred years ago, by wandering Raftery.

A woman with madder-dyed petticoat sang the lament of an emigrant going across the great sea, telling how she got up at daybreak to look at the places she was going to leave, Ballinrobe and the rest; and how she envied the birds that were free of the air, and the beasts that were free of the mountain, and were not forced to go away. Another song that was sung was the Jacobite one, with the refrain that has been put into English--'Seaghan O'Dwyer a Gleanna, we're worsted in the game!'

Some poems were repeated also: Raftery's 'Argument with whiskey,' in which he puts the joys and sorrows of its lovers only too impartially. Another 'Argument' was between two men, herds, I think; each counting up the virtues of his own province, Connaught or Munster. An old man gave a long poem, a recital of Bible history; but the judges rang their bell when he had got to the parable of the Prodigal Son, and was telling how 'the poor foolish boy went away from his home and from his father to some far country'; and he left the platform saying indignantly: 'You might have left me time to bring him back again.' And there was a poem on 'The rising again of Ireland,' telling how, when she has risen, 'ships will be coming to her from France and from Spain, and from all the countries; and there will be no rent on the land; and every poet will be given a fee of twenty-one pounds.'

In the evening there were people waiting round the door to hear the songs and the pipes again. An old man among them was speaking with many gestures, his voice rising, and a crowd gathering about him. '_Tha se beo, tha se beo_'--'he is living, he is living,' I heard him say over and over again. I asked what he was saying, and was told: 'He says that Parnell is alive yet.' I was pushed away from him by the crowd to where a policeman was looking on. 'He says that Parnell is alive still,' I said. 'There are many say that,' he answered. 'And, after all, no one ever saw the body that was buried.'

The rising again of Ireland, of her old speech, of her last leader, dreams all, as we are told. But here, on the edge of the world, dreams are real things, and every heart is watching for the opening of one or another grave.

_AN CRAOIBHIN'S_ PLAYS

I hold that the beginning of modern Irish drama was in the winter of 1898, at a school feast at Coole, when Douglas Hyde and Miss Norma Borthwick acted in Irish in a Punch and Judy show; and the delighted children went back to tell their parents what grand curses _An Craoibhin_ had put on the baby and the policeman.

A little time after that, when a play was wanted for our Literary Theatre, Dr. Hyde wrote, and then acted in, 'The Twisting of the Rope,' the first Irish play ever given in a Dublin theatre.

It has been acted many times since then, in Dublin, in London, in Galway, in Galway Workhouse, in Cornamona, Ballaghaderreen, Ballymoe, and other places. It has always given great delight, and its success is very natural; for the Irish-speakers, who are its audience, have an inborn love of drama, as is shown by their handing down of such long dramatic dialogues as those between Oisin and St. Patrick, from century to century. At country gatherings, those old dialogues, and the newer ones between Death and Raftery, or between the farmers of two provinces, are followed with a patient joy; and the creation of acting plays is the natural outcome of this living tradition. And Douglas Hyde's dramas grow directly from the folk-memory. The tradition and the beautiful old air, and the song of 'The Twisting of the Rope,' are very well known:--

'What was the dead cat that put me in this place,
And all the pretty young girls I left after me?
I came into the house where was the bright love of my heart,
And the old hag put me out by the Twisting of the Rope.

'If you are mine, be mine by day and by night;
If you are mine, be mine before the world;
If you are mine, be mine with every inch of your heart;
It is my grief you are not with me as a wife this evening.

'It is down in Sligo I got knowledge of my love;
It is up in Galway I drank my fill with her.
By the strength of my hands, if they do not leave me as I am,
I will do a trick will set these women walking.'

Mr. Yeats made Red Hanrahan the hero of this song in a story in 'The Secret Rose'; and it is Hanrahan Douglas Hyde has kept in the play, with his passion, his exaggerations, his wheedling tongue, his roving heart, that all but coax the girl from her mother and her sweetheart; but that fail after all in their attack on the settled order of things, and leave their owner homeless and restless, and angry and chiding, like the stormy west wind outside the door.

'The Marriage' is founded on the story of Raftery at the poor wedding at Cappaghtagle. It was acted in Galway, at the _Feis_, last summer. There had been some delay or misunderstanding in the giving of parts; and on the morning of the _Feis_, it was announced that the play would not be given. But the disappointment was so great, that we all begged _An Craoibhin_ to take the chief part himself, as he had done in 'The Twisting of the Rope'; and when his kindness made him agree to this, we went in search of the other players. They were all at work in shops or stores, one wheeling sacks on a barrow; and it was a busy market-day, and it was hard for them to get away for a rehearsal. But, for all that, the play was given in the evening; in the very town where some still remember Raftery, and where he and Death had their first talk together.

It will be hard to forget the blind poet, as he was represented on the stage by the living poet, so full of kindly humour, of humorous malice, of dignity under his poor clothing, or the wistful, ghostly sigh with which he went out of the door at the end. 'Is fear marbh do bhi ann'--'It is a dead man was in it.'

It has been acted in Dublin since then; and many places are asking for the loan of the one manuscript in which it exists; but I am glad Connacht had it first.

'The Lost Saint' was written last summer. _An Craoibhin_ was staying with us at Coole; and one morning I went for a long drive to the sea, leaving him with a bundle of blank paper before him. When I came back at evening, I was told that Dr. Hyde had finished his play, and was out shooting wild duck. The hymn, however, was not quite ready, and was put into rhyme next day, while he was again watching for wild duck beside Inchy marsh.

When he read it to us in the evening, we were all left with a feeling as if some beautiful white blossom had suddenly fallen at our feet.

It was acted the other day at Ballaghaderreen; and, at the end, a very little girl, who wanted to let the author know how much she had liked his play, put out her hand, and put a piece of toffee into his.

The 'Nativity' did not appear in time for Christmas acting; but Ireland, which now and then finds herself possessed of some accidental freedom, has no censor; and a play so beautiful and reverent, and so much in the tradition of the people, is sure to be acted and received reverently.

_An Craoibhin_ has written other plays besides these--a pastoral play which has been acted in Dublin and Belfast, a match-making comedy, a satire on Trinity College.

Other Irish plays have been acted here and there through the country during the last year or two, some written by priests; the last I saw in manuscript was by a workhouse schoolmaster; and all have had their share of success. But it is to the poet-scholar who has become actor-dramatist that we must still, as Raftery would put it, 'give the branch.

THE TWISTING OF THE ROPE

HANRAHAN. _A wandering poet._

SHEAMUS O'HERAN. _Engaged to_ OONA.

MAURYA. _The woman of the house._

SHEELA. _A neighbour._

OONA. _Maurya's daughter._

_Neighbours and a piper who have come to Maurya's house for a dance_.

SCENE. _A farmer's house in Munster a hundred years ago. Men and women moving about and standing round the walls as if they had just finished a dance._ HANRAHAN, _in the foreground, talking to_ OONA.

_The piper is beginning a preparatory drone for another dance, but_ SHEAMUS _brings him a drink and he stops. A man has come and holds out his hand to_ OONA, _as if to lead her out, but she pushes him away._

OONA. Don't be bothering me now; don't you see I'm listening to what he is saying? (_To_ HANRAHAN) Go on with what you were saying just now.

HANRAHAN. What did that fellow want of you?

OONA. He wanted the next dance with me, but I wouldn't give it to him.

HANRAHAN. And why would you give it to him? Do you think I'd let you dance with anyone but myself, and I here? I had no comfort or satisfaction this long time until I came here to-night, and till I saw yourself.

OONA. What comfort am I to you?

HANRAHAN. When a stick is half burned in the fire, does it not get comfort when water is poured on it?

OONA. But, sure, you are not half burned.

HANRAHAN. I am; and three-quarters of my heart is burned, and scorched and consumed, struggling with the world, and the world struggling with me.

OONA. You don't look that bad.

HANRAHAN. O, Oona ni Regaun, you have not knowledge of the life of a poor bard, without house or home or havings, but he going and ever going a drifting through the wide world, without a person with him but himself. There is not a morning in the week when I rise up that I do not say to myself that it would be better to be in the grave than to be wandering. There is nothing standing to me but the gift I got from God, my share of songs; when I begin upon them, my grief and my trouble go from me; I forget my persecution and my ill luck; and now since I saw you, Oona, I see there is something that is better even than the songs.

OONA. Poetry is a wonderful gift from God; and as long as you have that, you are richer than the people of stock and store, the people of cows and cattle.

HANRAHAN. Ah, Oona, it is a great blessing, but it is a great curse as well for a man, he to be a poet. Look at me: have I a friend in this world? Is there a man alive that has a wish for me? is there the love of anyone at all on me? I am going like a poor lonely barnacle goose throughout the world; like Oisin after the Fenians; every person hates me: you do not hate me, Oona?

OONA. Do not say a thing like that; it is impossible that anyone would hate you.

HANRAHAN. Come and we will sit in the corner of the room together; and I will tell you the little song I made for you; it is for you I made it. (_They go to a corner and sit down together._ SHEELA _comes in at the door._)

SHEELA. I came to you as quick as I could.

MAURYA. And a hundred welcomes to you.

SHEELA. What have you going on now?

MAURYA. Beginning we are; we had one jig, and now the piper is drinking a glass. They'll begin dancing again in a minute when the piper is ready.

SHEELA. There are a good many people gathering in to you to-night. We will have a fine dance.

MAURYA. Maybe so, Sheela; but there's a man of them there, and I'd sooner him out than in.

SHEELA. It's about the long red man you are talking, isn't it--the man that is in close talk with Oona in the corner? Where is he from, and who is he himself?

MAURYA. That's the greatest vagabond ever came into Ireland; Tumaus Hanrahan they call him; but it's Hanrahan the rogue he ought to have been christened by right. Aurah, wasn't there the misfortune on me, him to come in to us at all to-night?

SHEELA. What sort of a person is he? Isn't he a man that makes songs, out of Connacht? I heard talk of him before; and they say there is not another dancer in Ireland so good as him. I would like to see him dance.

MAURYA. Bad luck to the vagabond! It is well I know what sort he is; because there was a kind of friendship between himself and the first husband I had; and it is often I heard from poor Diarmuid--the Lord have mercy on him!--what sort of person he was. He was a schoolmaster down in Connacht; but he used to have every trick worse than another; ever making songs he used to be, and drinking whiskey and setting quarrels afoot among the neighbours with his share of talk. They say there isn't a woman in the five provinces that he wouldn't deceive. He is worse than Donal na Greina long ago. But the end of the story is that the priest routed him out of the parish altogether; he got another place then, and followed on at the same tricks until he was routed out again, and another again with it. Now he has neither place nor house nor anything, but he to be going the country, making songs and getting a night's lodging from the people; nobody will refuse him, because they are afraid of him. He's a great poet, and maybe he'd make a rann on you that would stick to you for ever, if you were to anger him.

SHEELA. God preserve us; but what brought him in to-night?

MAURYA. He was travelling the country and he heard there was to be a dance here, and he came in because he knew us; he was rather great with my first husband. It is wonderful how he is making out his way of life at all, and he with nothing but his share of songs. They say there is no place that he'll go to, that the women don't love him, and that the men don't hate him.

SHEELA (_catching_ MAURYA _by the shoulder_). Turn your head, Maurya; look at him now, himself and your daughter, and their heads together; he's whispering in her ear; he's after making a poem for her and he's whispering it in her ear. Oh, the villain, he'll be putting his spells on her now.

MAURYA. Ohone, go deo! isn't it a misfortune that he came? He's talking every moment with Oona since he came in three hours ago. I did my best to separate them from one another, but it failed me. Poor Oona is given up to every sort of old songs and old made-up stories; and she thinks it sweet to be listening to him. The marriage is settled between herself and Sheamus O'Herin there, a quarter from to-day. Look at poor Sheamus at the door, and he watching them. There is grief and hanging of the head on him; it's easy to see that he'd like to choke the vagabond this minute. I am greatly afraid that the head will be turned on Oona with his share of blathering. As sure as I am alive there will come evil out of this night.

SHEELA. And couldn't you put him out?

MAURYA. I could. There's no person here to help him unless there would be a woman or two; but he is a great poet, and he has a curse that would split the trees, and that would burst the stones. They say the seed will rot in the ground and the milk go from the cows when a poet like him makes a curse, if a person routed him out of the house; but if he was once out, I'll go bail I wouldn't let him in again.

SHEELA. If himself were to go out willingly, there would be no virtue in his curse then.

MAURYA. There would not, but he will not go out willingly, and I cannot rout him out myself for fear of his curse.