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  CON O'KEEFE AND THE GOLDEN CUP.

  In Ireland, as in Scotland, among the lower orders, there is a prevalentbelief in the existence and supernatural powers of the gentry commonlycalled "fairies." Many and strange are the stories told of thismysterious and much dreaded race of beings. Loud and frequent have beenthe exclamations of surprise, and even of anger, at the hard incredulitywhich made me refuse, when I was young, to credit _all_ that wasnarrated of the wonderful feats of Irish fairies--the most frolicksomeof the entire genus. The more my disbelief was manifested, the morewonderful were the legends which were launched at me, to overthrow myunlucky and matter-of-fact obstinacy.

  I have forgotten many of the traditions which were thus made familiar tome in my boyhood, but my memory retains sufficient to convince me towhat improbabilities Superstition clung--and the more wonderful thestory, the more implicit the belief. But in such cases the fanaticismwas harmless,--it was of the head rather than of the heart--of theimagination rather than the reason. It would be fortunate if allsuperstitions did as little mischief as _this_.

  It is deeply to be lamented that the matter-of-factedness of theAmericans is not subdued or modified by any--even the slightest--beliefin the old-world superstitions of which I speak. Of fairy-lore theycannot, and they do not, possess the slightest item. They read of it, asif it were legendary, but nothing more. They feel it not--they knowit--they are, therefore, dreadfully actual. So much the worse for them!

  Having imbibed a sovereign contempt for the wild and wonderfultraditions which had been duly accredited in the neighborhood, time outof mind, I never was particularly chary in expressing such contempt atevery opportunity. When the mind of a boy soars above the ignorancewhich besets his elders in an inferior station, who have had neither thechance nor the desire of being enlightened, he is apt to pride himself,as I did, on the "march of intellect" which has placed him superior totheir vulgar credulity.

  Many years have passed since I happened to be a temporary visitorbeneath the hospitable roof of one of the better sort of farmers, in thecounty of Cork, during the Midsummer holidays. As usual, I thereindulged in sarcasm against the credulity of the country. One evening,in particular, I was not a little tenacious in laughing at the veryexistence of "the fairy folk;" and, as sometimes happens, ridiculeaccomplished more than argument could have effected. My hosts couldbear anything in the way of argument--at least of argument such asmine--they could even suffer their favorite legends and theories aboutthe fairies to be abused; but to _laugh_ at them--that was an act ofunkindness which quite passed their comprehension, and grievously taxedtheir patience.

  My host was quite in despair, and almost in anger at my boyish jokesupon his fairy-legends, when the village schoolmaster came in, anuninvited but most welcome guest. A chair was soon provided for him inthe warmest corner--whiskey was immediately on the table, and theschoolmaster, who was a pretty constant votary to Bacchus, lost no timein making himself acquainted with its flavor.

  I had often seen him before. He combined in his character a mixture ofshrewdness and simplicity; was a most excellent mathematician and a goodclassical scholar--but of the world he knew next to nothing. From youthto age had been spent within the limits of the parish over which, canein hand, he had presided for more than a quarter of a century,--at oncea teacher and an oracle! He was deeply imbued with a belief in thesuperstitions of the district, but was more especially familiar with thewild legends of that rocky glen (the defile near Kilworth, commonlycalled Araglin, once famous for the extent of illicit distillationcarried on there), in which he had passed away his life, usefully, buthumbly employed.

  To this eccentric character my host triumphantly appealed for proofrespecting the existence and vagaries of the fairies. He wasted no timein argument, but, glancing triumphantly around, declared that he wouldconvert me by a particularly well-attested story. Draining his tumbler,and incontinently mixing another, Mr. Patrick McCann plunged at onceinto the heart of his narration, as follows:

  "You know the high hill that overlooks the town of Fermoy? Handsome andthriving place as it now is, I remember the time when there were onlytwo houses in that same town, and _one_ of them was then only in courseof building! Well, there lived on the other side of Corran Thierna (themountain in question, though _Corrig_ is the true name) one of theBarrys, a gentleman who was both rich and good. I wish we had more ofthe stamp among us now--'tis little of the Whiteboys or Ribbonmen wouldtrouble the country then. He had a fine fortune, kept up a fine house,and lived at a dashing rate. It does not matter, here nor there, howmany servants he had; but I mention them, because one of them was a veryremarkable fellow. His equal was not to be had, far or near, for lovenor money.

  "This servant was called Con O'Keefe. He was a crabbed little man, witha face the very color and texture of old parchment, and he had lived inthe family time out of mind. He was such a small, dwarfish, deenycreature, that no one ever thought of putting him to hard work. Allthat they did was, now and again, from the want of a better messenger atthe moment, or to humor the old man, to send him to Rathcormacpost-office for letters. But he was too weak and feeble to walk sofar--though it was only a matter of three or four miles; so they got hima little ass, and he rode upon it, quite as proud as a general at thehead of an army of conquerors. 'Twas as good as a play to see Conmounted upon his donkey--you could scarcely make out which had the moststupid look. But neither man nor beast can help his looks.

  "At that time Rathcormac, though 'tis but a village now, was a borough,and sent two members to the Irish Parliament. Was not the great Curran,the orator and patriot, member for Rathcormac, when he was a young man?Did not Colonel Tonson get made an Irish peer, out of this very borough,which his son William is, to this very day, by the title of BaronRiversdale of Rathcormac? Does not his shield bear an open hand betweentwo castles, and is not the motto, 'Manus haec inimica tyrannis'--whichmeans that it was the enemy of tyrants? Did not the Ulster King of Armsmake the Tonsons a grant of these arms, in the time of Cromwell? Buthere I have left poor little Con mounted on his donkey all this time.

  "Con O'Keefe was not worth his keep, for any good he did; but, truth tosay, he had the name of being hand and glove with the fairies; and, atthat time, Corran Thierna swarmed with them. They changed their quarterswhen the regiments from Fermoy barracks took to firing against targetsstuck up at the foot of the mountain. Not that a ball could ever hit afairy (except a silver one cast by a girl in her teens, who has neverwished for a lover, or a widow under forty who has not sighed for asecond husband--so there's little chance that it ever will be cast), butthey hate the noise of the firing and the smell of gunpowder, quite asmuch as the Devil hates holy water.

  "'Tis reckoned lucky in these parts to have a friend of the fairies inthe house with you, and that was partly the reason why Con O'Keefe waskept at Barry's-fort. Many and many a one could swear to hearing him and'the good folk' talk together at twilight on his return from Rathcormacwith the letter-bag. My own notion is, that if he _had_ anything to sayto them, he had more sense than to hold conversation with them on thehigh road, for that might have led to a general discovery. Con was fondof a drop, and, when he took it (which was in an algebraic way, that is,'any _given_ quantity'), he had such famous spirits, and his tongue wentso glibly, that, in the absence of other company, he was sometimesforced to talk to himself, as he trotted home.

  "One night, as he was going along, rather the worse for liquor, hethought he heard a confused sound of voices in the air, directly overhis head. He stopped, and, sure enough, it was the fairies, who werechattering away, like a bevy of magpies; but he did not know this at thetime.

  "At first he thought it might be some of the neighbors wanting to playhim a trick. So, to show that he was not afraid (for the drink had madehim bold as a lion), when the voices above and around him kept callingout 'High up! high up!' he put in his spoke, and shouted, as loud as anyof them, 'High up! high up with ye, my lads!' No sooner said than done.He was whisked off his donkey in a twink
ling, and was 'high up' in theair, in the very middle of a crowd of 'good people'--for it happened tobe one of their festival nights, and the cry that poor little Con heardwas the summons for gathering them all together. There they were, mightysmall, moving about as quickly as motes in the sunshine. Although Conhad the reputation at Barry's-fort of being well acquainted with themall, you may well believe that there was not a single face among the lotthat he knew.

  "In less than no time, off they went, when their leader--a little morselof a fellow, not bigger than Hop-o'-my Thumb--bawled out, 'High forFrance! high for France! high over!' Off they went, through theair--quick as if they were on a steeplechase. Moss and moor--mountainand valley--green field and brown bog--land and water were all leftbehind, and they never once halted until they reached the coast ofFrance.

  "They immediately made for the house (there it is called the _chateau_)of a great lord--one of the Seigneurs of the Court--and bolted throughthe key-hole into his wine-cellar, without leave or license. How littleCon was squeezed through, I never could understand, but it is as sure asfate that he went into the cellar along with them. They soon got astridethe casks, and commenced drinking the best wines, without waiting to beinvited. Con, you may be sure, was not behind any of them, as far as thedrinking went. The more he drank, the better relish he had for theirtipple. The 'good people,' somehow or other, did not appear at allsurprised at Con's being among them, but they _did_ wonder at his greatthirst, and pressed him to take enough--and Con was not the man who'dwait to be asked twice. So they drank on till night slipped away, whenthe sun--like a proper gentleman as he is--sent in one of his earliestbeams, as a sort of gentle hint that it was full time for them toreturn. They had a parting-glass, and, in half an hour or so, hadcrossed the wide sea, and dropped little Con ('pretty well, I thankyou,' by this time) on the precise spot he had left on the eveningbefore. He had been drinking out of a beautiful golden cup in thecellar, and, by some mistake or other, it had slipped up the sleeve ofthe large loose coat he wore, and so he brought it home with him. Notthat Con was not honest enough, but surely a man may be excused fortaking 'a cup too much' in a wine-cellar.

  "Con was soon awakened by the warm sunbeams playing upon his face. Atfirst, he thought he had been dreaming, and he might have thought so tohis dying day, but that, when he got on his feet, the golden cup rolledon the road before him, and was proof positive that all was a reality.

  "He said his prayers directly, between him and harm. Then he put up thecup and walked home, where, as his little donkey had returned on theprevious night without him, the family had given him up as lost ordrowned. Indeed, some of them had sagaciously suggested the probabilityof his having gone off for good with the fairies.

  "Now, does not my story convince you that there _must_ be such things asfairies? It is not more than twenty years since I heard Con O'Keefe tellthe whole story from beginning to end; and he'd say or swear with anyman that the whole of it was as true as gospel. And, as sure as my nameis Patrick McCann, I _do_ believe that Con was in strange company thatnight."

  I ventured to say to Mr. McCann that, being yet incredulous, I must havebetter evidence than little Con's own declaration.

  "To be sure you shall," said he. "Was not the golden cup taken up toBarry's-fort, and to be seen--as seen it was--by the whole country?"

  I answered that, "Certainly, if the cup is to be seen there, the case ismaterially altered."

  "I did not say that the cup _is_ at Barry's-fort," said McCann, "onlythat it _was_. The end of the story, indeed, is nearly as strange as thebeginning.--When Con O'Keefe came back from his wonderful excursion, noone believed a word of what he said; for though it was whispered that hewas great with the fairies, yet, when the matter came tangibly beforethem, they did not credit it. But Con soon settled their doubts; hebrought forward the cup, and there was no gainsaying _that_ evidence.

  "Mr. Barry took the cup into his own keeping, and, the name andresidence of the French lord being engraved upon it, determined (as inhonor bound) to send it home again. So he went off to Cove, without anydelay, taking Con with him; and, as there luckily was a vessel going offto France that very day, he sent off little Con with the cup and hisvery best compliments.

  Now, the cup was a great favorite with the French lord (being a piece offamily plate, given to one of his ancestors by one of the old kings ofFrance, whose life he had saved in battle), and nothing could equal thehubbub and confusion that arose when it was missing. His lordship calledfor some wine at dinner, and great was his anger when the lackey handedit to him in a glass, declaring that they could not find the goldengoblet. He threw glass, and wine, and all, at the servant's head--flewinto a terrible passion--and swore, by all that was good and bad, thathe would not take anything stronger than water until the cup was on thetable again; and that, if it was not forthcoming in a week, he'd turnoff every servant he had, without paying them their wages, or givingthem a character.

  "The cup was well searched for, but all to no purpose, as you maysuppose. At last, the week came to an end--all the servants had theirclothes packed up, to be off in the morning. His lordship was gettingdreadfully tired of drinking cold water, and the whole house was, as onemay say, turned topsy-turvy, when, to the delight and admiration of all,in came Con O'Keefe, from Ireland, with a letter from Mr. Barry and thecup in his fist.

  "I rather think they welcomed him. His lordship made it a point to get'glorious' that night, and, as in duty bound, the entire householdfollowed his example, with all the pleasure in life. You may be certainthat Con played away finely at the wine--you know the fairies had madehim free of the cellar--so he knew the taste of the liquor, and relishedit too. There can be no doubt that there was a regular jollification inthe chateau that night.

  "Con remained in France for a month, and was perfectly in clover, for,from the lord to the lackey, every one liked him. When he returned, hehad a heavy purse of gold for himself, and many fine presents for hismaster. Indeed, while the French lord lived, which was for fifteen goodyears longer, a couple of hogsheads of excellent claret were annuallyreceived at Barry's-fort, as a present from him, and there was no winein the country to equal it. As for Con O'Keefe, he never had the luck tomeet the fairies again, a misfortune he very sincerely lamented. Andthat's the whole story."

  I asked Mr. McCann, whether he really believed _all_ of it? That worthyreplied in these words:--

  "Why, in truth, I must say, some parts of it require rather an elasticmind to take in; but there's no doubt that Con _was_ sent over toFrance, where, it is said, there was a great to-do about a golden cup. Iam positive that Mr. Barry used to receive a present of claret, everyyear, from a French lord, for I've drank some of the best claret inIreland from Mr. Barry's cellar. If the tale _be_ true--and I have toldit as I have heard Con O'Keefe tell it, especially when overcome byliquor, at which time, the truth is sure to come out--it is proofpositive, that there have been fairies in this neighborhood, and thatwithin the memory of man!"

  Such a logical conclusion was incontrovertible, especially when enforcedby a facetious wink from the schoolmaster; so, I even left matters asthey were, and listened with all proper attention to other stories inthe same vein, and to the same effect. If the narrator did not creditthem, most of his auditors did, which amounts to much the same in theend. Some other time, perhaps, I may be tempted to relate them.