by Edited
THE COUNTESS KATHLEEN O’SHEA*
A very long time ago, there suddenly appeared in old Ireland two unknown merchants of whom nobody had ever heard, and who nevertheless spoke the language of the country with the greatest perfection. Their locks were black, and bound round with gold, and their garments were of rare magnificence.
Both seemed of like age; they appeared to be men of fifty, for their foreheads were wrinkled and their beards tinged with gray.
In the hostelry where the pompous traders alighted it was sought to penetrate their designs; but in vain—they led a silent and retired life. And while they stopped there, they did nothing but count over and over again out of their moneybags pieces of gold, whose yellow brightness could be seen through the windows of their lodging.
“Gentlemen,” said the landlady one day, “how is it that you are so rich, and that, being able to succor the public misery, you do no good works?”
“Fair hostess,” replied one of them, “we didn’t like to present alms to the honest poor, in dread we might be deceived by make-believe paupers. Let want knock at our door, we shall open it.”
The following day, when the rumor spread that two rich strangers had come, ready to lavish their gold, a crowd besieged their dwelling; but the figures of those who came out were widely different. Some carried pride in their mien; others were shamefaced.
The two chapmen traded in souls for the demon. The soul of the aged was worth twenty pieces of gold, not a penny more; for Satan had had time to make his valuation. The soul of a matron was valued at fifty, when she was handsome, and a hundred when she was ugly. The soul of a young maiden fetched an extravagant sum; the freshest and purest flowers are the dearest.
At that time there lived in the city an angel of beauty, the Countess Kathleen O’Shea. She was the idol of the people and the providence of the indigent. As soon as she learned that these miscreants profited to the public misery to steal away hearts from God, she called to her butler.
“Patrick,” said she to him, “how many pieces of gold in my coffers?”
“A hundred thousand.”
“How many jewels?”
“The money’s worth of the gold.”
“How much property in castles, forests, and lands?”
“Double the rest.”
“Very well, Patrick; sell all that is not gold; and bring me the account. I only wish to keep this mansion and the demesne that surrounds it.”
Two days afterward the orders of the pious Kathleen were executed, and the treasure was distributed to the poor in proportion to their wants. This, says the tradition, did not suit the purposes of the Evil Spirit, who found no more souls to purchase. Aided by an infamous servant, they penetrated into the retreat of the noble dame, and purloined from her the rest of her treasure. In vain she struggled with all her strength to save the contents of her coffers; the diabolical thieves were the stronger. If Kathleen had been able to make the sign of the Cross, adds the legend, she would have put them to flight, but her hands were captive. The larceny was effected.
Then the poor called for aid to the plundered Kathleen, alas, to no good; she was able to succor their misery no longer; she had to abandon them to the temptation.
Meanwhile, but eight days had to pass before the grain and provender would arrive in abundance from the western lands. Eight such days were an age. Eight days required an immense sum to relieve the exigencies of the dearth, and the poor should either perish in the agonies of hunger, or, denying the holy maxims of the Gospel, vend, for base lucre, their souls, the richest gift from the bounteous hand of the Almighty. And Kathleen hadn’t anything, for she had given up her mansion to the unhappy. She passed twelve hours in tears and mourning, rending her sun-tinted hair, and bruising her breast, of the whiteness of the lily; afterward she stood up, resolute, animated by a vivid sentiment of despair.
She went to the traders in souls.
“What do you want?” they said.
“You buy souls?”
“Yes, a few still, in spite of you. Isn’t that so, saint, with the eyes of sapphire?”
“To-day I am come to offer you a bargain,” replied she.
“What?”
“I have a soul to sell, but it is costly.”
“What does that signify if it is precious? The soul, like the diamond, is appraised by its transparency.”
“It is mine.”
The two emissaries of Satan started. Their claws were clutched under their gloves of leather; their gray eyes sparkled; the soul, pure, spotless, virginal, of Kathleen—it was a priceless acquisition!
“Beauteous lady, how much do you ask?”
“A hundred and fifty thousand pieces of gold.”
“It’s at your service,” replied the traders, and they tendered Kathleen a parchment sealed with black, which she signed with a shudder.
The sum was counted out to her.
As soon as she got home she said to the butler, “Here, distribute this; with this money that I give you the poor can tide over the eight days that remain, and not one of their souls will be delivered to the demon.”
Afterward she shut herself up in her room, and gave orders that none should disturb her.
Three days passed; she called nobody, she did not come out.
When the door was opened, they found her cold and stiff; she was dead of grief.
But the sale of this soul, so adorable in its charity, was declared null by the Lord; for she had saved her fellow-citizens from eternal death.
After the eight days had passed, numerous vessels brought into famished Ireland immense provisions in grain. Hunger was no longer possible. As to the traders, they disappeared from their hotel without anyone knowing what became of them. But the fishermen of the Blackwater pretend that they are enchained in a subterranean prison by order of Lucifer, until they shall be able to render up the soul of Kathleen, which escaped from them.
THE THREE WISHES
W. CARLETON
In ancient times there lived a man called Billy Dawson, and he was known to be a great rogue. They say he was descended from the family of the Dawsons, which was the reason, I suppose, of his carrying their name upon him.
Billy, in his youthful days, was the best hand at doing nothing in all Europe; devil a mortal could come next or near him at idleness; and, in consequence of his great practice that way, you may be sure that if any man could make a fortune by it he would have done it.
Billy was the only son of his father, barring two daughters; but they have nothing to do with the story I’m telling you. Indeed it was kind father and grandfather for Billy to be handy at the knavery as well as at the idleness; for it was well known that not one of their blood ever did an honest act, except with a roguish intention. In short, they were altogether a dacent connection, and a credit to the name. As for Billy, all the villainy of the family, both plain and ornamental, came down to him by way of legacy; for it so happened that the father, in spite of all his cleverness, had nothing but his roguery to lave him.
Billy, to do him justice, improved the fortune he got. Every day advanced him farther into dishonesty and poverty, until, at the long run, he was acknowledged on all hands to be the completest swindler and the poorest vagabond in the whole parish.
Billy’s father, in his young days, had often been forced to acknowledge the inconvenience of not having a trade, in consequence of some nice point in law, called the “Vagrant Act,” that sometimes troubled him. On this account he made up his mind to give Bill an occupation, and he accordingly bound him to a blacksmith; but whether Bill was to live or die by forgery was a puzzle to his father—though the neighbors said that both was most likely. At all events, he was put apprentice to a smith for seven years, and a hard card his master had to play in managing him. He took the proper method, however, for Bill was so lazy and roguish that it would vex a saint to keep him in order.
“Bill,” says his master to him one day that he had been sunning himself about the ditches, inst
ead of minding his business, “Bill, my boy, I’m vexed to the heart to see you in such a bad state of health. You’re very ill with that complaint called an All-overness; however,” says he, “I think I can cure you. Nothing will bring you about but three or four sound doses every day of a medicine called ‘the oil o’ the hazel.’ Take the first dose now,” says he; and he immediately banged him with a hazel cudgel until Bill’s bones ached for a week afterward.
“If you were my son,” said his master, “I tell you that, as long as I could get a piece of advice growing convenient in the hedges, I’d have you a different youth from what you are. If working was a sin, Bill, not an innocenter boy ever broke bread than you would be. Good people’s scarce, you think; but however that may be, I throw it out as a hint, that you must take your medicine till you’re cured, whenever you happen to get unwell in the same way.”
From this out he kept Bill’s nose to the grinding-stone; and whenever his complaint returned, he never failed to give him a hearty dose for his improvement.
In the course of time, however, Bill was his own man and his own master; but it would puzzle a saint to know whether the master or the man was the more precious youth in the eyes of the world.
He immediately married a wife, and devil a doubt of it, but if he kept her in whiskey and sugar, she kept him in hot water. Bill drank and she drank; Bill fought and she fought; Bill was idle and she was idle; Bill whacked her and she whacked Bill. If Bill gave her one black eye, she gave him another; just to keep herself in countenance. Never was there a blessed pair so well met; and a beautiful sight it was to see them both at breakfast-time, blinking at each other across the potato-basket, Bill with his right eye black, and she with her left.
In short, they were the talk of the whole town: and to see Bill of a morning staggering home drunk, his shirt sleeves rolled up on his smutted arms, his breast open, and an old tattered leather apron, with one corner tucked up under his belt, singing one minute, and fighting with his wife the next—she, reeling beside him, with a discolored eye, as aforesaid, a dirty ragged cap on one side of her head, a pair of Bill’s old slippers on her feet, a squalling child on her arm—now cuffing and dragging Bill, and again kissing and hugging him! Yes, it was a pleasant picture to see this loving pair in such a state!
This might do for a while, but it could not last. They were idle, drunken, and ill-conducted; and it was not to be supposed that they would get a farthing candle on their words. They were, of course, dhruv to great straits; and faith, they soon found that their fighting, and drinking, and idleness made them the laughing-sport of the neighbors; but neither brought food to their childhre, put a coat upon their backs, nor satisfied their landlord when he came to look for his own. Still, the never a one of Bill but was a funny fellow with strangers, though, as we said, the greatest rogue unhanged.
One day he was standing against his own anvil, completely in a brown study—being brought to his wit’s end how to make out a breakfast for the family. The wife was scolding and cursing in the house, and the naked creatures of childhre squalling about her knees for food. Bill was fairly at an amplush, and knew not where or how to turn himself, when a poor, withered old beggar came into the forge, tottering on his staff. A long white beard fell from his chin, and he looked as thin and hungry that you might blow him, one would think, over the house. Bill at this moment had been brought to his senses by distress, and his heart had a touch of pity toward the old man; for, on looking at him a second time, he clearly saw starvation and sorrow in his face.
“God save you, honest man!” said Bill.
The old man gave a sigh, and raising himself with great pain, on his staff, he looked at Bill in a very beseeching way.
“Musha, God save you kindly!” says he; “maybe you could give a poor, hungry, helpless ould man a mouthful of something to ait? You see yourself I’m not able to work; if I was, I’d scorn to be behoulding to anyone.”
“Faith, honest man,” said Bill, “if you knew who you’re speaking to, you’d as soon ask a monkey for a churn-staff as me for either mate or money. There’s not a blackguard in the three kingdoms so fairly on the shaughran as I am for both the one and the other. The wife within is sending the curses thick and heavy on me, and the childhre’s playing the cat’s melody to keep her in comfort. Take my word for it, poor man, if I had either mate or money I’d help you, for I know particularly well what it is to want them at the present speaking; an empty sack won’t stand, neighbor.”
So far Bill told him truth. The good thought was in his heart, because he found himself on a footing with the beggar; and nothing brings down pride, or softens the heart, like feeling what it is to want.
“Why, you are in a worse state than I am,” said the old man; “you have a family to provide for, and I have only myself to support.”
“You may kiss the book on that, my old worthy,” replied Bill; “but come, what I can do for you I will; plant yourself up here beside the fire, and I’ll give it a blast or two of my bellows that will warm the old blood in your body. It’s a cold, miserable, snowy day, and a good heat will be of service.”
“Thank you kindly,” said the old man; “I am cold, and a warming at your fire will do me good, sure enough. Oh, but it is a bitter, bitter day; God bless it!”
He then sat down, and Bill blew a rousing blast that soon made the stranger edge back from the heat. In a short time he felt quite comfortable, and when the numbness was taken out of his joints, he buttoned himself up and prepared to depart.
“Now,” says he to Bill, “you hadn’t the food to give me, but what you could you did. Ask any three wishes you choose, and be they what they may, take my word for it, they shall be granted.”
Now, the truth is, that Bill, though he believed himself a great man in point of ’cuteness, wanted, after all, a full quarter of being square; for there is always a great difference between a wise man and a knave. Bill was so much of a rogue that he could not, for the blood of him, ask an honest wish, but stood scratching his head in a puzzle.
“Three wishes!” said he. “Why, let me see—did you say three?”
“Ay,” replied the stranger, “three wishes—that was what I said.”
“Well,” said Bill, “here goes—aha!—let me alone, my old worthy!—faith I’ll overreach the parish, if what you say is true. I’ll cheat them in dozens, rich and poor, old and young: let me alone, man—I have it here;” and he tapped his forehead with great glee. “Faith, you’re the sort to meet of a frosty morning, when a man wants his breakfast; and I’m sorry that I have neither money nor credit to get a bottle of whiskey, that we might take our morning together.”
“Well, but let us hear the wishes,” said the old man; “my time is short, and I cannot stay much longer.”
“Do you see this sledge-hammer?” said Bill; “I wish, in the first place, that whoever takes it up in their hands may never be able to lay it down till I give them lave; and that whoever begins to sledge with it may never stop sledging till it’s my pleasure to release him.
“Secondly—I have an arm-chair, and I wish that whoever sits down in it may never rise out of it till they have my consent.
“And, thirdly—that whatever money I put into my purse, nobody may have power to take it out of it but myself!”
“You devil’s rip!” says the old man in a passion, shaking his staff across Bill’s nose, “why did you not ask something that would sarve you both here and hereafter? Sure it’s as common as the market-cross, that there’s not a vagabone in his Majesty’s dominions stands more in need of both.”
“Oh! by the elevens,” said Bill, “I forgot that altogether! Maybe you’d be civil enough to let me change one of them? The sorra purtier wish ever was made than I’ll make, if only you’ll give me another chance at it.”
“Get out, you reprobate,” said the old fellow, still in a passion. “Your day of grace is past. Little you knew who was speaking to you all this time. I’m St. Moroky, you blackguard, and I gave you a
n opportunity of doing something for yourself and your family; but you neglected it, and now your fate is cast, you dirty, bog-trotting profligate. Sure, it’s well known what you are! Aren’t you a by-word in everybody’s mouth, you and your scold of a wife? By this and by that, if ever you happen to come across me again, I’ll send you to where you won’t freeze, you villain!”
He then gave Bill a rap of his cudgel over the head, and laid him at his length beside the bellows, kicked a broken coalscuttle out of his way, and left the forge in a fury.
When Billy recovered himself from the effects of the blow, and began to think on what had happened, he could have quartered himself with vexation for not asking great wealth as one of the wishes at least; but now the die was cast on him, and he could only make the most of the three he pitched upon.
He now bethought him how he might turn them to the best account, and here his cunning came to his aid. He began by sending for his wealthiest neighbors on pretence of business; and when he got them under his roof, he offered them the arm-chair to sit down in. He now had them safe, nor could all the art of man relieve them except worthy Bill was willing. Bill’s plan was to make the best bargain he could before he released his prisoners; and let him alone for knowing how to make their purses bleed. There wasn’t a wealthy man in the country he did not fleece. The parson of the parish bled heavily; so did the lawyer; and a rich attorney, who had retired from practice, swore that the Court of Chancery itself was paradise compared to Bill’s chair.
This was all very good for a time. The fame of his chair, however, soon spread; so did that of his sledge. In a short time nether man, woman, nor child would darken his door; all avoided him and his fixtures as they would a spring-gun or man-trap. Bill, so long as he fleeced his neighbors, never wrought a hand’s turn; so that when his money was out, he found himself as badly off as ever. In addition to all this, his character was fifty times worse than before; for it was the general belief that he had dealings with the old boy. Nothing now could exceed his misery, distress, and ill-temper. The wife and he and their children all fought among one another. Everybody hated them, cursed them, and avoided them. The people thought they were acquainted with more than Christian people ought to know. This, of course, came to Bill’s ears, and it vexed him very much.
