Read Ebook: Beside the Fire: A collection of Irish Gaelic folk stories by Nutt Alfred Tr Bner Contributor Hyde Douglas Editor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

LE h-AIS NA TEINEA?.

AN TAILIUR AGUS NA TRI ?EI?IGEA?.

?? t?ili?r aon uair a?am i nGailli?, agus ?? s? ag fuai?e?l eudai?. ?onnairc se dreancuid ag ?iri?e ama? as an euda? agus ?ai? se an tsn??ad l?i?e agus ?ar? s? an dreancuid. Du?airt se ann sin "Na? bre?? an gaisgi?ea? mise nuair a ?? m? abalta air an dreancuid sin do ?ar?a?!"

Du?airt s? ann sin go gcai?fea? s? dul go B'l'aclia? go c?irt an r??, go ?feicfea? s? an dtiucfa? leis a deuna?. ?? an ??irt sin 'g? ?euna? le fada, a?t an m?ad d? do gn??i?e ann san l? do leagai?e ann san oi??e ?, agus n?or ?eud duine air bi? a ?ur suas mar ?eall air sin. 'S iad tri ???a? a ?igea? 'san oi??e a ?idea? 'g? leaga?. D'im?i? an t?ili?r an l? air na ??ra? agus do ?ug se leis an uirlis, an sp?d agus an tsluasad.

N?or ?fada ?uai? s? gur casa? capall b?n d?, agus ?uir se for?n air. "Go mbeannui? Dia ?uit," ar san capall, "c? ?fuil tu dul?" "T? m? dul go B'l'aclia?," ar san t?ili?r, "le deuna? c?irte an r??, go ?f?? m? bean-uasal, m? ?ig liom a deuna?," mar do ?eall an r?? go dti??fa? s? a in?ean f?in agus a l?n airgid l?i?e don t? sin a ?iucfa? leis an ??irt sin do ?ur suas. "An ndeunf? poll dam?" ar san sean-?earr?n b?n, "ra?ainn i ?fola? ann nuair at? na daoine mo ?a?airt ?um an ?uilinn agus ?um an a?a i rio?t na? ?feidfi? siad m?, ?ir t? m? cr?i?te aca, ag deuna? oibre ??i?." "Deunfai? m? sin go dei?in," ar san t?ili?r, "agus f?ilte." ?ug s? an sp?d leis agus an tsluasad, agus rinne s? poll, agus du?airt s? leis an g-capall b?n dul s?os ann, go ?feicfea? s? an ?f?irfea? s? ??. ?uai? an capall b?n s?os ann san bpoll, a?t nuair d'?eu? s? do ?ea?t suas ar?s as, n?or ?eud s?.

"Deun ?it dam anois," ar san capall b?n, "a ?iucfas m? an?os as an bpoll so nuair a ??i?eas ocaras orm." "N? ?eunfad," ar san t?ili?r, "fan ann sin go dtigi? m? air m'ais, agus t?gfai? m? an?os ?u."

D'im?i? an t?ili?r an l? air na m?ra?, agus casa? ?? an sionna?, "Go mbeannui? Dia ?uit," ar san sionna?. "Go mbeannui? Dia 'gus Muire ?uit." "C? ?fuil tu dul?" "T? m? dul go B'l'aclia? go ?feu?ai? m? an dtiucfai? liom c?irt ?euna? do'n r??." "An ndeunf? ?it dam, a ra?fainn i ?fola? innti," ar san sionna?, "t? an ?uid eile de na sionnai?i? do m' ?uala? agus n? leigeann siad dam aon ni? i?e 'nna g-cuidea?ta." "Deunfai? m? sin duit," ar san t?ili?r. ?ug s? leis a ?ua? agus a ??? agus ?ain se slata, go ndearnai? s?, mar ?eurf?, clia? d?, agus du?airt s? leis an tsionna? dul s?os ann, go ?feicfea? se an ?f?irfea? s? ??. ?uaid an sionna? ann, agus nuair fuair an t?ili?r ??os ?, leag s? a ??in air an bpoll a ?? ann. Nuair a ?? an sionna? s?sta faoi ?eirea? go rai? ?it ?eas aige d'iarr s? air an t?ili?r a leigean ama?, agus d'?reagair an t?ili?r na? leigfea?, "Fan ann sin go dtigi? mise air m'ais," ar s?.

D'im?i? an t?ili?r an l? air na ??ra?, agus n? fada ?? s? si??al gur casa? madr'-alla ??, agus ?uir an m?dr'-alla for?n air, agus d?iafrui? s? ?? c? rai? s? ag triall. "T? me dul go B'l'aclia? go ndeunfai? m? c?irt do'n r?? m? ?ig liom sin ?euna?," ar san t?ili?r. "D? ndeunf? ceu?t dam," ar san madr'-alla, "?ei?ea? mise agus na madr'-alla eile ag trea?a? agus ag forsa?, go mbei?ea? greim againn le n-i?e ann san ?f???ar." "Deunfai? m? sin duit," ar san t?ili?r. ?ug s? leis a ?ua? 's a ???, agus rinne s? ceu?t. Nuair ?? an ceu?t deunta ?uir s? poll ann san mb?am agus du?airt se leis an madr'-alla dul astea? faoi an g-ceu?t go b?eicfea? s? an rai? trea?a? mai? ann. ?uir s? a earball astea? ann san bpoll a rinne s?, agus ?uir s? "peg" ann-sin ann, agus n?or ??inig leis an madr'-alla a earball ?arraing ama? as ar?s. "Sgaoil m? anois," ar ran madr'-alla, "agus deas??amaoid f?in agus trea?famaoid." Du?airt an t?ili?r na? sgaoilfea? s? ? no go dtiucfa? s? f?in air ais. D'??g s? ann sin ? agus ?uai? s? go B'l'aclia?.

??inig an lu?t c?irde ar?s, an l? air na ??ra?, agus ?? siad ag obair go dt? an oi??e, agus nuair a ?? siad dul a?aile du?airt an taili?r le? an ?lo? ??r do ?ur suas air ??rr na h-oibre mar ?? r? an oi??e roi?e sin. Rinne siad sin d?, agus d'im?i? siad a?aile, agus cuai? an taili?r i ?fola?, mar ?? s? an tra?n?na roi?e sin. Nuair ?? na daoine uile im?i??e 'nna suai?neas, ??inig an d? ?a?a?, agus ?? siad ag leagan an ??id a ?? rompa; agus nuair ?osui? siad, ?uir siad d? ?lao? asta. ?? an taili?r air si??al agus ? ag obair no gur leag s? anuas an ?lo? ??r gur ?uit s? air ?loigionn an ?a?ai? a ?? f?i?i agus ?ar? s? ?. N? rai? ann sin a?t an t-aon ?a?a? a??in ann, agus n? ??inig seisean go rai? an ??irt cr?o?nui??e.

?uai? an t?ili?r ?um an ri? ann sin, agus du?airt s? leis, a ?ean agus a ?uid airgid do ?a?airt d?, mar do ?? an ??irt d?anta aige, a?t du?airt an r?? leis na? dti??ra? s? aon ?ean d?, no go mar?fa? s? an fa?a? eile, agus na? dti??ra? s? dada? d? anois no go mar?fa? s? an fear deireanna?. Du?airt an t?ili?r ann sin go mar?fa? s? an fa?a? eile ??, agus f?ilte, na? rai? aon ?aille air bi? air sin.

D'im?i? an t?ili?r ann sin, go dt?inig s? ?um na h-?ite a rai? an fa?a? eile, agus d'?iafrui? ar ?eastuig bua?aill uai?. Du?airt an fa?a? gur ?eastui?, d? ?f??a? s? bua?aill a ?eunfa? an rud a deunfa? s? f?in. "Rud air bi? a ?eunfas tusa, deunfai? mise ?," ar san taili?r.

?uaid siad ?um a ndin?ir ann sin, agus nuair ?? s? i?te aca du?airt an fa?a? leis an t?ili?r an dtiucfa? leis an oiread an?rui? ?l agus ? f?in, an?os as a ?iuca?. "Tiucfai?," ar san taili?r, "a?t go dti??rai? tu uair dam sul a ?os??amaoid air." "??arfai? m? sin duit," ar san fa?ac. ?uai? an taili?r ama? ann sin, agus fuair se croicionn caora? agus d'?uai? s? suas ?, go ndearnai? s? m?la ?? agus ?easui? s? ??os faoi na ??ta ?. T?inig s? astea? ann sin, agus du?airt s? leis an ?fa?a? gal?n de'n an?rui? ?l i dtosa?. D'?l an fa?a? sin an?os as a ?iu?a?.

"Deunfai? mise sin," ar san t?ili?r. ?? s? air si??al gur ??irt s? astea? san g-croicionn ?, agus ?aoil an fa?a? go rai? s? ?lta aige. D'?l an fa?a? gal?n eile ann sin, agus leig an t?ili?r gal?n eile s?os 'san g-croicionn, a?t ?aoil an fa?a?, go rai? s? 'g? ?l. "D?anfai? mise rud anois na? dtiucfai? leat-sa ?euna?," ar san t?ili?r. "N? ??anf?," ar san fa?a?, "creud ? sin do ??anf??"

"Poll do ?euna?, agus an t-an?rui? do leigean ama? ar?s," ar san t?ili?r. "D?an ?u f?in i dtosa? ?," ar san fa?a?. ?ug an t?ili?r "prad" de'n sg?n, agus leig s? ama? an t-an?rui? as an g-croicionn. "D?an, ?usa, sin," ar s? leis an ?fa?a?. "D?anfad," ar san fa?a? ag ta?airt prad de'n sg?n 'nna ?uilg f?in gur ?ar? s? ? f?in. Sin ? an ?aoi a ?ar? s? an tr?o?a? fa?a?.

?uai? s? do'n r?? ann sin, agus du?airt s? leis, an ?ean agus a ?uid airgid do ?ur ama? ?uige, agus go leagfa? se an ??irt muna ?f??a? s? an ?ean. B? fait?ios orra ann sin go leagfa? s? an ??irt ar?s, agus cuir siad an ?ean ama? ?uige.

Nuair ?? s? l? im?i??e, ? f?in agus a ?ean, ?lac siad ai?rea?as agus lean siad ?, go mbainfea? siad an ?ean d? ar?s. B? an ?uinntir do ?? 'nna ?iai? 'g? leana?aint no go dt?inig siad suas do'n ?it a rai? an madr'-alla, agus du?airt an madr'-alla le?. "?? an t?ili?r agus a ?ean ann so and?, ?onnairc mise iad ag dul ?art, agus m? sgaoileann si? mise anois t? m? n?os luai?e 'n? si?-se, agus leanfai? m? iad go mb?arfai? m? orra." Nuair ?ualai? siad sin sgaoil siad ama? an madr'alla.

D'im?ig an madr'-alla agus muinntir ?'l'aclia?, agus ?? siad d? leana?aint go dt?inig siad d'on ?it a rai? an sionna?, agus ?uir an sionna? for?n orra, agus du?airt s? le?, "?? an t?ili?r agus a ?ean ann so air maidin andi?, agus m? sgaoilfi? si? ama? m? t? m? n?os luai?e 'n? si? agus leanfai? m? iad agus b?arfai? m? orra." Sgaoil siad ama? an sionna? ann sin.

D'im?i? an madr'-alla agus an sionna?, agus arm ?'l'aclia? ann sin, ag feu?aint an nga?a? siad an t?ili?r, agus t?inig siad do'n ?it a rai? an sean-?earr?n b?n, agus du?airt an sean-?earr?n b?n le?, go raib an t?ili?r, agus a ?ean ann sin air maidin, "agus sgaoiligi?e ama? m?," ar s?, "t? m? n?os luaite n? si?-se agus b?arfai? m? orra." Sgaoil siad ama? an sean ?earr?n b?n, agus lean an sean-?earr?n b?n, an sionna?, an madr'-alla, agus arm ?'l'aclia? an t?ili?r 's a ?ean, i g-cuidea?t a ??ile, agus n?or ?fada go dt?inig siad suas leis an t?ili?r, agus ?onnairc siad ? f?in 's a ?ean ama? rompa.

Nuair ?onnairc an t?ili?r iad ag t??ea?t ??inig s? f?in 's a ?ean ama? as an g-c?iste, agus ?ui? s? s?os air an tala?.

Nuair ?onnairc an sean-?earr?n b?n an t?ili?r ag sui?e s?os du?airt s?, "Sin ? an cuma a ?? s? nuair rinne s? an poll da?sa, n?r ?eud m? tea?t ama? as, nuair ?uai? m? astea? ann; n? ra?fai? m? n?os foigse ??."

"N? h-ea?," ar san sionna?, "a?t is mar sin, do ?? s? nuair ?? se d?ana? an ruid da?-sa, agus n? ra?fai? mise n?os foigse ??."

"N? h-ea?!" ar san madr'-alla, "a?t is mar sin do ?? s? nuair ?? s? d?ana? an ?eu?ta 'nna rai? mise ga??a. Ni ra?fai? mise n?os foigse ??."

D'im?i? siad uile uai? ann sin, agus d'?ill siad. ??inig an t?ili?r agus a ?ean a ?aile go Gailli?. ?ug siad dam stocai? p?ip?ir agus br?ga bainne ra?air--?aill m? iad ? ?oin. Fuair siad-san an t-?? agus mise an lo??n, b?i?ea? iad-san agus ??inig mise.

THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'll do that, indeed," said the tailor, "and welcome."

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

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

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

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

"God save you," said the fox.

"God and Mary save you."

"Where are you going?"

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