Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 7/Corny O'Sullivan's fortune, and what became of it
CORNY O’SULLIVAN’S FORTUNE,
AND WHAT BECAME OF IT.
One of the chief delights of my boyhood was to make my way on a winter’s evening to Henry Driscoll’s cabin, and there, on a three-legged stool, drawn close to the turf fire, and opposite my host, who employed himself in cobbling a brogue, or making a potato-basket, to listen with “wide-mouthed wonder” to the stories of fairy, ghost, or goblin, which he poured into my attentive ear.
Henry was a labourer, employed upon my father’s farm, and he united a wonderful genius for story-telling with a firm belief in the supernatural. Of most of his own tales he was ready to swear the truth, although his own imagination had contributed the principal incidents, but any he thought unworthy of credit, to remove any doubts on the subject, he made a point of concluding thus:
“Well, there was a powerful weddin’, and I was there meself, and wud brown paper stockins and slippers of glass, here I come sliddherin’ all the ways to tell ye a whole parcel of lies.”
Long shall the old cabin find a place in my remembrance, for many, many hours of real enjoyment have I passed in its chimney corner.
Let me try to write one of Henry’s stories, as well as memory will allow, in his own words:
“Oh! if ’tis a story ye want, your honnor, that same you must have wud a heart and a half; but what I’m goin’ to tell didn’t happen to me; for barrin’ once or twice, I never seen anything worse nor meself in all me born days.
“Well, ’twas in the times (and I well remimber them meself, though I’m not so very ould) when the fairies was as thick as blackberries, and as throng as pigs in a fair, that there lived in this same sweet county of Wexford a labourin’ man of the name of Corny O’Sullivan. He was as fine, clane, clever, and soople a boy as you’d meet in a day’s walk. Corny the dancer was the title he was best known by, (for ye see his own uncle’s son was Corny also), and the divil a doubt of it but an illigant dancer entirely he was, and ’twas well worth goin’ a mile of ground any day to see him handlin’ his feet at a reel or a double. Some people said he was fond of the dhrop, but sure if he had a triflin’ hankerin’ afther it, ’tis many a better man’s case, and more betoken the ould song says St. Pathrick himself wasn’t above mix in’ a bowl of punch—and faix I wouldn’t put it a past him to have a hand in the dhrinkin’ of it, too! Well, sir, be that as it may, whether he found whisky very openin’ to the mouth, or no, Corny believed in all manner of devarshun; lave him alone for singin’, and dancin’, coortin, and fightin’. For love and murdher there wasn’t his aquil in the barony. Sure I seen him meself bate tin or a dozen min to bruss—ay, and that when he was little more nor a gossoon!”
“Oh! that was a grand feat, Henry.”
“Thrue for ye, sir, but it was, and I’ll tell you how it come about. ’Twas one day at the races of Drumgoold, the bell was ringin’ for one hate, when Corny spied a car that he thought would make a fine stand-house for him. The butt end of the car was leanin’ again the ground, and of coorse the two shafts was stickin’ up in the air, like gazaboes. A parcel of people was gother about it, some standin’ on the spokes, and more of ’em on the tail-board, all ager to see the race; but nothin’ ’id do me bould Corny, but to climb up into the back-band that was hangin’ betune the shafts, afther the nature of a swing-swong.
“There he sot at his aise, flingin’ jokes at the boys and girls, and kickin’ his heels about like a merry-andher. A fine view of the coorse he had, no doubt, but, be me song, there was more comin’ than he bargained for, for the hate bein’ over, the people was makin’ off to the tents, and behould ye, when they stepped out of the tail of the car, up it wint, for all the world like a wadey-buckety, and down goes the shafts over the top of a tent conveynient, where there was powerful dancin’ and fun goin’ on. Out flew Corny from betune the shafts, with a wheegee aquil to any sky-rocket! Whiz! away he wint flittherin’ through the canvass, with the soles of his brogues uppermost, and the nails glittherin’ in the sun! Well, there was a party of boys and girls sittin’ round a table inside, and enjoyin’ their punch, and where the divil did the oulahn ’lite, but plop on the table in the middle of ’em! Ye could hear his four bones jinglin’, and the smashin’ of glass was hard a mile away. Oh! bad scran to the bit of me, but I thought I’d die down wud the rale dint of laughin’. Away wud me hot foot round to the door; and, bedad, again I got there, they had laned to kickin’ him about the floor like a foot-ball. He was took so be surprise, he couldn’t rise a hand, and faix I thought they’d kilt him entirely. At last they left off, and took to laughin’ at him, and, to be sure, he was a holy show wud mud and gutther, and his clothes in flidgetts on his back. One of the men got a knife and fork, and challenged him to come on, till he’d carve him; but ’twas little they knew who they had to dale wud, for Corny ups, and grabs hoult of a blackthorn stick, and into the thick of them he went, leatherin’ away for the bare life. Oh, meillia murther; such a lambastin’ as he gev them, ne’er a one of ’em but got his share, for the stick kept rattlin’ on their heads like a flail. One way or another it ended in a gineral faction, and ye may take yer davy there was more plasthers than plisinthry among them in the mornin’!
“But to come back to me story. Where’s this I was? Oh, ay! I remimber.
“’Tis a good many year now since one evenin’, Corny was at poor Mike Lanaghan’s wake, at the cross-roads above. There was a great congregation of the neighbours round, for ould Mike was a great favourite. Mostly all the ould people was in the room wud the corpse, the men chatterin’ about one thing or another, and the women slootherin’ and cosherin’ in corners wud their heads together, lamentin’ the dead, and keepin’ a keen eye all the while on the dandys and noggins of punch. The young ones was out in the kitchen whalin’ the flure to the ‘Crow on the Gate-post,’ or some other fine tchune, for Callaghan, the piper, was there to the fore, playin’ most beautiful. You may be sure there was lashins and lavins of all soorts of dhrinks, hapes of fine aitin’, and tobacco galore, for them Lanaghans was always rale dacent people, and ’tis well they knew how to thrate their neighbours when they dropped in.
“Corny was in and out, like a dog in a fair, enjoyin’ the fun in rale earnest, and indeed a mighty pleasant evenin’ they all had of it. It was dhrawin’ on purty late, and Dinny Byrne was jist singin’ his favourite song, ‘As down by Bannow’s banks,’ when Corny seen Mary Carty throwin’ her shawl over her head to go along home, so he slipped out, and made bould to discoorse her as far as her father’s cabin, for he always had a snakin’ regard for her, as they say, and small blame to him, for many’s the mile you might thravel of a summer’s day ’ithout meetin’ a likelier or a nicer lookin’ colleen. It doesn’t become me to say what they talked about on the way; but I dar say ’twas somethin’ sweet, for they waumused (strolled) along asy, an’ when they rached Carty’s cabin, ’twas time for Corny to be thinkin’ of goin’ home, which was as good as four mile away, so afther takin’ a partin’ glass wud Mary’s father, he bid ’em all good night, and started off.
“’Twas a darlint fine night anyhow; the moon was shinin’ as bright as day, and the stars was winkin’ and twinklin’ down at their own beautiful little faces that was smilin’ and lookin’ up at them again out of the bright river Slaney.
I suppose it was the fine night that was in it, or the air took hoult of him, or may be the strength of the love; but, howsumever, it was Corny began to feel rale light in the head. He used to lay the blame on the good people, ‘for,’ says he, ‘sure it couldn’t be the dhrop I tuk that wasn’t enough to blind the eye of a midge,’ says he, ‘that id go get into me head that a way.’ So down he sot, just to steady himself and take a blast of the pipe, be the side of a big three that stood close to the road, and he wasn’t long there when lone behowld ye he fell hard and fast asleep. Himself didn’t know how long he slep’, but the moon was shinin’ away still when he awoke, and when he did he hard the delightfullest music ye could think of, and that quite near him, so he edged closter to the side of the three, and he cocked his eye round, and, bedad, sir, he seen the quarest sight at all at all. There was crowds of the weeshiest, dooniest men and women, dhressed out in green, and little red caps on their heads, some wud feathers too—if ye plase!—and the natest little red shoes on their feet. Some was dancin’ as merry as midges, keeping time to the music, and playin’ all soorts of pranks; more was makin’ love and meanderin’ about under the ferns and docks that was taller nor themselves; more was ridin’ races on flies and beetles and snails, and all manner of bastes, as if their lives depinded on it; some, too, was hangin’ out of rushes and slitherin’ down flaggers—it bet Bannagher, to see the capers of ’em. Corny looked round to thry where the music was comin’ from, and there he seen a little chap tattherin’ away on the pipes, humourin’ the tchune wud his head, all as one as Callaghan himself, on’y that he bet Callaghan out and out in the playin’. Corny’s two eyes was the size o’ pratie cakes, an’ his mouth so wide open that ’twas a wondher some of the fairies didn’t jump down his neck, while the hairs of his head stuck up as straigth as knittin’ needles, for he didn’t think it was over lucky to be so conveynient to the good people, and he was makin’ to go as quite as he could when what the puck did he see, as plain as the nose on yer face, but a small little spitherogue of a wrinkled red-faced ould man, an’ he workin’ away mendin’ a brogue! A cap was stuck on one side of his head, an’ he had a grey coat wud skirts sthreelin’ down ever so far, an’ great silver buckles in his shoes, an’ to see the ould-fashioned set of the crayture wud his legs curled up on a musharoon smokin’ a pipe as continted as anything, would make ye laugh av ye had only one laugh in ye!
“Corny had often hard tell of the Leprachaun, but he never seen one before, and, like the rest of us, he’d hard that if ye keep yer eye on him, he must show you where he has the goold berrid, but he’s up to all manner of thricks to make ye look another way, and if ye do for the mite of a minnit only, away he skelthers, so he does, and the divil a hap’orth more ye sees of him. Well, all these things come into Corny’s head, and he determined not to let the boy out of his sight; and just as the Leprachaun was houldin’ a wax-end betune him and the moon while he’d fix a new bristle to it, Corny gettin’ bouldher and bouldher as he thought of the goold, spakes up, and says he—
“‘God bless the work, yer worship!’ says he.
“Bedad the words was barely out of his mouth when every one of the fairies, barrin’ the Leprachaun himself, flew away like redshanks, and one of ’em ups wud his fist and gave Corny an eye as black as the ace of spades, and at the same time sthreaks of fire spread out in the sky like the Roara Boro Alis that’s seen be the Laplandhers in Agypt. Wud that the ould cobbler says,—
“‘Whist, whist, Corny; see what’s going on in the three.’
“‘Oh, oh!’ says Corny to himself, ‘catch a weazel asleep. I wouldn’t mistrust ye, me bochoul, but to be thryin’ to get me eye off of ye.’ So he says to him, says he,—
“‘Looka, see here now; none of yer thricks upon thravellers, but show me, this minnit, where ye have the threasures berrid.’
“‘Tare an ounthers,’ says the ould man, ‘what de ye mane?’
“‘Oh, ye know right well,’ says Corny, at the same time saysin’ him be the scruff of the neck.
“‘Och, weirasthru, Corny, allanah,’ says the Leprachaun, “where would the likes of me get threasures?—threasures, in throth!’ says he.
“‘Come, come, me ould play-boy,’ says Corny, ‘you might as well be whistlin’ jigs to a milestone as talkin’ to me. De ye think it’s a Gomm I am? Lade me to the place fair and asy, or maybe it’s the worse it ’ll be for ye.’
“‘Arrah, sure, I tould ye before, ye spalpeen, sorrow taste of the likes I have,’ says the fairy.
“‘Whether, now,’ says Corny, gettin’ incensed, ‘ye conthrary ould vagabone, isn’t it a wondher ye wouldn’t be ashamed of yerself to be riddlin’ lies out of ye as fast as a dog ’id trot? Make no more words about it now,’ says he, ‘but out wud the saycret, or, be this and be that, I’ll brake ivery bone in yer ugly ould carcase!’ says he, givin’ him a shake that fairly loosened the teeth in his head.
“Well, to make a long story short, the Leprachaun seen there was no use argen wud Corny, so he led him a fine dance over ditch and hedge, briar and bramble, until they came to a field wud a young ash saplin’ growin’ in it.
“‘Undher that is the goold,’ says the fairy, ‘and much good may it do you!’ and wud that he disappeared, without sayin’ another word, good or bad.
“Corny gripped the saplin’, and what wud pullin’ and haulin’, and prisein’ it wud his stick, he managed to get it clane up, tho’ a tough job it was too, and afther rootin’ a bit in the sile—sorrow a word o’ lie in it—but, sure enough, he come upon a big crock brim full of goold. Begor he didn’t know whether he was standin’ on his head or his heels wud delight.
“‘Corny, yer sowl, ye,’ says he to himself, ‘ye’r a made man from this day out. Isn’t it yourself is in the hoigth of good luck, and more power to the Leprachaun, he’s a dacent ould chap afther all.’
“So sayin’, he filled his pockets, and his hat, and his brogues—ay, and his stockins too! for he seen there was no use in thryin’ to get up the crock without a spade, and, stickin’ the three back again, he cut off home. He didn’t let on a word about it to man or mortal, but set out the next night wud a spade and a wheelbarrow. He found the field asy enough, but dang the bit of the saplin’ could he get! No; nor sign nor sight of the place he had turned up the night before! So he had to be contint wud what he got, and a fine lob it was too.
“Well, yer honnor, Corny bought a few fields, and he built a snug cabin, and married Mary Carty, and a great haulin’ home they had of it—plenty of people there, and the best of fine aitin’ and dhrinkin’, for there was nothin’ of the nayger about Corny, and now that he had the money he knew how to spind it.
“Not many nights aftherwards—and a mighty sevare night it was—the wind was moanin’ and howlin’ outside, for all the world like as if the ghosts in the ancient ould berrin’-ground yandher beyant was discoorsin’, now whisperin’ low tellin’ their saycrets, and more times as if they war roarin’ the heads off of one another, and was goin’ to have an onmarciful fight—a terrible night entirely! Corny and the wife was lyin’ awake, listenin’ to the wondherful noises that was goin’ on in the kitchen—tap! tap! like the dead-watch, only a dale loudher. Then the pig, the craythur, would let grunts out of her that was frightful. Corny gets up and stales out to thry and see what was the matther. And what de ye think it was? Nayther more nor less than the ould Leprachaun, and he mendin’ his brogues as hard as he could lick!
“‘Why, thin, what de ye mane?’ says Corny, thryin’ to look as bould as brass, for all the heart was sinkin’ in him wud the fear; ‘what de ye mane?’ says he, ‘be raisin’ such a ruction without ryme or rason,’ says he, ‘disturbin’ a body at the dead o’ the night, ye ould thief of the world?’
“‘Thief, inyah!’ says the Leprachaun, lookin’ as cross as two sticks; ‘musha, bedad, it becomes you to call me a thief—didn’t yourself stale the goold ye built your house wud from me, and haven’t I a right to me own roof?’
“‘Oh! thin sweet bad luck attind yerself an’ all o’ yer breed!’ says Corny. ‘The curse of the crows on you an’ yer money, for pace nor aise I never had sence I laid eyes on ye!’
“And wud a sore and throubled heart he wint back to his bed, while the fairy set up a great haw! haw! of a laugh.
“Well, be Mary’s advice, the very next evenin’ he put what was remainin’ of the goold in a stockin’, and left it on the kitchen dhresser, an’ every fargin’ he could scrape together he did the same wud, for the Leprachaun haunted the house, and torminted them the live-long night until every ha’penny was paid. From that day to this the fairies never throubled them, and more nor that they thruv wondherful—everything went well wud them, and they lived happy and prosperous ever afther.
“The story got wind, and used to be tould as a quare one—and sure anyhow didn’t it take the lade?”