There was a chorus of “Thrue for ye!”
“Aye, an’ it’s a black shnake too!” said one.
“An’ wid side-whishkers!” said another.
“Begorra! we want St. Patrick to luk in here agin!” said a third.
I whispered to Andy the driver:
“Who is it they mean?”
“Whisht!” he answered, but without moving his lips; “but don’t let on I tould ye! Sure an’ it’s Black Murdock they mane.”
“Who or what is Murdock?” I queried.
“Sure an’ he is the Gombeen Man.”
“What is that? What is a gombeen man?”
“Whisper me now,” said Andy; “ax some iv the others. They’ll larn it ye more betther nor I can.”
“What is a gombeen man?” I asked to the company generally.
“A gombeen man, is it? Well, I’ll tell ye,” said an old, shrewd-looking man at the other side of the hearth. “He’s a man that linds you a few shillin’s or a few pounds whin ye want it bad, and then niver laves ye till he has tuk all ye’ve got — yer land an’ yer shanty an’ yer holdin’ an’ yer money an’ yer craps; an’ he would take the blood out of yer body if he could sell it or use it anyhow!”
“Oh, I see — a sort of usurer.”
“Ushurer? aye, that’s it; but a ushurer lives in the city, an’ has laws to hould him in. But the Gombeen has nayther law nor the fear iv law. He’s like wan that the Scriptures says ‘grinds the faces iv the poor.’ Begor, it’s him that’d do little for God’s sake if the divil was dead!”
“Then I suppose this man Murdock is a man of means — a rich man in his way?”
“Rich is it? Sure an’ it’s him as has plinty. He could lave this place if he chose an’ settle in Galway — aye, or in Dublin itself if he liked betther, and lind money to big min — landlords an’ the like — instead iv playin’ wid poor min here an’ swallyin’ them up, wan be wan. But he can’t go! He can’t go!” This he said with a vengeful light in his eyes; I turned to Andy for explanation.
“Can’t go! How does he mean? What does he mean?”
“Whisht! Don’t ax me. Ax Dan, there. He doesn’t owe him any money!”
“Which is Dan?”
“The ould man there be the settle what has just spoke — Dan Moriarty. He’s a warrum man, wid money in bank an’ what owns his houldin’; an’ he’s not afeerd to have his say about Murdock.”
“Can any of you tell me why Murdock can’t leave the Hill?” I spoke out.
“Begor, I can,” said Dan quickly. “He can’t lave it because the Hill houlds him!”
“What on earth do you mean? How can the Hill hold him?”
“It can hould tight enough! There may be raysons that a man gives — sometimes wan thing, an’ sometimes another; but the Hill houlds — an’ houlds tight all the same!”
Here the door was opened suddenly, and the fire blazed up with the rush of wind that entered. All stood up suddenly, for the newcomer was a priest. He was a sturdy man of middle age, with a cheerful countenance. Sturdy as he was, however, it took all his strength to shut the door, but he succeeded before any of the men could get near enough to help him. Then he turned and saluted all the company:
“God save all here.”
All present tried to do him some service. One took his wet great-coat, another his dripping hat, and a third pressed him into the warmest seat in the chimney-corner, where, in a very few seconds, Mrs. Kelligan handed him a steaming glass of punch, saying, “Dhrink that up, yer rivYence. ‘Twill help to kape ye from catchin’ cowld.”
“Thank ye, kindly,” he answered, as he took it. When he had half emptied the glass, he said: “What was it I heard as I came in about the Hill holding some one?”
Dan answered:
“‘Twas me, yer riv’rence. I said that the Hill had hould of Black Murdock, and could hould him tight.”
“Pooh! pooh! man; don’t talk such nonsense. The fact is, sir,” said he, turning to me, after throwing a searching glance round the company, “the people here have all sorts of stories about that unlucky Hill — why, God knows; and this man Murdock, that they call Black Murdock, is a moneylender as well as a farmer, and none of them like him, for he is a hard man and has done some cruel things among them. When they say the Hill holds him, they mean that he doesn’t like to leave it because he hopes to find a treasure that is said to be buried in it. I’m not sure but that the blame is to be thrown on the different names given to the Hill. That most commonly given is Knockcalltecrore, which is a corruption of the Irish phrase Knock-na-callte-croin-oir, meaning, ‘The Hill of the Lost Golden Crown;’ but it has been sometimes called Knockcalltore — short for the Irish words Knock-na-callte-oir, or ‘The Hill of the Lost Gold’. It is said that in some old past time it was called Knocknanaher, or ‘The Hill of the Snake;’ and, indeed, there’s one place on it they call Shleenahaher, meaning the ‘Snake’s Pass’. I dare say, now, that they have been giving you the legends and stories and all the rubbish of that kind. I suppose you know, sir, that in most places the local fancy has run riot at some period and has left a good crop of absurdities and impossibilities behind it?”
I acquiesced warmly, for I felt touched by the good priest’s desire to explain matters, and to hold his own people blameless for crude ideas which he did not share.
He went on:
“It is a queer thing that men must be always putting abstract ideas into concrete shape. No doubt there have been some strange matters regarding this mountain that they’ve been talking about — the Shifting Bog, for instance; and as the people could not account for it in any way that they can understand, they knocked up a legend about it. Indeed, to be just to them, the legend is a very old one, and is mentioned in a manuscript of the twelfth century. But somehow it was lost sight of till about a hundred ago, when the loss of the treasure-chest from the French invasion at Killala set all the imaginations of the people at work, from Donegal to Cork, and they fixed the Hill of the Lost Gold as the spot where the money was to be found. There is not a word of fact in the story from beginning to end, and” — here he gave a somewhat stern glance round the room — “I’m a little ashamed to hear so much chat and nonsense given to a strange gentleman like as if it was so much gospel. However, you mustn’t be too hard in your thoughts on the poor people here, sir, for they’re good people — none better in all Ireland — in all the world for that — but they talk too free to do themselves justice.”
All those present were silent for awhile. Old Moynahan was the first to speak.
“Well, Father Pether, I don’t say nothin’ about St. Patrick an’ the shnakes meself, because I don’t know nothin’ about them; but I know that me own father tould me that he seen the Frinchmin wid his own eyes crossin’ the sthrame below, an’ facin’ up the mountain. The moon was risin’ in the west, an’ the hill threw a big shadda. There was two min an’ two horses, an’ they had a big box on a gun-carriage. Me father seen them cross the sthrame. The load was so heavy that the wheels sunk in the clay, an’ the min had to pull at them to git them up again. An’ didn’t he see the marks iv the wheels in the ground the very nixt day?”
“Bartholomew Moynahan, are you telling the truth?” interrupted the priest,