The Bunsby Papers (second series): Irish Echoes

On the whole, it was a jolly vagabond, reckless, and variegated life, that of Terry Magra; his supernatural reputation, together with the general belief in the positive existence of fairies, entertained by the community in which he exercised his pleasant vocation, rendering him a fit subject to receive any spiritual impression, howsoever removed from the common course of events.

It was one moonlight night that Terry, after having attended a grand festival in the neighborhood, brought up, as was his usual custom, at a Sheebieen house, where a few seasoned old casks, like himself, invariably "topped off" with a round of throat-raspers; here he was the Sir Oracle; the lord of the soil himself – did they ever see him, which was not at all probable, for, upon the means wrung by his agents from the poor wretches, by Providence delegated to his care – those same agents, by the way, managing to squeeze out a comfortable per-centage for themselves – he lives in London. The lord of the soil, as I said, could not be served with readier obedience, or listened to with more profound attention.

The roaring song, and joke, and fun abounded upon this occasion, and Terry improvised so wild and inspiriting a strain upon his famous pipes, that it was generally conceded, with enthusiasm tinctured with awe, that no mortal hand could have produced such astounding music.

At length, the sleepy proprietor of the place put a sudden end to the jollification, by stopping the supplies, the only way in which the Widow Brady – for I'm sorry to say it was a woman, and a decent-looking one too, who presided over this Pandora's box, where Hope forever lies imprisoned – could break up the party.

Terry, after vainly endeavoring to mollify the widow, gathered up his magic pipes, and sallied forth. Adieus were exchanged; friendly hugs, and protestations of eternal friendship passed between the stammering, roaring crowd, to be ratified hereafter, it might be, by a crack on the skull from a tough alpieen. At last they separated, each to find, as he could, his way home by the devious light of a clouded moon.

Now, Terry lived a smart way up the mountain, and so, with, as he said, "the sense fairly bilin' in him everywhere but his murdherin' legs," that persisted in carrying him in the opposite direction to that which his intention pointed, the contest between his will and his locomotive powers making his course somewhat irregular – our bold piper proceeded on his way, humming snatches of songs, and every now and then, by way of diversion, waking the echoes by a fierce blast from his "chanter."

Whether Terry resorted to these means for the purpose of keeping his courage from slumbering within his breast, I know not; but, inasmuch as the ground he was traversing had a general fairy repute, I think it more than likely that, notwithstanding the whisky-valor with which he had armed himself, it was not without considerable trepidation he endeavored to make his way through the enchanted precincts.

There was one isolated mound, which tradition had positively marked as a favorite resort of the "good people," and as Terry neared it, apprehension smote against his heart lustily. For the first time, he faltered. The moon, which had hitherto seemed to light him famously, shot suddenly behind a dense, black cloud, and Terry thought that blindness had fallen upon him, so black did everything appear. At the same moment, a gust of wind shook the crisp leaves of the aspen trees, with a noise like the rattling of dry bones, that sunk into his very soul. He was frightened – he couldn't go a step further. Down on his knees he fell, in the middle of the road, and, as a last resource, tried to collect himself sufficiently to mutter through the form of exorcisement used by the peasantry in similar emergencies. To his horror he discovered that he couldn't remember a syllable of the matter. He resorted to his prayers, but his traitor-memory deserted him there also.

Now his perturbation and dismay increased, for he knew by those signs that he was "fairy-struck." There was nothing left him but to run for it; but, to his yet greater terror, on endeavoring to rise from his knees, he found himself rooted to the ground like a tree; not a muscle could he move. Then – as he described it —

"The fairy bells rung like mad inside of me skull. The very brains of me was twisted about, as a washerwoman twists a wet rag; somethin' hit me a bat on the head, an' down I dropped, as dead as a herrin'."

When Terry came to himself again, the darkness had vanished, and the whole scene was glowing with the mellow softness of an eastern morning. The atmosphere was imbued with a delicious warmth, while a subdued crimson haze hung between earth and sky. The common road-stones looked like lumps of heated amber. The very dew-drops on the grass glittered like rubies, while the noisy little mountain-fall, where it broke white against the rocks, flashed and sparkled in the rosy light, like jets of liquid gold, filling the air with living gems.

"Be jabers, an' this is Fairy-land, sure enough," said Terry; "an' if the little blaggards has got anything agin' me, it's in a murdherin' bad box I am, the divil a doubt of it. I've nothin' for it, anyway, but to take it aisy." So he sat upon a large stone on the wayside, and gazed with intense admiration on the lovely scene before him, inly wondering what kind of demonstration the inhabitants of this enchanted spot would make when they discerned his audacious intrusion.

Several minutes had elapsed, and Terry heard nothing but a small, musical hum, barely discernible by the sense, which every warm current of air caused to rise and fall upon his charmed ear, in undulations of dreamy melody. Suddenly, however, his attention was directed towards a fallen leaf, which some vagrant breeze appeared to toss to and fro in merry play. For a long time he watched its eccentric movements, until at last a gust of wind lifted it up, and whirling it round and round in circling eddies, dropped it on the piece of rock where he was sitting.

Now Terry perceived a multitude of tiny creatures, ant-like, busied around the still fluttering leaf, and on stooping to examine them closely, his heart leaped like a living thing within his bosom, his breath came short and gasping, and his tongue clove to his palate.

"There they are, an' no mistake," thought he; "an' my time is come. May the blessed saints stand betune me an harm."

The crowds of atomies which he had supposed to be ants, were beings of the most exquisite human form; anon, the air grew thick with them. Some, winged like butterflies, disported around his head, and alighted upon his garments, pluming their bejewelled pinions and then darting off again.

"It's mighty quare that they don't give me a hint that I'm out of me element," thought Terry, as, emboldened by their passiveness, he gently took the leaf up in his hand, on which were dozens of them yet clustered; he held the fairy-laden leaf up to his eyes; still they kept gambolling about it; they overrun his fingers, and clambered up his sleeve, but no intimation did they give that Terry was of other material than one of the rocks by which they were surrounded; they invaded his face, examined his mouth, and peered into his eyes, yet there was no indication that his presence was acknowledged.

Resolving to test the matter at once, with an effort of courage, he rose up gradually, and looked around him; all was quiet.

"If any thing will make them spake, the pipes will," said he, bravely, and so, filling his chanter, he gave one preliminary blast, and finding that it met with no response, save from the distant echoes, that sent it sweeping back in multiplied reverberations, he commenced to play one of his most lauded planxtys; never had he satisfied himself better, but never had he exerted himself before a more unappreciative assembly; the universal fun and frolic went on as before.

His artistic self-love was sadly wounded. "The divil such a lot of stupid fairies did I ever hear tell of," said he, throwing down his pipes in disgust. "An' bad luck attend the grunt more yez'll get out o' me; such elegant music as I've been threaten yez wid, an' the never an ear cocked among the lot of yez."

"A thin, Misther Terry Magra," said the smallest possible kind of a voice, but which thrilled through the piper as though it were thunder-loud. "Shure, an' you're not goin' to concate that it's music you've been tearin' out ov them tree-stumps of yours; be the powers of war, it's a tom-cat I thought you wor squeezin' undher yer arms."

"Thank you, kindly, yer honor, for the compliment, whoever you are," replied Terry, when, on turning round to the quarter from whence the voice proceeded, he saw, sitting on the branch of a tree beside him, a diminutive piper, in all respects a perfect resemblance to himself; dressed in similar garments, even to the dilapidated caubieen, with an atom of a dhudieen stuck in it; but what elicited his admiration most of all, was the weeny set of pipes the swaggering little ruffian carried on his arm.

"Your soul to glory," cried Terry, his excitement completely mastering his apprehension. "An' if you can blow any music out of them, I'll give in soon an' suddent."

"Howld yer prate, you ugly man, an' bad Christian," cried the little fellow; "sure, an' it's plinty of help I'll have;" with that, he put the bellows under his arm, and blew a blast that sounded like the whistle of a tom-tit in distress; a signal which was quickly answered by similar sounds, issuing from all directions; and very soon Terry saw groups of little pipers climbing up the tree until the branch was fairly alive with them, each one an exact counterpart of the first.

"May I never sin if the sowls of all the Terry Magras, past, present, an' to come, ain't to the fore, it's my belief, this minnit," said the piper, in an ecstasy of amazement.

"We must graize our elbows before we begin, boys," said Terry's friend, producing a fairy bottle.

"Here's your health, Misther Terry Magra," says the little vagabond, with a ghost of a laugh; and up went the bottle to his head.

"Here's your health, Misther Terry Magra," they all repeated, as the real mountain dew went merrily round.

"Faix, an' it's glad enough I'd be to return thanks for the favor," said Terry, "if it's a thing that I had a toothful of sperrits to join yez in; more, betoken, I'm as drouthy as a sand-bag this blessed hour."

"Never be it said that a dhry Christian should keep cotton in his mouth, while we can give him a dhrop to wash it out," said the little piper, throwing his bottle at Terry.

"Bedad, it's a dhrop, sure enough, that I'll be suckin' out of this," said Terry, as he regarded the tiny atom that rested in the palm of his hand. "Bad 'cess to me, if a scooped-out duck-shot wouldn't howld more nourishment. I'm obleeged to you for your good intentions, any way, but I b'leeve I won't be robbin' you this time."

"Don't be refusin' your liquor, you fool," said the piping little chap, with a wicked look out of his mites of eyes. "I'll be bound that such liquor never tickled your throat before."

"Well, rather than appear onfriendly, I'll just go through the motions; so here's jolly good luck to yez all," said Terry, raising the pellet-like material to his lips, when, to his intense satisfaction and wonder, his mouth instantly filled up, and run over, with a perfect flood of such whisky as he owned never yet had blessed his palate; again and again he repeated the experiment, and with the like delicious result.

"Hollo! there, give me back my bottle, you thief of the world; would you ruin us, entirely?" cried the little piper. "If the blaggard wouldn't drink the say dhry, I'm not here."

"By the sowl of me mother," said Terry, with a loud smack of enjoyment, "if the say was made of such stuff as that, may I never, if I wouldn't change places wid a mermaid's husband, and flourish a fish's tail all the days of my life."

"But this has nothin' to do concarnin' the music," says the fairy, "so, here goes to show you how much you know about humorin' the pipes." So saying, the whole army of pipers set up a chant, so small, and yet so exquisitely sweet and harmonious, that Terry scarcely dared to breathe, for fear of losing the slightest echo of such bewitching strains.

"What do you say to that?" inquired the little fellow, when they had finished.

"Say to it," cried Terry, flinging his hat upon the ground in an ecstasy of delight; "what the mischief can I say? Bedad, there never was a mortial had the concate so complately licked out o' him as it's been deludhed out o' me at this present writin, an' to make my words good, av there was a bit of fire near, if I wouldn't make cindhers of that murdherin' ould catherwauler ov mine, I'm a grasshopper."

"It does you credit to own up to it so readily, Terry Magra," said the head fairy, pleased enough at the compliment. "An', by the way of rewardin' you for that same, we'll give you a blast of another sort." With that they turned to and executed a jig-tune, so swiftly-fingered, so lively and irresistibly sole-inspiring, that, with a wild scream of delight, Terry whipped off his great coat, and jumping on the level rock, went through the varied complications of the most intricate description of Irish dance.

"Murdher alive, av I only had a partner now," he cried. "Such elegant music, an' only one to be enjoyin' it." Faster and faster played the fairy pipers, and yet more madly Terry beat time upon the stone, making the mountains resound to his vociferous shouts, until exhausted at last, he jumped off, and sunk panting on the ground.

"Oh! tear an' aigers!" he cried, "an' av yez have a grain of compassion in thim insignificant tiniments of yours, fairies, darlin', won't yez lend us the loan of a pull out of that same bit of a bottle, for it's the seven senses that you've fairly batthered out o' me wid that rattlin' leg-teazer of a chune."

"Wid a heart an' a half, my hayro!" said the little piper, flinging Terry the fairy-bottle; "it's you that has the parliaminthary unction for the creather, if ever a sowl had. Don't be afeard of it, it won't hurt a feather of you, no more nor wather on a duck's back."

Thus encouraged, Terry lifted his elbow considerably, before he thought it prudent to desist, the fairy liquor appearing more delicious with each gulp, when, all at once – for Terry had a tolerable share of acuteness for a piper – the thought struck him that the little schemers might have a motive in thus plying him with such potential stuff.

"If you're at all inclined for a nap, Terry, my boy," said the fairy, blandly, "there's a lovely bank of moss fornent you, that'll beat the best feather-bed at the Globe Inn, in the town of Clonmel. Stretch yourself on it, aroon, an' we'll keep watch over you as tindherly as av your own mother was hangin' over yer cradle."

"Ho! ho! is it there yez are, you sootherin' vagabonds," said Terry to himself. "It's off o' my guard you want to ketch me, eh?" He was determined, however, to diplomatize, so he replied, with equal politeness, "It's thankful that I am to yer honors for the invite, but I wouldn't be makin' such a hole in my manners as to let a wink come on me in such iligant company."

"Oh, well, just as you like, Terry Magra," observed the fairy, with just enough of lemon in his tone to convince Terry that his surmise was correct. "At all events, if you're not sleepy now, you soon will be," the little fellow continued, "so, when you are, you will lie down without fear. In the meantime, we must go and inform our king how famously we've amused you, and what a fine fellow you are." So saying, with a sharp little squeal of a laugh, that Terry thought carried with it a sufficiency of sarcasm, the little piper and his companions rapidly descended from their perch, and vanished from his sight.

No sooner had they departed when Terry's ears were saluted by a singularly delightful buzzing noise, that, in spite of his endeavor to resist it, caused a growing drowsiness to steal over him. The declining daylight deepened into a still more roseate hue. Once or twice his eyelids drooped, but he recovered himself with a vigorous effort.

"By the ghost of Moll Kelly," he cried, "I'm a lost mutton, as sure as eggs is chickens, if the sleep masthers me; the pipes is my only chance." So saying, he shook off the slumberous sensation, and, seizing the instrument, blazed out into a stormy attack upon "Garryowen," and, sure enough, something like a distant groan, as of disappointment, reached him at the very first snore of the chanter.

"Ha! ha!" he exclaimed, "it isn't an omadhaun all out yez has to dale wid this time, you little rascals, as cunnin' as ye think yerselves. Bedad, it won't do me any harm to make use of my eyes hereabouts; who knows but I may light atop of a fairy threasure, and drive the imptiness out of my pocket for ever and ever."

With this determination, the bold piper proceeded to investigate the character of the ground in his immediate neighborhood. For a short time he saw nothing remarkable except the circumstance of the whole surroundings being alive with fairies, to whose presence he was becoming more and more habituated; occasionally he would pause in his search to view with admiration the energetic way in which a group of workers attended to their specific duties. Observing at one time a more than usual commotion, he was led to give the affair particular scrutiny, when he discovered that it was the scene of a most animated contest between two distinct bodies of supernaturals.

An infant lily-of-the-valley was just raising its head above the yielding earth, softened and broken to assist its upward progress, by scores of busy atomies. Numbers showered its tender leaf with refreshing dew – procured, as Terry observed, by plunging into the hollow cup of some sturdy neighboring flower, then flying back to their charge, and shaking the nutritious drops from their wings – others, with mechanical ingenuity, held glasses by which they could concentrate the passing sunbeams upon the spot, when necessary; while others drove there with their united pinions the stray breezes, whose invigorating breath was needed.

While Terry was rapt in the delightful contemplation of this curious scene, all at once he saw that there was something of uncommon interest going on amongst the crowd. He observed, in the first instance, that although the labor was not for a moment suspended, yet a solid phalanx of armed fairies had formed about the immediate workers. The reason was soon obvious, for, careering round and round, or darting to and fro in zigzag courses almost as swiftly as the lightning itself, was an enormous dragon-fly, carrying on its glistening back a diminutive form of a brilliant green color, that flashed in the glancing light like living emerald. Wherever there was a tender young plant there its fierce attack was directed, and in all cases repelled by the brave little guardians.

This terrible monster – as it appeared even in Terry's eyes, when compared with the tiny creatures that surrounded him – seemed to have singled out the fragile lily-of-the-valley for its especial ferocity, for again and again it darted furiously against the unyielding defenders, only, however, to be repulsed at each charge, writhing and twisting its snaky body, punctured by the thorn-bayonets of the fairy-guard.

The indomitable courage and resolution of the defence at length prevailed, and after a last ineffectual effort to break through the chevaux-de-frise that protected the beleaguered flower, the dreadful enemy wheeled angrily two or three times around the spot, and at length darted upwards rapidly, and disappeared, to the manifest delight of the fairies. Soon, however, a yet more formidable danger threatened, for in the distance there approached a gigantic snail, dragging its noxious slime over every thing in its destructive path. Terry now observed evidences of the most intense solicitude and perturbation. The guard around the flower was trebled, scouts seemed to be called in from all quarters, hastening to a common rendezvous. Meantime the snail moved on in a direct line with the object of their care and anxiety.

"Now my fine fellows," said Terry, completely absorbed in the interesting scene, "how the mischief are yez goin' to manage that customer?"

Nearer and nearer crawled the snail, and at every onward movement the little crowd grew more agitated, scampering here and there, and overrunning each other in a perfect agony of apprehension and excitement, like a disturbed colony of ants. Multitudes of them cleared the small stumps of decayed grass, and rolled off the pebbles from a side path, in the hope of diverting Mr. Snail's course; but their engineering skill was fruitless – still on he came, crushing every delicate germ in his progress. He was now only about six inches away from the lily, and the trepidation of the fairies became so excessive, that it smote upon Terry's heart. He forgot for a moment or two that he himself was the arbiter of their fate.

"Mother o' Moses," said he; "it's afeared I am that yez goin' to get the worst of the fight, this time; heigh! at him agin, yer sowls," he shouted, clapping his hands by way of encouragement, as a crowd would try to push the snail from the direct path.

"Where's yer sinse, you little blaggards? why don't yez all get together, and you'd soon tumble the murdherin' Turk over."

Despair seemed to be spreading through the fairy ranks, when it suddenly occurred to Terry that it was in his own power to put an end to their fears at once, by removing the cause; another, and more personal idea flashing across his mind at the same time.

"Why, then, bad 'cess to this thick skull o' mine," said he, as he picked up the snail and hurled it to a distance. "It well becomes me to be stickin' here, watchin' the antics of these little ragamuffins, instead of mindin' my own business of threasure-huntin';" so, without waiting to see what effect his timely interference had upon the supernals, he commenced vigorously to prosecute his search.

For some time he diligently explored the crevices and deep hollows on the mountain's side, without finding the slightest indication to stimulate his exertions; one particular opening, however, he was loathe to penetrate; the insects were so numerous therein, and flew so spitefully against his face, that, although it evidently extended to some distance into the heart of the mountain, again and again he was driven from his purpose of ascertaining that fact by the pertinacity of the annoying creatures; now, a prodigious horned beetle would bang sharply against his cheek; anon, he would be entirely surrounded by a cloud of wasps, through which he had to fight his way lustily.

Thrice had he entered the cavity, and having been ignominiously driven back each time, had determined to give up the effort to penetrate further. "Faix, an' it's mighty quare, entirely," said he, "that this is the only spot in the place that's so throubled with the varmint: it's my belief there's somethin' in that, too," he continued, a new light seeming to break upon him; "what should they be here for, more nor at any other openin', unless it was to keep strangers from inthrudin'? May I never, if I don't think that same hole in the rock is the turnpike-gate to somethin' surprizin' in the way of a fairy road; here goes to thry, anyway, in spite of the singin' and stingin'."

Once more, therefore, my bold Terry attempted to enter the cavern, and was attacked as before, but with tenfold fury; legions of stinging flies, wasps, and hornets, raised a horrible din about his ears; but, setting his resolution up to the fearless point, on he went, without regarding their unpleasant music; expecting, of course, to be stung desperately; what was his astonishment and relief to discover that the noise was the only thing by which he was at all distressed; not one of his myriad of assailants even as much as touched him, and before he had proceeded many steps further into the cavity, every sound had ceased.

He now found his onward progress most uncomfortably impeded by a stubborn species of wild hedge-briar, whose sharp, thorny branches interlaced through each other, forming a barrier, whose dangerous appearance was sufficient to deter the boldest from risking a laceration. Not an opening large enough to admit his head, could Terry see, and he was about again to give the attempt up as unattainable, when, by the merest accident, on turning round, his foot slipped, and with that inward shudder with which one prepares for an inevitable hurt, he fell against the prickly wall; when, to his utter amazement, it divided on each side as though it were fashioned of smoke, and he tumbled through, somewhat roughly, to be sure, but altogether unharmed by the formidable-looking interposition.