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There was a
king in Erin once, who had a leash of sons. John was the name of the
youngest one, and it was said that he was not wise enough; and this good
worldly king lost the sight of his eyes, and the strength of his feet. The
two eldest brothers said that they would go seek three bottles of the
water of the green Isle that was about the heaps of the deep ("Eilean
uaine a bha 'n iomal torra domhain."). And so it was that these two
brothers went away. Now the fool said that he would not believe but that
he himself would go also. And the first big town he reached in his
father's kingdom, there he sees his two brothers there, the blackguards!
"Oh! my boys," says the young one, "it is thus you are?" "With swiftness
of foot," said they, "take thyself home, or we will have thy life." "Don't
be afraid, lads. It is nothing to me to stay with you." Now John went away
on his journey till he came to a great desert of a wood. "Hoo, hoo!" says
John to himself, "It is not canny for me to walk this wood alone." The
night was coming now, and growing pretty dark. John ties the cripple white
horse that was under him to the root of a tree, and he went up in the top
himself. He was but a very short time in the top, when he saw a bear
coming with a fiery cinder in his mouth. "Come down, son of the king of
Erin," says he. "Indeed, I won't come. I am thinking I am safer where I
am." "But if thou wilt not come down, I will go up," said the bear. "Art
thou, too, taking me for a fool?" says John. "A shaggy, shambling creature
like thee, climbing a tree!" "But if thou wilt not come down I will go
up," says the bear, as he fell out of hand to climb the tree. "Lord! thou
canst do that same?" said John; “keep back from the root of the tree,
then, and I will go down to talk to thee." And when the son of Erin's king
drew down, they came to chatting. The bear asked him if he was hungry. "Weel!
by your leave," said John, "I am a little at this very same time." The
bear took that wonderful watchful turn and he catches a roebuck. "Now, son
of Erin's king," says the bear, "whether wouldst thou like thy share of
the buck boiled or raw?" "The sort of meat I used to get would be kind of
plotted boiled," says John; and thus it fell out. John got his share
roasted. "Now," said the bear, "lie down between my paws, and thou hast no
cause to fear cold or hunger till morning." Early in the morning the
Mathon (bear) asked, "Art thou asleep, son of Erin's king?" "I am not very
heavily," said he. "It is time for thee to be on thy soles then. Thy
journey is long - two hundred miles; but art thou a good horseman, John?"
"There are worse than me at times," said he. "Thou hadst best get on top
of me, then." He did this, and at the first leap John was to earth.
"Foil! foil!"
says John. "What! thou art not bad at the trade thyself. Thou hadst best
come back till we try thee again." And with nails and teeth he fastened on
the Mathon, till they reached the end of the two hundred miles and a
giant's house. "Now, John," said the Mathon, "thou shalt go to pass the
night in this giant's house; thou wilt find him pretty grumpy, but say
thou that it was the brown bear of the green glen that set thee here for a
night's share, and don't thou be afraid that thou wilt not get share and
comfort." And he left the bear to go to the giant's house. "Son of
Ireland's King," says the giant, "thy coming was in the prophecy; but if I
did not get thy father, I have got his son. I don't know whether I will
put thee in the earth with my feet, or in the sky with my breath." "Thou
wilt do neither of either," said John, "for it is the brown bear of the
green glen that set me here." "Come in, son of Erin's king," said he, "and
thou shalt be well taken to this night." And as he said, it was true. John
got meat and drink without stint. But to make a long tale short, the bear
took John day after day to the third giant. "Now," says the bear, "I have
not much acquaintance with this giant, but thou wilt not be long in his
house when thou must wrestle with him. And if he is too hard on thy back,
say thou, 'If I had the brown bear of the green glen here, that was thy
master.' " As soon as John went in - "Ai! ail! or ee! ee!!" says the
giant, "If I did not get thy father, I have got his son;" and to grips
they go. They would make the boggy bog of the rocky rock. In the hardest
place they would sink to the knee; in the softest, up to the thighs; and
they would bring wells of spring water from the face of every rock. The
giant gave John a sore wrench or two. "Foil! foil!" says he, "if I had
here the brown bear of the green glen, thy leap would not be so hearty."
And no sooner spoke he the word than the worthy bear was at his side.
"Yes! yes!" says the giant, "son of Erin's king, now I know thy matter
better than thou dost thyself." So it was that the giant ordered his
shepherd to bring home the best wether he had in the hill, and to throw
his carcass before the great door. "Now, John," says the giant, "an eagle
will come and she will settle on the carcass of this wether, and there is
a wart on the ear of this eagle which thou must cut off her with this
sword, but a drop of blood thou must not draw." The eagle came, but she
was not long eating when John drew close to her, and with one stroke he
cut the wart off her without drawing one drop of blood. ("Och! is not
that a fearful lie?") "Now," said the eagle, "come on the root of my
two wings, for I know thy matter better than thou dost thyself." He did
this; and they were now on sea, and now on land, and now on the wing, till
they reached the Green Isle. "Now, John," says she, "be quick, and fill
thy three bottles; remember that the black dogs are away just now." ("What
dogs?" "Black dogs; dost thou not know that they always had black dogs
chasing the Gregorach!”) When he filled the bottles with the water out
of the well, he sees a little house beside him. John said to himself that
he would go in, and that he would see what was in it. And the first
chamber he opened, he saw a full bottle. ("And what was in it?" "What
should be in it but whisky.") He filled a glass out of it, and he
drank it; and when he was going, he gave a glance, and the bottle was as
full as it was before. "I will have this bottle along with the bottles of
water," says he.
Then he went
into another chamber, and he saw a loaf; he took a slice out of it, but
the loaf was as whole as it was before. "Ye gods! I won't leave thee,"
says John. He went on thus till he came to another chamber. He saw a great
cheese; he took a slice off the cheese, but it was as whole as ever. "I
will have this along with the rest," says he. Then he went to another
chamber, and he saw laid there the very prettiest little jewel of a woman
he ever saw. "It were a great pity not to kiss thy lips, my love," says
John.
Soon after,
John jumped on top of the eagle, and she took him on the self same steps
till they reached the house of the big giant, and they were paying rent to
the giant, and there was the sight of tenants and giants and meat and
drink. "Well! John," says the giant, "didst thou see such drink as this in
thy father's house in Erin?" "Pooh," says John, "Hoo! my hero; thou other
man, I have a drink that is unlike it." He gave the giant a glass out of
the bottle, but the bottle was as full as it was before. "Well!" said the
giant, "I will give thee myself two hundred notes, a bridle and a saddle
for the bottle." "It is a bargain, then," says John, "but that the first
sweetheart I ever had must get it if she comes the way." "She will get
that," says the giant; but, to make the long story short, he left each
loaf and cheese with the two other giants with the same covenant that the
first sweetheart he ever had should get them if she came the way.
Now John
reached his father's big town in Erin, and he sees his two brothers as he
left them - the "blackguardan!" "You had best come with me, lads," says
he, "and you will get a dress of cloth, and a horse and a saddle and
bridle each." And so they did; but when they were near to their father's
house, the brothers thought that they had better kill him, and so it was
that they set on him. And when they thought he was dead, they threw him
behind a dike; and they took from him the three bottles of water, and they
went home. John was not too long here, when his father's smith came the
way with a cart load of rusty iron. John called out, "Whoever the
Christian is that is there, oh! that he should help him." The smith caught
him, and he threw John amongst the iron; and because the iron was so
rusty, it went into each wound and sore that John had; and so it was, that
John became rough skinned and bald. Here we will leave John, and we will
go back to the pretty little jewel that John left in the Green Isle. She
became pale and heavy; and at the end of three quarters, she had a fine
lad son. "Oh! in an the great world," says she, "how did I find this?"
"Foil! foil!" says the hen-wife, "don't let that set thee thinking. Here's
for thee a bird, and as soon as he sees the father of thy son, he will hop
on the top of his head." The Green Isle was gathered from end to end, and
the people were put in at the back door and out at the front door; but the
bird did not stir, and the babe's father was not found. Now here, she said
she would go through the world altogether till she should find the father
of the babe. Then she came to the house of the big giant and sees the
bottle. "Ai! Ai!!" said she, "who gave thee this bottle?" Said the giant,
"It was young John, son of Erin's king, that left it." "Well, then, the
bottle is mine," said she. But to make the long story short, she came to
the house of each giant, and she took with her each bottle, and each loaf,
and each cheese, till at length and at last she came to the house of the
king of Erin. Then the five-fifths of Erin were gathered, and the bridge
of nobles of the people; they were put in at the back door and out at the
front door but the bird did not stir. Then she asked if there was one
other or any one else at all in Erin, that had not been here. "I have a
bald rough-skinned gillie in the smithy," said the smith, "but," –
"Rough on or
off, send him here," says she. No sooner did the bird see the head of the
bald rough-skinned gillie, than he took a flight and settles on the bald
top of the rough skinned lad. She caught him and kissed him. “Thou art the
father of my babe."
"But, John,"
says the great king of Erin, "It is thou that gottest the bottles of water
for me." "Indeed, 'twas I” says John. "Weel, then, what art thou willing
to do to thy two brothers?" "The very thing they wished to do to me, do
for them;" and that same was done. John married the daughter of the king
of the Green Isle, and they made a great rich wedding that lasted seven
days and seven years, and thou couldst but hear leeg, leeg, and beeg, beeg,
solid sound the peg drawing. Gold a-crushing from the soles of their feet
to the tips of their fingers, the length of seven years and seven days.
SGEULACHD AIR
MATH-GHAMHAINN DONN A GHLINN UAINNE.
Bha rìgh air
Eirinn aon uair, aig an robh triủir mhac, 's b' ainm don fhear a b' òige
Iain, 's bha e air a radh nach robh e glic na leòir, agus chaill an rìgh
saoghalta so sealladh a shủilean, 's lủgh nan cas. Thubhairt: an da
bhràthair bu shine gun rachadh iadsan air tòir tri botuil uisge do'n
eilean uaine a bha 'n iomall torra domhain, agus 'se bh' ann gun d' fhalbh
an da bhràthair so. Thubhairt an t-amadan nach creideadh e féin nach
falbhadh e cuideachd, agus a cheud bhailemòr do 'n d' thàinig e ann an
rìoghachd athar, faicear a dha bhràthair an sin 'nam blaigeartan! "O a
bhalacha! " ars' am fear òg, "an ann mar so a tha sibhse." "Air luathas do
chas," ars' iadsan, "thoir an tigh ort air neo bithidh do bheatha againn.
" "Na bitheadh eagal oirbh romham cha 'n fhiach leamsa fanachd maille ribh."
Dh' fhalbh Iain an so air a thurus, gus an d' thàinig e gu fàsach mòr do
choille. Hu! Huth! ars' Iain ris féin, "Cha 'neil e cneasda dhòmhsa a'
choille so a choiseachd leam fhéin. " Bha 'n oidhche a' tighinn a nis, 's
i fàs gu math dorcha. Ceangailear Iain an t-each bacach, bàn a bha foidhe
ri bun craoidhe 's chaidh e féin suas 'na bàrr. Cha robh e ach goirid 'na
bàrr gus am fac e math-ghamhainn a' tighinn 's eibhleag theine na bheul. "Thig
a nuas, a mhic rìgh Eirinn," ars' esan. "Gu dearbh, cha d' thig, tha mi
smaointeachadh gu' bheil mi nis tèaruinte far am bheil mi." "Ach mur d'
thig thusa nuas théid mise suas," arsa 'm math-ghamhainn. " 'M bheil thusa
'gam ghabhail 'nam amadan cuideachd," thuirt Iain. Creutair robagach,
liobarta coltach riutsa a streapadh chraobh. "Ach mur d' thig thusa nuas,
théid mise suas," ars' am math-ghamhainn 's e ‘toirt a ghrad làimh air
streapadh na craoibhe. "'S dia ni thu sin fhéin," thuirt Iain. “Fan air t'
ais fo bhun na craoibhe, mata, 's théid mi sìos a bhruidhinn riut." Agus
dur a theirinn mac rìgh Eirinn a nuas, thàinig iad gu cracaireachd. Dh'
fheòrich a' mhath-ghamhainn dheth, 'an robh an t-acras air? "Uill le 'r
cead," ars' Iain, "tha beagan orm dheth 'sa cheart am so fein." Thug am
math-ghamhainn an sgrìob uallach, aighearach ‘ud, 's beirear air boc earba.
"A nis, a mhic rìgh Eirinnn," arsa am math-ghamhainn, "Co 's feàrr leat do
chuid do 'n bhoc bruich na amh." "An seòrsa bidh a b’ àbhairt dhòmhsa
fhaotainn, bhitheadh seòrsa plotadh bruich airs,” ars' Iain. Agus 'sann a
so mar thachair. Fhuair Iain a chuid fhéin ròiste. "A nis, " arsa 'm math-ghamhainn,
"luidh sìos eadar mo spògan-sa, 's cha 'n eagal fuachd no acrais dhuit gu
madainn." Moch 'sa mhadainn, dh' fhoighneachd am math-ghamhainn, "Am bheil
thu 'd chadal, a mhic rìgh Eirinn?" "Cha 'n 'eil anabarrach trom," thuirt
esan. "Tha 'n t-àm dhuit a bhi air do bhuinn mata, tha 'n t-astar fada, da
cheud mìle; ach am bheil thu 'nad 'mharcaiche math, Iain?" "Tha na' s
miosa na mi air amannan," thuirt esan. " 'S feàrr dhuit tighinn air mo
mhuinn mata." Rinn e so, agus air a cheud leum, bha Iain ri talamh. "Fòil!
Fòil” ars' Iain, "dé 'cha 'n 'eil thu fhein dona air a cheaird! 'S feàrr
dhuit tighinn air t-ais gus am feuch sinn a rithist thu;" 's le iongan ‘s
fiaclan ghreimich e ris a mha'ghan, gus an d' ràinig iad ceann an dà cheud
mìle, 's tigh famhair. "Nis Iain," arsa 'm ma'ghan, "théid thu chuir
seachad na h-oidhche ann an tigh an fhamhair so." Gheibh thu e gu maith
gnò, ach abair thusa gur e math-gamhainn donn a' ghlinn uaine, a chuir
thusa an so air son cuid oidhche, agus na biodh eagal ort nach fhaigh thu
cuid 'us comhnadh. 'S dh’ ‘fhàg am math-gamhainn e 'dol gu tigh an
fhamhair. "A mhic rìgh Eirinn," ars' am famhair, bha 'san targradh thu bhi
tighinn, ach mar d' fhuair mi t' athair, fhuair mi 'mhac; cha 'n 'eil fios
agam co dhiu chuireas mi 'san talamh thu le m' chasan, no 'san adhar le
m'anail." "Cha deàn thu aon chuid do 'n da chuid," thuirt Iain, oir se
math-ghamhainn donn a' ghlinn uaine a chuir mise 'n so." "Thig a stigh, a
mhic rìgh Eirinn," thuirt esan, " 's gheibh thu gabhail agad gu maith a
nochd;" agus mar thubhairt b 'fhìor. Fhuair Iain biadh ‘s deoch gun
ghainne; ach gus an sgeulachd fada a dheanamh goirid, thug am math-gamhainn
Iain latha an déigh latha gus an treas famhair. "A nis," ars' am math-gamhainn,
"cha' n 'eil mòran eòlais agamsa air an fhamhair so, ach cha bhi thu fada
'na thigh dar a dh' fheumas tu dol a ghleachd ris, agus ma bhitheas e
tullidh 's cruaidh air do shon, abair thusa na 'm biodh agamsa ma'ghan
donn a ghlinn uaine, b’e sin do maighstir." Co luath 'sa chaidh Iain a
stigh, "Ai! Ai! ars' am famhair mòr, mar d’fhuair mi t' athair, fhuair mi
'mhac, agus 'sa chéile ghabh iad; 's dhèanadh iad a bhogan don chreagan -
an t-àite bu chruaidhe rachadh iad foidhe gu 'n glủinean 's an t-àite bu
bhuige gu 'n sléisdean, 's bheireadh iad fuaranan fior-uisge a h-aodann
gach creagain. Thug am famhair fàsgadh goirt na dithis do dh' Iain. "Fòil!
Fòil" thuirt esan, "Na'm biodh agamsa an so math-gamhainn donn a' ghlinn
uaine, cha bhiodh do leum co sunndach;" agus cha luaith a labhair e 'm
facal na bha am ma'ghan còir ri 'thaobh. "Seadh! Seadh!” ars' am famhair,
"a mhic rìgh Eirinn, tha fios agam a nis air do ghnothach n' is feàrr na
tha agad fhéin." 'Se bh' ann gun d-òrduich am famhair do 'n chìobair aige
am molt a b’ fheàrr a bha 's a' bheinn a thoirt dhachaidh, agus a'
chlosach a thilgeadh ma choinneamh an doruis mhòir. "A nis, Iain, ars' am
famhair, thig iolaire, agus luidhidh i air closach a mhuilt so, agus tha
foinneamh air cluais na h-iolaire so, a dh' fheumas tusa a ghearradh dhi
le aon bheum leis a' claidheamh so, ach deur fola cha 'n fheud thu
tharruinn." Thàinig an iolaire, 's cha robh i fada 'g itheadh dar a theann
Iain rithe, 's le aon bheum gheàrr e 'm foinneamh dhi gun aon deur fola a
tharruinn. "A nis arsa 'n iolaire, thig air bhun mo dha sgéithe, bho 'n a
tha fios agam air do ghnothuch n' is feàrr na th' agad féin." Rinn e so,
agus bha iad uair air muir, 's uair air talamh, 's uair air an sgiathan,
gus an d' ràinig iad an t-Eilean uaine. "Nis Iain, ars' ise, bi ealamh, 's
lìon do bhotuil; cuimhnich gu bheil na coin dhubha air falbh an ceartair."
Nuair a lìon a na botuil do 'n uisge as an tobar, faicear tigh beag làimh
ris. Thuirt Iain ris féin gu'n rachadh e stigh, s gu 'm faiceadh e dé bh’
ann, agus a cheud sòmar a dh' fhosgail e, chunnaic e botull làn do dh-uisge
beatha, lìon e gloinne as, 's dh' òl e 'san uair a dh' òl, thug e sủil, 's
bha 'm botull cho làn sa bha e roimhe. "Bithidh 'm botull so agam còmhla
ris na botuil uisge," ars' esan. Chaidh e 'n sin a stigh do sheomar eile,
's chunnaic e builionn; thug e sliseag as, ach bha 'm builionn cho slàn sa
bha e roimhe. "Dia cha 'n fhàg mi thus'," ars' Iain. Chaidh e air aghaidh
mar so gus an d' ràinig e seòmar eile; chunnaic e mulachag mhòr chàise,
thug e sliseag do 'n mhulachaig, ach bha i cho slàn sa bha i roimhe. "Bithidh
so agam còmhla ri càch," ars' esan. Chaidh e 'n so gu seòmar eile, 's
faicear 'na luidhe an sin an t-aon àilleagan boirionnaich bu bhoidhche a
chunnaic e riamh. "Bu mhòr am beud gun phòg beòil a thoirt dhuit, a ghaoil,"
ars' Iain. Beagan 'na dheigh so, leum Iain air muin na h-iolaire 's thug i
e air a chas cheum cheudna, gus an d-ràinig iad tigh an fhamhair mhòir, 's
bha iad a pàidheadh a mhàil do 'n famhair, agus 's ann an sin a bha 'n
sealladh air tuathanaich, 's famhairean, 's biadh, 's deoch. "Uil, Iain,"
ars' am famhair, "am fac thu 'leithid so do dheoch ann an tigh t'athar an
Eirinn." "Puth!" ars' Iain, "hu; a laochain, a dhuine eile, tha deoch
agamsa nach ionann." Thug e gloinne do 'n fhamhair as a bhotul, ach bha 'm
botul cho làn 'sa bha e roimhe. "Mata, ars' am famhair, "bheir mi fhéin da
chèud nott dhuit air son a' bhotuil, srian, agus diollaid." " 'S bargain e
mata," ars' Iain, "ach gu 'feum an ceud leannan a bha agamsa fhaotainn ma
thig i ‘n rathad." "Gheibh i sin," ars' am famhair, ach gus an sgeulachd
fada a dheanamh goirid, dh' fhàg e gach builionn 's gach mulachag aig an
da fhamhair eile, air a' chumhnant cheudna gu' faigheadh an ceud leannan
bha aige-san iad na 'n d' thigeadh i 'n rathad. Ràinig Iain an so baile
mòr athar ann an Eirinn, 's faicear a dha bhràthair mar dh' fhàg e iad 'nam
blaigeartan. " 'S feàrr dhuibh tighinn dhachaidh leamsa, 'illean," ars'
esan, 's gheibh sibh deis' eudaich, 's each, 's diollaid, 's srian am
fear; agus mur so rinn iad; ach dar a bha iad dlủth do thigh an athair,
smaoinich a bhràithrean gum b’fheàrr dhoibh a mharbhadh, agus ‘s e bh'ann
gun do thòisich iad air, 's dar a shaoil leo e bhi marbh, thilg iad e air
củl gàrraidh, 's thug iad uaidh na tri botuil uisge, 's dh' fhalbh iad
dhachaidh. Cha robh Iain ro fhada an so, nuair a thàinig an gobha aig
athair an rathad le làn cairt do dh' iarunn meirgeach. Ghlaodh Iain a mach
co air bith an crìosduidh bha 'n sin, O! e dheanamh cobhair dhàsan. Rug an
gobha air, 's thilg e Iain am measg an iaruinn, agus leis cho, meirgeach 'sa
bha ‘n t-iarrunn, chaidh e ann's gach lot's creuchd a bh' air Iain, agus
‘s e bh' ann, gun do chinn Iain maol, carrach. Fàgaidh sinn Iain an so,
agus tillidh sinn ris an ailleagan bhòidheach a dh’fhàg Iain 'san eilean
uaine. Chinn i ‘n so trom, torrach, breac, ballach, 'san ceann tri
ràithean, bha mac brèagh gille aice. "O air an t-saoghail mhòr," ars' ise,
"cia mar a fhuair mise so?" "Foil! Foil!" ars' a' chailleach chearc, "Na
cuireadh sin smaointeach ort; so dhuit eun, agus co luath sa chi e athair
do mhic, leumaidh e air mullach a chinn. Chaidh an t-eilean uaine a
chruinneachadh bho cheann gu ceann, ‘s an sluagh a chur a stigh air an
dorus chủil 's amach air an dorus bheoil, ach cha do ghluais an t-eun, 's
cha d' fhuaireadh athair an leinibh. Thubhairt i 'n so gu falbhadh i feadh
an t-saoghail gu leir, gus am faigheadh i athair a leinibh. Thàinig i 'n
so gu tigh an fhamhair mhòir, agus faicear am botul. "Ai! Ai!" deir ise,
"co thug dhuit am botul so?" Thuirt am famhair. " 'Se Iain òg mac rìgh
Eirinn adh' fhàg e." "Mata 's leamsa am botul," thuirt ise, ach gu an
sgeulachd fad' a dheànamh goirid, thàinig i gu tigh gach famhair, 's thug
i leatha gach botul 's gach builionn 's gach mulachag chàise; gus ma
dheireadh thall, thàinig i gu tigh rìgh Eirinn. Chaidh 'n so cuig cuigeamh
na h-Eirinn a chruinneachadh 's drochaid cheudan na maith. Chaidh an cur a
stigh air an dorus chủil, 's a mach air an dorus bheòil, ach cha do
ghluais an t-eun. "Dh' fheòraich i 'n so, an robh a h-aon na h-aon idir
eile ann an Eirinn nach robh 'n so?" "Tha gille maol, carrach anns a'
cheàrdach agamsa," thuirt an gobha ach;" "Car air na dheth, cuir an so e"
deir ise: 's cha bo luaithe a chunnaic an t-eun ceann a ghille mhaoil
charraich na 'thug e iteag 's luidhear air maol mhullaich a' ghille
charrich. Rug i air 's phòg i e." " 'S tusa athair mo leinibh." "Ach
Iain," arsa rìgh mòr Eirinn. " 's tusa a fhuair na botuil uisge dhòmhsa. "
"Ach gu dearbh ‘s mi, " ars' Iain. "Uil, mata, dé tha thu toileach a
dhèanamh ri ‘d’ dhithis bhraithrean?" "A cheart rud a bha iadsan toileach
a dhèanamh ormsa, cur as doibh;" agus 's e sin fein a rinneadh. Phòs
Iain's nighean rìgh an Eilean Uaine, 's rinn iad banais mhòr ghreadhnach a
mhair seachd lathan 's seachd bliadhna 's cha chluinneadh tu ach lig, lig,
's big, big, fuaim tail 's tarruing pinne, òr 'ga phronnadh bho bhonn an
coise gu barr am meòir fad sheachd bliadhna 's sheachd lathan.
Written from
the recitation of JOHN MACDONALD, travelling tinker. He wanders all over
the Highlands, and lives in a tent with his family. He can neither read
nor write. He repeats some of his stories by heart fluently, and almost in
the same words. I have followed his recitation as closely as possible, but
it was exceedingly difficult to keep him stationary for any length of
time.
HECTOR
URQUHART.
The tinker's
comments I got from the transcriber. John himself is a character; he is
about fifty years of age; his father, an old soldier, is alive and about
eighty; and there are numerous younger branches; and they were all
encamped under the root of a tree in a quarry close to Inveraray, at
Easter 1859.
The father
tells many stories, but his memory is failing. The son told me several,
and I have a good many of them written down. They both recite; they do not
simply tell the story, but act it with changing voice and gesture, as if
they took an interest in it, and entered into the spirit and fun of the
tale. They belong to the race of "Cairds," and are as much nomads as the
gipsies are.
The father, to
use the son's expression, "Never saw a school." He served in the 42d in
his youth. One son makes horn spoons, and does not know a single story;
the other is a sporting character, a famous fisherman, who knows all the
lochs and rivers in the Highlands, makes flies, and earns money in summer
by teaching Southerns to fish. His ambition is to become an under-keeper.
This bear
story is like a great many others which I have got elsewhere in the
Highlands, but I have none told exactly in the same way. It should be much
longer, but the wandering spirit of the man would not let him rest to
dictate his story. They had to move to an outhouse and let him roam about
amongst the shavings, and swing his arms, before this much was got out of
him.
I have found
the same restlessness amongst wanderers elsewhere. I could never get Lapps
to sit still for ten minutes when I tried to draw them; and the air of a
house seemed to oppress them. I have hitherto failed in catching an
English tinker, whom I let slip one day in London, and to whom I promised
good pay if he would come and dictate a story which he had told me. There
is a similar wandering population in Norway and Sweden. They own boats and
carts, and pretend to magic arts; and are feared and detested by
householders as wizards and thieves. It is said that these Norwegian
wanderers hold a meeting on a hill near Christiania, once a year, and
barter and sell, and exchange whatever they may have acquired in their
travels. I have heard a great deal about them from peasants. I have seen
them, but very seldom in Norway. I once met a party in the gloaming on a
Swedish road, and a little girl, who was following and driving a gentleman
in a posting cart, when she met them, flogged her horse and galloped for
dear life.
There is a
similar race in Spain, and though they are not all gipsies, they are
classed with them. The history of these wanderers would be curious if it
could be learned. Borrow's Bible in Spain gives some insight, but there is
still much to be known about them. "London Labour and the Poor," and
reports on "Ragged Schools," treat of similar people.
This story may
be compared with Grimm's Water of Life. |
