Returning home, a great eel on my
shoulder, his head flapping down in front, his tail sweeping the ground
behind, I met a fisherman of my acquaintance.
shoulder, his head flapping down in front, his tail sweeping the ground
behind, I met a fisherman of my acquaintance.
Yeats
Some time went by, and then his dog came out of the cavern
completely flayed, too weak even to howl. Nothing else ever came out of
the cavern. Then there is the tale of the man who dived into a lake
where treasure was thought to be. He saw a great coffer of iron. Close
to the coffer lay a monster, who warned him to return whence he came.
He rose to the surface; but the bystanders, when they heard he had seen
the treasure, persuaded him to dive again. He dived. In a little while
his heart and liver floated up, reddening the water. No man ever saw
the rest of his body.
These water-goblins and water-monsters are common in Scottish
folk-lore. We have them too, but take them much less dreadfully. Our
tales turn all their doings to favour and to prettiness, or hopelessly
humorize the creatures. A hole in the Sligo river is haunted by one
of these monsters. He is ardently believed in by many, but that does
not prevent the peasantry playing with the subject, and surrounding
it with conscious phantasies. When I was a small boy I fished one day
for congers in the monster hole.
Returning home, a great eel on my
shoulder, his head flapping down in front, his tail sweeping the ground
behind, I met a fisherman of my acquaintance. I began a tale of an
immense conger, three times larger than the one I carried, that had
broken my line and escaped. 'That was him,' said the fisherman. 'Did
you ever hear how he made my brother emigrate? My brother was a diver,
you know, and grubbed stones for the Harbour Board. One day the beast
comes up to him, and says, "What are you after? " "Stones, sur," says
he. "Don't you think you had better be going? " "Yes, sur," says he. And
that's why my brother emigrated. The people said it was because he got
poor, but that's not true. '
You--you will make no terms with the spirits of fire and earth and
air and water. You have made the Darkness your enemy. We--we exchange
civilities with the world beyond.
WAR
WHEN there was a rumour of war with France a while ago, I met a poor
Sligo woman, a soldier's widow, that I know, and I read her a sentence
out of a letter I had just had from London: 'The people here are mad
for war, but France seems inclined to take things peacefully,' or some
like sentence. Her mind ran a good deal on war, which she imagined
partly from what she had heard from soldiers, and partly from tradition
of the rebellion of '98, but the word London doubled her interest, for
she knew there were a great many people in London, and she herself
had once lived in 'a congested district.
completely flayed, too weak even to howl. Nothing else ever came out of
the cavern. Then there is the tale of the man who dived into a lake
where treasure was thought to be. He saw a great coffer of iron. Close
to the coffer lay a monster, who warned him to return whence he came.
He rose to the surface; but the bystanders, when they heard he had seen
the treasure, persuaded him to dive again. He dived. In a little while
his heart and liver floated up, reddening the water. No man ever saw
the rest of his body.
These water-goblins and water-monsters are common in Scottish
folk-lore. We have them too, but take them much less dreadfully. Our
tales turn all their doings to favour and to prettiness, or hopelessly
humorize the creatures. A hole in the Sligo river is haunted by one
of these monsters. He is ardently believed in by many, but that does
not prevent the peasantry playing with the subject, and surrounding
it with conscious phantasies. When I was a small boy I fished one day
for congers in the monster hole.
Returning home, a great eel on my
shoulder, his head flapping down in front, his tail sweeping the ground
behind, I met a fisherman of my acquaintance. I began a tale of an
immense conger, three times larger than the one I carried, that had
broken my line and escaped. 'That was him,' said the fisherman. 'Did
you ever hear how he made my brother emigrate? My brother was a diver,
you know, and grubbed stones for the Harbour Board. One day the beast
comes up to him, and says, "What are you after? " "Stones, sur," says
he. "Don't you think you had better be going? " "Yes, sur," says he. And
that's why my brother emigrated. The people said it was because he got
poor, but that's not true. '
You--you will make no terms with the spirits of fire and earth and
air and water. You have made the Darkness your enemy. We--we exchange
civilities with the world beyond.
WAR
WHEN there was a rumour of war with France a while ago, I met a poor
Sligo woman, a soldier's widow, that I know, and I read her a sentence
out of a letter I had just had from London: 'The people here are mad
for war, but France seems inclined to take things peacefully,' or some
like sentence. Her mind ran a good deal on war, which she imagined
partly from what she had heard from soldiers, and partly from tradition
of the rebellion of '98, but the word London doubled her interest, for
she knew there were a great many people in London, and she herself
had once lived in 'a congested district.
