The Soul Cages

I first came across this tale whilst searching for “tales of the sea”. Starting with a cursory search on mermaids and selkies, a memory of Eddie Lenihan’s telling of “The Newhall mermaid” on his Stoyteller 1 & 2 CD collection came to mind. Trying to track that tale down by searching around Irish mermaid, I came across the Irish mermaid equivalent merrow, and from that the “Soul Cages” tale. Interestingly, the notes to the tale in the first collection to describe the story, volume 2 of Thomas Crofton Coker’s Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland, 1828, includes a mention of the Newhall mermaid.

The tale itself appears to be “fakelore”, inspired by a tale collected Grimm, but written by, and provided to, Crofton Coker, by Thomas Keightley, although that didnlt stop it also appearing in W. B. Yeats’ Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry, 1888, pp. 61-75, credited to Crofton Coker.

The Soul Cages, in Crofton Coker, Fairy Legends, 1828

https://archive.org/details/fairylegendsand04crokgoog/page/n50/mode/2up

FAIRY LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND. PART II.

T CROFTON CROKER

1828

pp. 30-52

THE SOUL CAGES.

JacK DOGHERTY lived on the coast of the County Clare. Jack was a fisherman, as his father and grandfather before him had been. Like them, too, he lived all alone (but for the wife), and just in the same spot. People used to wonder why the Dogherty family were so fond of that wild situation, so far away from all human kind, and in the midst of huge shattered rocks, with nothing but the wide ocean to look upon. But they had their own good reasons for it.

The place was just the only spot on that part of the coast where any body could wel live; there was a neat little creek, where a boat might lie as snug as a puffin in her nest, and out from this creek a ledge of sunken rocks ran into the sea. Now when the Atlantic, according to custom, was raging with a storm, and a good westerly wind was blowing strong on the coast, many a richly laden ship went to pieces on those rocks; and then the fine bales of cotton and tobacco, and such like things, and the pipes of wine, and the puncheons of rum, and the casks of brandy, and the kegs of Hollands that used ot come ashore! Dunbeg Bay was just like a little estate to the Doghertys.

Not but they were kind and humane to a distressed sailor, if ever one had the good luck to get to land; and many a time indeed did Jack put out in his little corragh (which, though not quite equal to honest Andrew Hennessy’s canvas life-boat, would breast the billows like any gannet), to lend a hand towards bringing off the crew from a wreck. But when the ship had gone to pieces, and the crew were all lost, who would blame Jack for picking up all he could find?

“And who is the worse of it?” said he. “For as to the king, God bless him! every body knows he’s rich enough already without getting what’s floating in the sea.”

Jack, though such a hermit, was a goodnatured jolly fellow. No other, sure, could ever have coaxed Biddy Mahony to quit her father’s snug and warm house in the middle of the town of Ennis, and to go so many miles off to live among the rocks, with the seals and sea gulls for next door neighbours. But Biddy knew that Jack was the man for a woman who wished to be comfortable and happy; for, to say nothing of the fish, Jack had the supplying of half the gentlemen’s houses of the country with the Godsends that came into the bay. And she was right in her choice; for no woman ate, drank, or slept better, or made a prouder appearance at chapel on Sundays, than Mrs. Dogherty.

Many a strange sight, it may well be supposed, did Jack see, and many a strange sound did he hear, but nothing daunted him. So far was he from being afraid of Merrows, or such beings, that the very first wish of his heart was to fairly meet with one. Jack had heard that they were mighty like Christians, and that luck had always come out of an acquaintance with them. Never, therefore, did he dimly discern the Merrows moving along the face of the waters in their robes of mist, but he made direct for them; and many a scolding did Biddy, in her own quiet way, bestow upon Jack for spending his whole day out at sea, and bringing home no fish. Little did poor Biddy know the fish Jack was after!

It was rather annoying to Jack, that; though living in a place where the Merrows were as plenty as lobsters, he never could get a right view of one. What vexed him more was that both his father and grandfather had often and often seen them; and he even remembered hearing, when a child, how his grandfather, who was the first of the family that had settled down at the creek, had been so intimate with a Merow, that only for fear of vexing the priest, he would have had him stand for one of his children. This, however, Jack did not well know how to believe.

Fortune at length began to think that it was only right that Jack should know as much as his father and grandfather did. Accordingly, one day when he had strolled a little farther than usual along the coast to the northward, just as he turned a point, he saw something, like to nothing he had ever seen before, perched upon a rock at a little distance out to sea: it looked green in the body, as well as he could discern at that distance, and he would have sworn, only the thing was impossible, that it had a cocked hat in its hand. Jack stood for a good half hour straining his eyes and wondering at it, and all the time the thing did not stir hand or foot. At last Jack’s patience was quite worn out, and he gave a loud whistle and a hail, when the Merrow (for such it was) started up, put the cocked hat on its head, and dived down, head foremost, from the rock.

Jack’s curiosity was now excited, and he constantly directed his steps towards the point; still he could never get a glimpse of the sea gentle- man with the cocked hat; and with thinking and thinking about the matter, he began at last to fancy he had been only dreaming. One very rough day, however, when the sea was running mountains high, Jack Dogherty determined ot give a look at the Merrow’s rock (for he had always chosen a fine day before), and then he saw the strange thing cutting capers upon the top of the rock, and then diving down, and then coming up, and then diving down again.

Jack had now only to choose his time (that is, a good blowing day), and he might see the man of the sea as often as he pleased. All this, however, did not satisfy him — “much will have more [TH: as the old saying goes];” he wished now to get acquainted with the Merrow, and even in this he succeeded. One tremendous blustering day, before he got to the point, whence he had a view of the Merrow’s rock, the storm came on so furiously that Jack was obliged to take shelter in one of the caves which are so numerous along the coast; and there, to his astonishment, he saw sitting before him a thing with green hair, long green teeth, a red nose, and pig’s eyes. It had a fish’s tail, legs with scales on them, and short arms like fins: it wore no clothes, but had the cocked hat under its arm, and seemed engaged thinking very seriously about something.

Jack, with all his courage, was a little daunted; but now or never, thought he: so up he went boldly to the cogitating fishman, took off his hat, and made his best bow.

“Your servant, sir,” said Jack.

“Your servant, kindly, Jack Dogherty,” answered the Merrow.

“To be sure, then, how well your honour knows my name!” said Jack.

“Is it I not know your name, Jack Dogherty? Why, man, I knew your grandfather long before he was married to Judy Regan, your grandmother! Ah, Jack, Jack, I was fond of that grandfather of yours; he was a mighty worthy man in his time: I never met his match above or below, before or since, for sucking in a shellful of brandy. I hope, my boy,” said the old fellow, with a merry twinkle in his little eyes, “I hope you’re his own grandson I”

“Never fear me for that,” said Jack; “if my mother had only reared me on brandy, ‘tis myself that would be a sucking infant to this hour!”

“Well, I like to hear you talk so manly; you and I must be better acquainted, if it were only for your grandfather’s sake. But, Jack, that father of yours was not the thing; he had no head at all.”

“I’m sure,” said Jack, “since your honour lives down under the water, you must be obliged to drink a power to keep any heat in you in such a cruel, damp, could place. Well, I’ve often heard of Christians drinking like fishes: and might I be so bold as to ask where you get the spirits?”

“Where do you get them, yourself, Jack?” said the Merrow, twitching his red nose between his forefinger and thumb.

“Hubbubboo,” cries Jack, “now I se how it is; but I suppose, sir, your honour has got a fine dry cellar below to keep them in.”

“Let me alone for the cellar,” said the Merrow, with a knowing wink of his left eye.

“I’m sure,” continued Jack, “it must be mighty well worth the looking at.”

“You may say that Jack,” said the Merrow, “and if you meet me here next Monday, just at this time of the day, we will have a little more talk with one another about the matter.”

Jack and the Merrow parted the best friends in the world.

On Monday they met, and Jack was not a little surprised to see that the Merrow had two cocked hats with him, one under each arm.

“Might I take the liberty to ask, sir,” said Jack, “why your honour has brought the twe hats with you today? You would not, sure, be going to give me one of them, to keep for the curiosity of the thing?”

“No, no, Jack,” said he, “I don’t get my hats so easily, to part with them that way; but I want you to come down and dine with me, and I brought you the hat to dive with.”

“Lord bless and preserve us!” cried Jack, in amazement, “would you want me to go down to the bottom of the salt sea ocean? Sure I’d be smothered and choked up with the water, to say nothing of being drowned! And what would poor Biddy do for me, and what would she say?”

“And what matter what she says, you pinkeen? Who cares for Biddy’s squalling? It’s long before your grandfather would have talked in that way. Many’s the time he stuck that same hat on his head, and dived down boldly after me; and many’s the snug bit of dinner and good shellful of brandy he and I have had together below, under the water.

“Is it really, sir, and no joke?” said Jack; “why, then, sorrow from me for ever and a day after, if I’ll be a bit worse man nor my grandfather was! Here goes—but play me fair now. Here’s neck or nothing!” cried Jack.

“That’s your grandfather all over,” said the old fellow; “so come along then, and do as I do.”

They both left the cave, walked into the sea, and then swam a piece until they got to the rock. The Merrow climbed to the top of it, and Jack folowed him. On the far side it was as straight, as the wall of a house, and the sea beneath looked so deep that Jack was almost cowed.

“Now, do you see, Jack,” said the Merrow: “just put this hat on your head, and mind to keep your eyes wide open. Take hold of my tail, and follow after me, and you’ll see what you’ll see.”

In he dashed, and in dashed Jack after him boldly. They went and they went, and Jack thought they’d never stop going. Many a time did he wish himself sitting at home by the fireside with Biddy. Yet, where was the use of wishing now, when he was so many miles as he thought below the waves of the Atlantic? Still he held hard by the Merrow’s tail, slippery as it was; and, at last, to Jack’s great surprise, they got out of the water, and he actually found himself on dry land at the botom of the sea. They landed just in front of a nice house that was slated very neatly with oyster shells! and the Merrow turning about ot Jack, welcomed him down.

Jack could hardly speak, what with wonder, and what with being out of breath with travelling so fast through the water. He looked about him and could see no living things, barring crabs and lobsters, of which there were plenty walking leisurely about on the sand. Overhead was the sea like a sky, and the fishes like birds swimming about in it.

“Why don’t you speak, man?” said the Merrow: “I dare say you had no notion that I had such a snug little concern here as this? Are you smothered, or choked, or drowned, or are you fretting after Biddy, eh?”

“Oh! not myself, indeed,” said Jack, showing his teeth with a good-humoured grin: — “but who in the world would ever have thought of seeing such a thing?”

“Well, come along and let’s see what they’ve got for us to eat?”

Jack really was hungry, and it gave him no smal pleasure ot perceive a fine column of smoke rising from the chimney, announcing what was going on within. Into the house he followed the Merrow, and there he saw a good kitchen, right well provided with every thing. There was a noble dresser, and plenty of pots and pans, with two young Merrows cooking. His host then led him into the room, which was furnished shabbily enough. Not a table or a chair was there in it; nothing but planks and logs of wood to sit on, and eat off. There was, howerer, a good fire blaring on the hearth—a comfortable sight to Jack.

“Come now, and I’ll show you where I keep—you know what,” said the Merow, with a sly look; and opening alittle door, he led Jack into & fine long cellar well filled with pipes, and kegs, and hogsheads, and barrels.

“What do you say to that, Jack Dogherty? — Eh!—may be a body can’t live snug under the water?”

“Never the doubt of that,” said Jack, with a convincing smack of his under lip, that he really thought what he said.

They went back to the room, and found dinner laid. There was no table-cloth, to be sure, but what matter? It was not always Jack had one at home. The dinner would have been no discredit to the first house of the county on a fast day. The choicest of fish, and no wonder, was there. Turbots, and soles, and lobsters, and oysters, and twenty other kinds were on the planks at once, and plenty of the best of foreign spirits. The wines, the old felow said, were too cold for his stomach.

Jack ate and drank till he could eat no more: then taking up a shell of brandy, “Here’s to your honour’s good health, sir,” said he; “though, begging your pardon, it’s mighty odd, that as long as we’ve been acquainted, I don’t know your name yet.”

“That’s true, Jack,” replied he; “I never thought of it before, but better late than never. My name’s Coomara.”

“And a mighty decent name it is,” cried Jack, taking another shellful: “here’s to your good health, Coomara, and may you live these fifty years to come!”

“Fifty years!” repeated Coomara; “ I’m obliged to you, indeed! If you had said five hundred, it would have been something worth the wishing.”

“By the laws, sir,” cries Jack, “youz live to a powerful great age here under the water! You knew my grandfather, and he’s dead and gone better than these sixty years. I’m sure it must be a mighty healthy place to live in.”

“No doubt of it; but come, Jack, keep the liquor stirring.” Shell after shell did they empty, and to Jack’s exceeding surprise, he found the drink never got into his head, owing, I suppose, to the sea being over them, which kept their noddles cool.

Old Coomara got exceedingly comfortable, and sung several songs; but Jack, if his life had depended on it, never could remember more than

Rum fum boodle boo,
Ripple dipple nitty dob;
Dum duo doodle coo,
Raffle laffle chittibob!

It was the chorus to one of them; and to say the truth, nobody that I know has ever been able to pick any particular meaning out of it; but that, to be sure, is the case with many a song now-a-days.

At length said he to Jack, “ Now, my dear boy, if you folow me, I’ll show you my curosities!” He opened a little door and led Jack into a large room, where Jack saw a great many odds and ends that Coomara had picked up at one time or another. What chiefly took his atention, however, were things like lobster pots ranged on the ground along the wall.

“Well, Jack, how do you like my curosities?” said old Coo.

“Upon my sowkins, sir,” said Jack, “they’re mighty well worth the looking at; but might I make as bold as to ask what these things like lobster pots are?”

“Oh! the Soul Cages, is it?”

“The what? Sir!”

“These things here that I keep the Souls in.”

“Arrah! what Souls, sir?” said Jack in amazement: “sure the fish have got no souls in them?”

“Oh! no,” replied Coo, quite cooly, “that they have not; but these are the souls of drowned sailors.”

“The Lord preserve us from all harm!” muttered Jack, “how in the world did you get them?”

“Easily enough: I’ve only when I see a good storm coming on, to set a couple of dozen of these, and then, when the sailors are drowned and the souls get out of them under the water, the poor things are almost perished to death, not being used to the cold; so they make into my pots for shelter, and then I have them snug, and fetch them home, and keep them here dry and warm; and is it not well for them poor souls to get into such good quarters?”

Jack was so thunderstruck, he did not know what to say, so he said nothing. They went back into the dining-room and had a little more brandy, which was excellent, and then as Jack knew that it must be getting late, and as Biddy might be uneasy, he stood up, and said he thought it was time for him to be on the road.

“Just as you like, Jack,” said Coo, “but take a duc an durrus before you go; you’ve a cold journey before you.”

Jack knew better manners than to refuse the parting glass. “I wonder,” said he, “will I be able to make out my way home?”

“What should ail you,” said Coo, “when I’ll show you the way?”

Out they went before the house, and Coomara took one of the cocked hats, and put it upon Jack’s head the wrong way, and then lifted him up on his shoulder that he might launch him up into the water.

“Now,” says he, giving him a heave, “you ‘ll come up just in the same spot you came down in, and, Jack, mind and throw me back the hat.”

He canted Jack off his shoulder, and up he shot like a bubble whirr, whirr, whiz-away he went up through the water, till he came to the very rock he had jumped off, where he found a landing-place, and then in he threw the hat, which sunk like a stone.

The sun was just going down in the beautiful sky of a calm summer’s evening. Feascor was seen dimly twinkling in the cloudless heaven, a solitary star, and the waves of the Atlantic flashed in a golden flood of light. So Jack, perceiving, it was late, set of home; but when he got there, not a word did he say ot Biddy of where he had spent his day.

The state of the poor Souls cooped up in the lobster pots gave Jack a great deal of trouble, and how to release them cost him a great deal of thought. He at first had a mind to speak to the priest about the matter. But what could the priest do, and what did Coo care for the priest? Besides, Coo was a good sort of an old fellow, and did not think he was doing any harm. Jack had a regard for him too, and it also might not be much to his own credit if it were known that he used to go dine with Merrows. On the whole, he thought his best plan would be to ask Coo to dinner, and to make him drunk, if he was able, and then to take the hat and go down and turn up the pots. It was first of all necessary, however, to get Biddy out of the way; for Jack was prudent enough, as she was a woman, to wish to keep the thing secret from her.

Accordingly, Jack grew mighty pious all of a sudden, and said to Biddy, that he thought it would be for the good of both of their souls if she was to go and take her rounds at Saint John’s Well, near Ennis. Biddy thought so too, and accordingly of she set one fine morning at day dawn, giving Jack a strict charge to have an eye to the place.

The coast being clear, away went Jack to the rock to give the appointed signal to Coomara, which was throwing a big stone into the water. Jack threw, and up sprang Coo!

“Good morrow, Jack,” said he; “what do you want with me?”

“Just nothing at all to speak about, sir,” returned Jack, “only to come and take a bit of dinner with me, if I might make so free as to ask you, and sure I’m now after doing so.”

“It’s quite agreeable, Jack, I assure you; what’s your hour?”

“Any time that’s most convenient ot you, sir — say one o’clock, that you may go home, if you wish, with the day-light.”

“I’ll be with you,” said Coo, “never fear me.”

Jack went home, and dressed a noble fish dinner, and got out plenty of his best foreign spirits, enough for that matter to make twenty men drunk. Just to the minute came Coo, with his cocked hat under his arm. Dinner was ready—they sat down, and ate and drank away manfully. Jack thinking of the poor Souls below in the pots, plied old Coo well with brandy and encouraged him to sing, hoping to put him under the table, but poor Jack forgot that he had not the sea over his own head to keep it cool. The brandy got into it and did his business for him, and Coo reeled off home, leaving his entertainer as dumb as a haddock on a Good Friday.

Jack never woke till the next morning, and then he was in a sad way. “‘Tis to no use for me thinking to make that old Rapparee drunk,” said Jack, “and how in this world can I help the poor Souls out of the lobster pots?” After ruminating nearly the whole day, a thought struck him. “I have it,” says he, slapping his knee; “I’ll be sworn that Coo never saw a drop of poteen as old as he is, and that’s the thing to settle him! Oh! then is not it well that Biddy will not be home these two days yet; I can have another twist at him.”

Jack asked Coo again, and Coo laughed at him for having no better head, telling him, he’d never come up to his grandfather.

“Well, but try me again,” said Jack, “and I’ll be bail to drink you drunk and sober, and drunk again.”

“Any thing in my power,” said Co, “to oblige you.”

At this dinner, Jack took care to have his own liquor well watered, and to give the strongest brandy he had to Coo. At last, says he; “ Pray, sir, did you ever drink any poteen?—any real Mountain dew ?”

“No,” says Coo; “what’s that, and where does it come from?”

“Oh, that’s a secret,” said Jack, “but it’s the right stuff—never believe me again, if ‘tis not. fifty times as good as brandy or rum either. Biddy’s brother just sent me a present of a little drop, in exchange for some brandy, and as you’re an old friend of the family, I kept it to treat you with.”

“Well, let’s se what sort of thing it is,” said Coomara.

The poteen was the right sort. It was first rate, and had the real smack upon it. Coo was delighted; he drank and he sung, Rum bum boodle boo over and over again; and he laughed and he danced till he fell on the floor fast asleep. Then Jack, who had taken good care to keep himself sober, snapt up the cocked hat—ran of ot the rock—leaped in, and soon arrived at Coo’s habitation.

All was as still as a church-yard at midnight— not a Merrow old or young was there. In he went and turned up the pots, but nothing did he see, only he heard a sort of a little whistle or chirp as he raised each of them. At this he was surprised, till he recollected what the priest had often said, that nobody living could see the soul, no more than they could see the wind or the air! Having now done all that he could do for them, he set the pots as they were before, and sent a blessing after the poor souls, to speed them on their journey wherever they were going. Jack now began to think of returning; he put the hat on, as was right, the wrong way; but when he got out, he found the water so high over his head, that he had no hopes of ever geting up into it, now that he had not old Coomara to give him a lift. He walked about looking for a ladder, but not one could he find, and not a rock was there in sight. At last he saw a spot where the sea hung rather lower than any where else, so he resolved to try there. Just as he came to it, a big cod happened to put down his tail. Jack made a jump. and caught hold of it, and the cod, all in amazement, gave a bounce and pulled Jack up. The minute the hat touched the water, pop away Jack was whisked, and up he shot like a cork, dragging the poor cod, that he forgot to let go, up with him, tail foremost. He got to the rock in no time, and without a moment’s delay hurried home, rejoicing in the good deed he had done. But, meanwhile, there was fine work at home; for our friend Jack had hardly left the house on his soul-freeing expedition, when back came Biddy from her soul-saving one to the well. When she entered the house and saw the things lying thrie-na helah on the table before her.

“Here’s a pretty job!” said she “ that blackguard of mine— what ill-luck I had ever to marry him! He has picked up some vagabond or other, while I was praying for the good of his soul, and they’ve been drinking all the poteen that my own brother gave him, and all the spirits, to be sure, that he was to have sold to his honour.” —Then hearing an outlandish kind of grunt, she looked down, and saw Coomars lying under the table.— “ The blessed Virgin help me,” shouted she, “if he has not made a real beast of himself! Well, well, I’ve often heard of a man making a beast of himself with drink!—Oh hone oh hone—Jack, honey, what will I do with you, or what will I do without you? How can any decent woman ever think of living with a beast?”—

With such like lamentations Biddy rushed out of the house, and was going, she knew not where, when she heard the well-known voice of Jack singing a mery tune. Glad enough was Biddy to find him safe and sound, and not turned into a thing that was like neither fish nor flesh. Jack was obliged to tell her all, and Biddy, though she had half a mind to be angry with him for not telling her before, owned that he had done a great service to the poor souls. Back they both went most lovingly to the house, and Jack wakened up Coomars; and perceiving the old fellow to be rather dull, he bid him not be cast down, for ‘twez many a good man’s case; said it al came of his not being used to the poteen, and recommended him, by way of cure, to swallow a hair of the dog that bit him. Coo, however, seemed to think he had had quite enough: he got up, quite out of sorts, and without having the manners to say one word in the way of civility, he sneaked off to cool himself by a jaunt through the salt water.

Coomara never missed the souls. He and Jack continued the best friends in the world, and no one, perhaps, ever equalled Jack at freeing souls from purgatory; for he contrived fifty excuses for getting into the house below the sea, unknown to the old fellow, and then turning up the pots and letting out the souls. It vexed him, to be sure, that he could never see them; but as he knew the thing to be impossible, he was obliged to be satisfied.

Their intercourse continued for several years.

However, one morning, on Jack’s throwing in a stone as usual, he got no answer. He flung another, and another; still there was no reply. He went away, and returned the following morning, but it was to no purpose. As he was without the hat, he could not go down to see what had become of old Coo, but his belief was, that the old man, or the old fish, or whatever he was, had either died, or had removed away from that part of the country.

Crofton Croker’s notes to the tale,

Crofton Croker, notes, 1828

https://archive.org/details/fairylegendsand04crokgoog/page/n50/mode/2up FAIRY LEGENDS AND TRADITIONS OF THE SOUTH OF IRELAND. PART II.

T CROFTON CROKER

1828

Notes pp. 52-8

In Grimm’s Deutche Sagan, there is a story which has a striking resemblance to the foregoing; and it is accurately translated for the sake of comparison.

A waterman once lived on good terms with a peasant, who dwelt not far from his lake; he often visited him, and at last begged that the peasant would, in return, visit him in his house under the water. The peasant consented, and went with him. There was every thing below, in the water, as in a stately palace on the land, —halls, chambers, and cabinets, with costly furniture of every description. The waterman led his guest through the whole, and showed him every thing that was in it. They came at length to a little chamber, where there were standing several new pots turned upside down. The peasant asked what was in them. “They contain,” said he, “the souls of drowned people which I put under the pots, and keep them close so that they cannot get away.” The peasant said nothing, ard came up again on the land. The affair of the souls caused him much uneasiness for a long time, and he watched till the waterman should be gone out. When this happened, the peasant who had marked the right road down, descended into the water-house, and succeeded in finding again the little chamber; and when he was there, he turned up all the pots, one after another; immediately the souls of the drowned men ascended out of the water, and were again at liberty.

Grimm says that he was told the waterman is like any other man, only that when he opens his mouth, his green teeth may be seen; he also wears a green hat, and appears to the girls, as they go by the lake he dwells in, measures out ribbon and flings it to them.

Dunbeg Bay is situated on the coast of the county Clare, and may be readily found on any map of Ireland. Corragh, or currugh, is a small boat used by the fishermen of that part, and is formed of cow hides, or pitched cloth, strained on a frame of wicker-work. The boldness and confidence of the navigators of these fragile vessels often surprises the stranger. By the Irish poets they are invariably termed broad-chested of strong-bowed corraghs; “Curraghaune aulin cleavorshin,” as it is pronounced. It is the carabus of the later Latin writers, thus described by Isidore: Carabus, parta scapha ex vimine facta, quae contexte crudo corio genue navigi prebet.” — Isidorus, Orig. I. xviii. c. 1. It is also described in some pleasing verses by Festus Avienus. Grecè ??, see Suidas and Et. Mag.

Of honest Andrew Hennessy’s canvas life-boat it is only necessary to state, that the inventor, with a crew of five seamen, weathered the equinoctial gale of October 1825 (the severest remembered for many years), in an experimental passage from Cork to Liverpool. After so convincing a trial, it is to be regretted that Mr. Hennessy and his plans for the preservation of human life have not experienced more attention.

St. John’s Well, whither Mrs. Dogherty journeyed to take her rounds, lies at the foot of a hill, about three miles from Ennis, and close to it is a rude altar, at which, the superstitious offer up their prayers. The water of this, like other holy wells, is believed to possess the power of restoring the use of the limbs, curing defective vision, &c. Near the well there is a small lough, said to be the abode of a strange kind of fish, or mermaid, which used to appear very frequently. This lady of the lake was observed resorting to the cellar of Newhall, the seat of Mr. M’Donall. The butler, perceiving the wine decrease rapidly, desermined, with some of his fellow-servants, to watch for the thief, and at last they caught the mermaid in the fact of drinking it. The enraged butler threw her into a chaldron of boiling water, when she vanished, after uytering three piercing shrieks, leaving only a mass of jelly behind. Since that pe-riod, her appearances have been restricted to once in every seven years. [Eddie Lenihan tells this tale in hist Storyteller 1 & 2 CD collection.]

Merrows are said to be as fond of wine as snakes are of milk, and for the sake of it to steal on board of ships in the night time. Pausanias tells us, that the citizens of Tanagra were greatly annoyed by a Triton who frequented the neighbouring coast. By the advice of the oracle, they set a large vessel of wine on the beach, which the Triton emptied on his next visit; the liquor made him drunk, and the citizens cut off his head as he slept.

Coomara or cú-mara, means the sea-hound. The Irish family of Macnamara or Maconmara are, according to tradition, descended from cúmara, and hence their name from mac a son, con the genitive of cu a greyhound, and mara of the sea.

The Macnamara clan inhabited the western district of the county Clare, and were dependant on the O’Briens.

Cumara’s song, if indeed it be not altogether the invention of the narrator, may be considered as an extremely curious lyrical fragment. But few will feel inclined to acknowledge its genuineness, as nothing appears to be more easy than to fabricate a short effusion of this kind, or even an entire language. Psalmanazar’s Formosan language is well known. Rabelais abounds in specimens. Shakespeare, in “All’s well that ends well,” has tried his hand at it. Swift has given some morsels of Liliputian, Brobdignagian, and other tongues; and any one curious about fairy language has only to look into Giraldus Cambrenais. Even the inhabitante of the lower regions have had a dialect invented for them, as the following valuable extract from the Macaronica of the profound Merlinus Cocaius wil prove. See the opening of the xxiv. book:

“Cra cra tif trafnot sgneflet canatanta riogna
Ecce venit gridando Charon—”

which, in a marginal note, he kindly informs us—“nec Grecum nec Hebreum, sed diabolicum est.” And perhaps even the well known line of Dante, of which it is an imitation—

“Pape Satan, pape Satan Aleppè,”

is nec Latinum, nec Hebreum, sed diabolicum, also.

A translation of old Cu’s song, however, it is expected, would add little to our stock of knowledge, as, judging from the indubitable specimens which exist, the remarks of the sea folk are not very profound, although they evince singular powers of observation. Waldron, in his account of the Isle of Man, relates that an amphibious damsel was once caught, and after remaining three days on shore was allowed to escape. On plunging into the water she was welcomed by a number of her own species, who were heard to inquire what she had seen among the natives of earth. “Nothing,” she answered, “wonderful, except that they were silly enough to throw away the water in which they had boiled their eggs!”

Bochart tells us, on the authority of Alkazuinius, an Arabic author, that there is a sea-animal which exactly resembles a man, only that he has a tail; he has, moreover, a grey beard; hence he is called the old man of the sea. Once upon a time one of them was brought ot a certain king, who, out of curiosity, gave him a wife. They had a son who could speak the languages of both his parents. The boy was asked one day what his father said; but as the reply must necessarily lose by translation, it is given in the original Greek. He answered, ??

On the Irishisms used in the Legend of “the Soul Cages” a few words. Arrah is a common exclamation of surprise. It is correctly written ara, and, according to Dr. O’Brien, signifies a conference. A popular phrase is, “Arrah come here now,” i. e. come here and let us talk over the matter.

Duc an Durras, Anglicè, the stirrup cup, means literally, the drink at the door; from Deoch, to drink, and Doras or Duras, a door. In Devonshire and Cornwall it is called Dash and Darras, probably a corruption of the old Cornish expression.

Rapparee was the name given ot certain freebooters in the times of James and William. It is used in the story rather as a term of regard, as we sometimes employ the word rogue.

Thrie-na-helah may be translated by the English word topsy-turvey.

Pinkeen and Sowkin are diminutives; the former of Penk or Pink, the name of the little fish more commonly called in England, Minnow. Sowkin is evidently acontraction of Soulkin, the diminutive of soul. It answers to the German Seelchen, and is an old English expression, no longer, it is believed, to be met with in that country, but very common as a minor oath in Ireland.

By the Laws, is, as is well known, a softening down of a very solemn asseveration. If taken literally, people may fancy it an oath not very binding in the mouth of an Irishman, who is seldom distinguished by his profound veneration for the Statute Book. This, however, only proves that law and justice in Ireland were essentially different things; for sir John Davies, himself a lawyer, remarked, long since, how fond the natives were of justice; and it is to be hoped that a regular and impartial administration will speedily impress them as synonimes on the mnids of the Irish peasantry.

Few need to be informed that the lower orders in Ireland, although their tone is different, speak the English language more grammatically than those of the same rank in England. The word yez or youz affords an instance of their attention to etymology; for as they employ you in speaking ot a single person, they naturally enough imagined that it should be employed in the plural when addressed to more than one.

“A hair of the dog that bit him,” is the common recommendation of an old toper to a young one, on the morning after a debauch.

“Shall we pluck a hair of the same wolf to-day, Proctor John?”—Ben Jonson’s Bartholomew Fair, Act 1. Scene 1.

In a footnote at the end of his reprining of the tale, Thomas Keightley gave the origins of the story away in his Fairy Mythology of 1850.

An honest confession, 1850

https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.219456/page/n547/mode/2up

The Fairy Mythology: Illustrative of the Romance and Superstition of Various Countries Thomas Keightley, 1850

The tale Cages, with page header The Soul Cages, appears in an Appendix, at pp 527-536

A footnote at the end of the tale on p536 describes the tale’s origin:

We must here make an honest confession. This story had no foundation but the German legend in p. 259. All that is not to be found there is our own pure invention. Yet we afterwards found that it was well-known on the coast of Cork and Wicklow. “But,” said one of our informants, “It was things like flower-pots he kept them in.” So faithful is popular tradition in these matters! In this and the following tale there are some traits by another hand which we are now unable to discriminate.

Keightley cited a German legend as the inspiration for the tale:

A German Legend: The Peasant and the Waterman, 1850

https://archive.org/details/in.ernet.dli.2015.219456/page/n279/mode/2up

The Fairy Mythology: Illustrative of the Romance and Superstition of Various Countries Thomas Keightley, 1850

p259-60

The Peasant and the Waterman

A Water-man once lived on good terms with a peasant who dwelt not far from his lake. He often visited him, and at last begged that the peasant would visit him in his house under the water. The peasant consented, and went down with him. There was everything down under the water as in a stately palace on the land,—halls, chambers, and cabinets, with costly furniture of every description. The Water-man led his guest over the whole, and showed him everything that was in it. They came at length to a little chamber, where were standing several new pots turned upside down. The peasant asked what was in them. “They contain,” was the reply, “the souls of drowned people, which I put under the pots and keep them close, so that they cannot get away.” The peasant made no remark, and he came up again on the land. But for a long time the affair of the souls continued to give him great trouble, and he watched to find when the Water-man should be from home. When this occurred, as he had marked the right way down, he descended into the water-house, and, having made out the little chamber, he turned up all the pots one after another, and immediately the souls of the drowned people ascended out of the water, and recovered their liberty. [This legend seems to be connectec with the ancient idea of the water-deities taking the souls of drowned persons to themselves. In the Edda, this is done by the sea goddess Ran.]