The Crock of Gold
by James Stephens
BOOK I
THE COMING OF PAN
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
BOOK II
THE PHILOSOPHER'S JOURNEY
Chapter X
Chapter XI
BOOK III
THE TWO GODS
Chapter XII
BOOK IV
THE PHILOSOPHER'S RETURN
Chapter XIII
BOOK V
THE POLICEMEN
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
BOOK VI
THE THIN WOMAN'S JOURNEY AND THE HAPPY MARCH
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
BOOK IV THE PHILOSOPHER'S RETURN
CHAPTER XIII
WHICH is, the Earth or the creatures that move upon it,
the more important? This is a question prompted solely
by intellectual arrogance, for in life there is no greater
and no less. The thing that is has justified its own im-
portance by mere existence, for that is the great and
equal achievement. If life were arranged for us from
without such a question of supremacy would assume im-
portance, but life is always from within, and is modified
or extended by our own appetites, aspirations, and cen-
tral activities. From without we get pollen and the re-
freshment of space and quietude--it is sufficient. We
might ask, is the Earth anything more than an extension
of our human consciousness, or are we, moving creatures,
only projections of the Earth's antennae? But these mat-
ters have no value save as a field wherein Thought, like
a wise lamb, may frolic merrily. And all would be very
well if Thought would but continue to frolic, instead of
setting up first as locum tenens for Intuition and sticking
to the job, and afterwards as the counsel and critic of
Omnipotence. Everything has two names, and every-
thing is twofold. The name of male Thought as it faces
the world is Philosophy, but the name it bears in Tir-
na-nOg is Delusion. Female Thought is called Socialism
on earth, but in Eternity it is known as Illusion; and this
is so because there has been no matrimony of minds, but
only an hermaphroditic propagation of automatic ideas,
which in their due rotation assume dominance and reign
severely. To the world this system of thought, because
it is consecutive, is known as Logic, but Eternity has writ-
ten it down in the Book of Errors as Mechanism: for life
may not be consecutive, but explosive and variable, else
it is a shackled and timorous slave.
One of the great troubles of life is that Reason has
taken charge of the administration of Justice, and by
mere identification it has achieved the crown and sceptre
of its master. But the imperceptible usurpation was re-
corded, and discriminating minds understand the chasm
which still divides the pretender Law from the exiled
King. In a like manner, and with feigned humility, the
Cold Demon advanced to serve Religion, and by guile
and violence usurped her throne; but the pure in heart
still fly from the spectre Theology to dance in ecstasy
before the starry and eternal goddess. Statecraft, also,
that tender Shepherd of the Flocks, has been despoiled
of his crook and bell, and wanders in unknown desolation
while, beneath the banner of Politics, Reason sits howling
over an intellectual chaos.
Justice is the maintaining of equilibrium. The blood
of Cain must cry, not from the lips of the Avenger, but
from the aggrieved Earth herself who demands that
atonement shall be made for a disturbance of her con-
sciousness. All justice is, therefore, readjustment. A
thwarted consciousness has every right to clamour for
assistance, but not for punishment. This latter can only
be sought by timorous and egotistic Intellect, which sees
the Earth from which it has emerged and into which it
must return again in its own despite, and so, being self-
centred and envious and a renegade from life, Reason is
more cruelly unjust, and more timorous than any other
manifestation of the divinely erratic energy--erratic, be-
cause, as has been said, "the crooked roads are the roads
of genius." Nature grants to all her creatures an un-
restricted liberty, quickened by competitive appetite, to
succeed or to fail; save only to Reason, her Demon of
Order, which can do neither, and whose wings she has
clipped for some reason with which I am not yet ac-
quainted. It may be that an unrestricted mentality would
endanger her own intuitive perceptions by shackling all
her other organs of perception, or annoy her by vexatious
efforts at creative rivalry.
It will, therefore, be understood that when the Lepre-
cauns of Gort na Cloca Mora acted in the manner about
to be recorded, they were not prompted by any lewd
passion for revenge, but were merely striving to recon-
struct a rhythm which was their very existence, and which
must have been of direct importance to the Earth. Re-
venge is the vilest passion known to life. It has made
Law possible, and by doing so it gave to Intellect the first
grip at that universal dominion which is its ambition. A
Leprecaun is of more value to the Earth than is a Prime
Minister or a stockbroker, because a Leprecaun dances
and makes merry, while a Prime Minister knows nothing
of these natural virtues--consequently, an injury done
to a Leprecaun afflicts the Earth with misery, and justice
is, for these reasons, an imperative and momentous neces-
sity.
A community of Leprecauns without a crock of gold
is a blighted and merriless community, and they are cer-
tainly justified in seeking sympathy and assistance for the
recovery of so essential a treasure. But the steps
whereby the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora sought
to regain their property must for ever brand their
memory with a certain odium. It should be remembered
in their favour that they were cunningly and cruelly en-
compassed. Not only was their gold stolen, but it was
buried in such a position as placed it under the protection
of their own communal honour, and the household of
their enemy was secured against their active and righteous
malice, because the Thin Woman of Inis Magrath be-
longed to the most powerful Shee of Ireland. It is in
circumstances such as these that dangerous alliances are
made, and, for the first time in history, the elemental
beings invoked bourgeois assistance.
They were loath to do it, and justice must record the
fact. They were angry when they did it, and anger is
both mental and intuitive blindness. It is not the benef-
icent blindness which prevents one from seeing without,
but it is that desperate darkness which cloaks the within,
and hides the heart and the brain from each other's
husbandry and wifely recognition. But even those miti-
gating circumstances cannot justify the course they
adopted, and the wider idea must be sought for, that out
of evil good must ultimately come, or else evil is vitiated
beyond even the redemption of usage. When they were
able to realize of what they had been guilty, they were
very sorry indeed, and endeavoured to publish their re-
pentance in many ways; but, lacking atonement, repent-
ance is only a post-mortem virtue which is good for noth-
ing but burial.
When the Leprecauns of Gort na Cloca Mora found
they were unable to regain their crock of gold by any
means they laid an anonymous information at the nearest
Police Station showing that two dead bodies would be
found under the hearthstone in the hut of Coille Doraca,
and the inference to be drawn from their crafty missive
was that these bodies had been murdered by the Philoso-
pher for reasons very discreditable to him.
The Philosopher had been scarcely more than three
hours on his journey to Angus Og when four policemen
approached the little house from as many different direc-
tions, and without any trouble they effected an entrance.
The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath and the two children
heard from afar their badly muffled advance, and on dis-
covering the character of their visitors they concealed
themselves among the thickly clustering trees. Shortly
after the men had entered the hut loud and sustained
noises began to issue therefrom, and in about twenty
minutes the invaders emerged again bearing the bodies
of the Grey Woman of Dun Gortin and her husband.
They wrenched the door off its hinges, and, placing the
bodies on the door, proceeded at a rapid pace through
the trees and disappeared in a short time. When they
had departed the Thin Woman and the children re-
turned to their home and over the yawning hearth the
Thin Woman pronounced a long and fervid malediction
wherein policemen were exhibited naked before the
blushes of Eternity. . .
With your good-will let us now return to the Philo-
sopher.
Following his interview with Angus Og the Philoso-
pher received the blessing of the god and returned on his
homeward journey. When he left the cave he had no
knowledge where he was nor whether he should turn to
the right hand or to the left. This alone was his guiding
idea, that as he had come up the mountain on his first
journey his home-going must, by mere opposition, be
down the mountain, and, accordingly, he set his face
downhill and trod lustily forward. He had stamped up
the hill with vigour, he strode down it in ecstasy. He
tossed his voice on every wind that went by. From tne
wells of forgetfulness he regained the shining words and
gay melodies which his childhood had delighted in, and
these he sang loudly and unceasingly as he marched.
The sun had not yet risen but, far away, a quiet bright-
ness was creeping over the sky. The daylight, however,
was near the full, one slender veil only remaining of the
shadows, and a calm, unmoving quietude brooded from
the grey sky to the whispering earth. The birds had
begun to bestir themselves but not to sing. Now and
again a solitary wing feathered the chill air; but for the
most part the birds huddled closer in the swinging nests,
or under the bracken, or in the tufty grass. Here a faint
twitter was heard and ceased. A little farther a drowsy
voice called "cheep-cheep" and turned again to the
warmth of its wing. The very grasshoppers were silent.
The creatures who range in the night time had returned
to their cells and were setting their households in order,
and those who belonged to the day hugged their comfort
for but one minute longer. Then the first level beam
stepped like a mild angel to the mountain top. The
slender radiance brightened and grew strong. The grey
veil faded away. The birds leaped from their nests.
The grasshoppers awakened and were busy at a stroke.
Voice called to voice without ceasing, and, momently, a
song thrilled for a few wide seconds. But for the most
part it was chatter-chatter they went as they soared and
plunged and swept, each bird eager for its breakfast.
The Philosopher thrust his hand into his wallet and
found there the last broken remnants of his cake, and the
instant his hand touched the food he was seized by a
hunger so furious that he sat down where he stopped and
prepared to eat.
The place where he sat was a raised bank under a
hedge, and this place directly fronted a clumsy wooden
gate leading into a great field. When the Philosopher
had seated himself he raised his eyes and saw through
the gate a small company approaching. There were four
men and three women, and each of them carried a metal
pail. The Philosopher with a sigh returned the cake to
his wallet, saying:
"All men are brothers, and it may be that these people
are as hungry as I am."
In a short time the strangers came near. The fore-
most of them was a huge man who was bearded to the
eyelids and who moved like a strong wind. He opened
the gate by removing a piece of wood wherewith it was
jammed, and he and his companions passed through,
whereupon he closed the gate and secured it. To this
man, as being the eldest, the Philosopher approached.
"I am about to breakfast," said he, "and if you are
hungry perhaps you would like to eat with me."
"Why not," said the man, "for the person who would
refuse a kind invitation is a dog. These are my three
sons and three of my daughters, and we are all thankful
to you."
Saying this he sat down on the bank and his com-
panions, placing their pails behind them, did likewise.
The Philosopher divided his cake into eight pieces and
gave one to each person.
"I am sorry it is so little," said he.
"A gift," said the bearded man, "is never little," and
he courteously ate his piece in three bites although he
could have easily eaten it in one, and his children also.
"That was a good, satisfying cake," said he when he
had finished; "it was well baked and well shared, but," he
continued, "I am in a difficulty and maybe you could ad-
vise me what to do, sir?"
"What might be your trouble?" said the Philosopher.
"It is this," said the man. "Every morning when we
go out to milk the cows the mother of my clann gives to
each of us a parcel of food so that we need not be any
hungrier than we like; but now we have had a good
breakfast with you, what shall we do with the food that
we brought with us? The woman of the house would
not be pleased if we carried it back to her, and if we
threw food away it would be a sin. If it was not dis-
respectful to your breakfast the boys and girls here might
be able to get rid of it by eating it, for, as you know,
young people can always eat a bit more, no matter how
much they have already eaten."
"It would surely be better to eat it than to waste it,"
said the Philosopher wistfully.
The young people produced large parcels of food from
their pockets and opened them, and the bearded man
said, "I have a little one myself also, and it would not
be wasted if you were kind enough to help me to eat it,"
and he pulled out his parcel, which was twice as big as
any of the others.
He opened the parcel and handed the larger part of
its contents to the Philosopher; he then plunged a tin
vessel into one of the milk pails and set this also by the
Philosopher, and, instantly, they all began to eat with
furious appetite.
When the meal was finished the Philosopher filled his
tobacco pipe and the bearded man and his three sons did
likewise.
"Sir," said the bearded man, "I would be glad to
know why you are travelling abroad so early in the morn-
ing, for, at this hour, no one stirs but the sun and the
birds and the folk who, like ourselves, follow the cattle?"
"I will tell you that gladly," said the Philosopher, "if
you will tell me your name."
"My name," said the bearded man, "is Mac Cul."
"Last night," said the Philosopher, "when I came
from the house of Angus Og in the Caves of the Sleepers
of Erinn I was bidden say to a man named Mac Cul--
that the horses had trampled in their sleep and the
sleepers had turned on their sides."
"Sir," said the bearded man, "your words thrill in my
heart like music, but my head does not understand them."
"I have learned," said the Philosopher, "that the head
does not hear anything until the heart has listened, and
that what the heart knows to-day the head will under-
stand to-morrow."
"All the birds of the world are singing in my soul,"
said the bearded man, "and I bless you because you have
filled me with hope and pride."
So the Philosopher shook him by the hand, and he
shook the hands of his sons and daughters who bowed
before him at the mild command of their father, and
when he had gone a little way he looked around again
and he saw that group of people standing where he had
left them, and the bearded man was embracing his chil-
dren on the highroad.
A bend in the path soon shut them from view, and
then the Philosopher, fortified by food and the fresh-
ness of the morning, strode onwards singing for very
joy. It was still early, but now the birds had eaten their
breakfasts and were devoting themselves to each other.
They rested side by side on the branches of the trees and
on the hedges, they danced in the air in happy brother-
hoods and they sang to one another amiable and pleasant
ditties.
When the Philosopher had walked for a long time he
felt a little weary and sat down to refresh himself in the
shadow of a great tree. Hard by there was a house of
rugged stone. Long years ago it had been a castle, and,
even now, though patched by time and misfortune its
front was warlike and frowning. While he sat a young
woman came along the road and stood gazing earnestly
at this house. Her hair was as black as night and as
smooth as still water, but her face came so stormily for-
ward that her quiet attitude had yet no quietness in it.
To her, after a few moments, the Philosopher spoke.
"Girl," said he, "why do you look so earnestly at the
house?"
The girl turned her pale face and stared at him.
"I did not notice you sitting under the tree," said she,
and she came slowly forward.
"Sit down by me," said the Philosopher, "and we will
talk. If you are in any trouble tell it to me, and perhaps
you will talk the heaviest part away."
"I will sit beside you willingly," said the girl, and she
did so.
"It is good to talk trouble over," he continued. "Do
you know that talk is a real thing? There is more power
in speech than many people conceive. Thoughts come
from God, they are born through the marriage of the
head and the lungs. The head moulds the thought into
the form of words, then it is borne and sounded on the
air which has been already in the secret kingdoms of the
body, which goes in bearing life and come out freighted
with wisdom. For this reason a lie is very terrible, be-
cause it is turning mighty and incomprehensible things to
base uses, and is burdening the life-giving element with
a foul return for its goodness; but those who speak the
truth and whose words are the symbols of wisdom and
beauty, these purify the whole world and daunt con-
tagion. The only trouble the body can know is disease.
All other miseries come from the brain, and, as these be-
long to thought, they can be driven out by their master
as unruly and unpleasant vagabonds; for a mental trouble
should be spoken to, confronted, reprimanded and so
dismissed. The brain cannot afford to harbour any but
pleasant and eager citizens who will do their part in
making laughter and holiness for the world, for that is
the duty of thought."
While the Philosopher spoke the girl had been re-
garding him steadfastly.
"Sir," said she, "we tell our hearts to a young man
and our heads to an old man, and when the heart is a
fool the head is bound to be a liar. I can tell you the
things I know, but how will I tell you the things I feel
when I myself do not understand them? If I say these
words to you 'I love a man' I do not say anything at all,
and you do not hear one of the words which my heart
is repeating over and over to itself in the silence of my
body. Young people are fools in their heads and old
people are fools in their hearts, and they can only look
at each other and pass by in wonder."
"You are wrong," said the Philosopher. "An old
person can take your hand like this and say, 'May every
good thing come to you, my daughter.' For all trouble
there is sympathy, and for love there is memory, and
these are the head and the heart talking to each other in
quiet friendship. What the heart knows to-day the head
will understand to-morrow, and as the head must be the
scholar of the heart it is necessary that our hearts be
purified and free from every false thing, else we are
tainted beyond personal redemption."
"Sir," said the girl, "I know of two great follies--
they are love and speech, for when these are given they
can never be taken back again, and the person to whom
these are given is not any richer, but the giver is made
poor and abashed. I gave my love to a man who did not
want it. I told him of my love, and he lifted his eyelids
at me; that is my trouble."
For a moment the Philosopher sat in stricken silence
looking on the ground. He had a strange disinclination
to look at the girl although he felt her eyes fixed steadily
on him. But in a little while he did look at her and spoke
again.
"To carry gifts to an ungrateful person cannot be
justified and need not be mourned for. If your love is
noble why do you treat it meanly? If it is lewd the man
was right to reject it."
"We love as the wind blows," she replied.
"There is a thing," said the Philosopher, "and it is
both the biggest and the littlest thing in the world."
"What is that?" said the girl.
"It is pride," he answered. "It lives in an empty
house. The head which has never been visited by the
heart is the house pride lives in. You are in error, my
dear, and not in love. Drive out the knave pride, put a
flower in your hair and walk freely again."
The girl laughed, and suddenly her pale face became
rosy as the dawn and as radiant and lovely as a cloud.
She shed warmth and beauty about her as she leaned for-
ward.
"You are wrong," she whispered, "because he does
love me; but he does not know it yet. He is young and
full of fury, and has no time to look at women, but he
looked at me. My heart knows it and my head knows
it, but I am impatient and yearn for him to look at me
again. His heart will remember me to-morrow, and he
will come searching for me with prayers and tears, with
shouts and threats. I will be very hard to find to-morrow
when he holds out his arms to the air and the sky, and is
astonished and frightened to find me nowhere. I will
hide from him to-morrow, and frown at him when he
speaks, and turn aside when he follows me: until the day
after to-morrow when he will frighten me with his anger,
and hold me with his furious hands, and make me look
at him."
Saying this the girl arose and prepared to go away.
"He is in that house," said she, "and I would not let
him see me here for anything in the world."
"You have wasted all my time," said the Philosopher,
smiling.
"What else is time for?" said the girl, and she kissed
the Philosopher and ran swiftly down the road.
She had been gone but a few moments when a man
came out of the grey house and walked quickly across the
grass. When he reached the hedge separating the field
from the road he tossed his two arms in the air, swung
them down, and jumped over the hedge into the road-
way. He was a short, dark youth, and so swift and
sudden were his movements that he seemed to look on
every side at the one moment although he bore furiously
to his own direction.
The Philosopher addressed him mildly.
"That was a good jump," said he.
The young man spun around from where he stood,
and was by the Philosopher's side in an instant.
"It would be a good jump for other men," said he,
"but it is only a little jump for me. You are very dusty,
sir; you must have travelled a long distance to-day."
"A long distance," replied the Philosopher. "Sit
down here, my friend, and keep me company for a little
time."
"I do not like sitting down," said the young man, "but
I always consent to a request, and I always accept friend-
ship." And, so saying, he threw himself down on the
grass.
"Do you work in that big house?" said the Philoso-
pher.
"I do," he replied. "I train the hounds for a fat,
jovial man, full of laughter and insolence."
"I think you do not like your master."
"Believe, sir, that I do not like any master; but this
man I hate. I have been a week in his service, and he
has not once looked on me as on a friend. This very
day, in the kennel, he passed me as though I were a tree
or a stone. I almost leaped to catch him by the throat
and say: 'Dog, do you not salute your fellow-man?' But
I looked after him and let him go, for it would be an un-
pleasant thing to strangle a fat person."
"If you are displeased with your master should you not
look for another occupation?" said the Philosopher.
"I was thinking of that, and I was thinking whether
I ought to kill him or marry his daughter. She would
have passed me by as her father did, but I would not let
a woman do that to me: no man would."
"What did you do to her?" said the Philosopher.
The young man chuckled-
"I did not look at her the first time, and when she
came near me the second time I looked another way, and
on the third day she spoke to me, and while she stood I
looked over her shoulder distantly. She said she hoped
I would be happy in my new home, and she made her
voice sound pleasant while she said it; but I thanked
her and turned away carelessly."
"Is the girl beautiful?" said the Philosopher.
"I do not know," he replied; "I have not looked at
her yet, although now I see her everywhere. I think she
is a woman who would annoy me if I married her."
"If you haven't seen her, how can you think that?"
"She has tame feet," said the youth. "I looked at
them and they got frightened. Where have you travelled
from, sir?"
"I will tell you that," said the Philosopher, "if you
will tell me your name."
"It is easily told," he answered; "my name is Mac-
Culain."
"When I came last night," said the Philosopher, "from
the place of Angus Og in the cave of the Sleepers of
Erinn I was bidden say to a man named MacCulain that
The Grey of Macha had neighed in his sleep and the
sword of Laeg clashed on the floor as he turned in his
slumber."
The young man leaped from the grass.
"Sir," said he in a strained voice, "I do not understand
your words, but they make my heart to dance and sing
within me like a bird."
"If you listen to your heart," said the Philosopher,
"you will learn every good thing, for the heart is the
fountain of wisdom tossing its thoughts up to the brain
which gives them form,"--and, so saying, he saluted the
youth and went again on his way by the curving road.
Now the day had advanced, noon was long past, and
the strong sunlight blazed ceaselessly on the world. His
path was still on the high mountains, running on for a
short distance and twisting perpetually to the right hand
and to the left. One might scarcely call it a path, it grew
so narrow. Sometimes, indeed, it almost ceased to be a
path, for the grass had stolen forward inch by inch to
cover up the tracks of man. There were no hedges but
rough, tumbled ground only, which was patched by trail-
ing bushes and stretched away in mounds and hummocks
beyond the far horizon. There was a deep silence every-
where, not painful, for where the sun shines there is no
sorrow: the only sound to be heard was the swish of long
grasses against his feet as he trod, and the buzz of an
occasional bee that came and was gone in an instant.
The Philosopher was very hungry, and he looked about
on all sides to see if there was anything he might eat.
"If I were a goat or a cow," said he, "I could eat this
grass and be nourished. If I were a donkey I could crop
the hard thistles which are growing on every hand, or if
I were a bird I could feed on the caterpillars and creep-
ing things which stir innumerably everywhere. But a
man may not eat even in the midst of plenty, because he
has departed from nature, and lives by crafty and twisted
thought."
Speaking in this manner he chanced to lift his eyes
from the ground and saw, far away, a solitary figure
which melted into the folding earth and reappeared again
in a different place. So peculiar and erratic were the
movements of this figure that the Philosopher had great
difficulty in following it, and, indeed, would have been
unable to follow, but that the other chanced in his direc-
tion. When they came nearer he saw it was a young boy,
who was dancing hither and thither in any and every
direction. A bushy mound hid him for an instant, and
the next they were standing face to face staring at each
other. After a moment's silence the boy, who was about
twelve years of age, and as beautiful as the morning,
saluted the Philosopher.
"Have you lost your way, sir?" said he.
"All paths," the Philosopher replied, "are on the
earth, and so one can never be lost--but I have lost my
dinner."
The boy commenced to laugh.
"What are you laughing at, my son?" said the Philo-
sopher.
"Because," he replied, "I am bringing you your din-
ner. I wondered what sent me out in this direction, for
I generally go more to the east."
"Have you got my dinner?" said the Philosopher anx-
iously.
"I have," said the boy: "I ate my own dinner at home,
and I put your dinner in my pocket. I thought," he ex-
plained, "that I might be hungry if I went far away."
"The gods directed you," said the Philosopher.
"They often do," said the boy, and he pulled a small
parcel from his pocket.
The Philosopher instantly sat down, and the boy
handed him the parcel. He opened this and found bread
and cheese.
"It's a good dinner," said he, and commenced to eat.
"Would you not like a piece also, my son?"
"I would like a little piece," said the boy, and he sat
down before the Philosopher, and they ate together
happily.
When they had finished the Philosopher praised the
gods, and then said, more to himself than to the boy:
"If I had a little drink of water I would want nothing
else."
"There is a stream four paces from here," said his
companion. "I will get some water in my cap," and he
leaped away.
In a few moments he came back holding his cap ten-
derly, and the Philosopher took this and drank the water.
"I want nothing more in the world," said he, "except
to talk with you. The sun is shining, the wind is pleas-
ant, and the grass is soft. Sit down beside me again for
a little time."
So the boy sat down, and the Philosopher lit his pipe.
"Do you live far from here?" said he.
"Not far," said the boy. "You could see my mother's
house from this place if you were as tall as a tree, and
even from the ground you can see a shape of smoke yon-
der that floats over our cottage."
The Philosopher looked but could see nothing.
"My eyes are not as good as yours are," said he, "be-
cause I am getting old."
"What does it feel like to be old?" said the boy.
"It feels stiff like," said the Philosopher.
"Is that all?" said the boy.
"I don't know," the Philosopher replied after a few
moments' silence. "Can you tell me what it looks like
to be young?"
"Why not?" said the boy, and then a slight look of
perplexity crossed his face, and he continued, "I don't
think I can."
"Young people," said the Philosopher, "do not know
what age is, and old people forget what youth was.
When you begin to grow old always think deeply of your
youth, for an old man without memories is a wasted life,
and nothing is worth remembering but our childhood. I
will tell you some of the differences between being old
and young, and then you can ask me questions, and so we
will get at both sides of the matter. First, an old man
gets tired quicker than a boy."
The boy thought for a moment, and then replied:
"That is not a great difference, for a boy does get very
tired."
The Philosopher continued:
"An old man does not want to eat as often as a boy."
"That is not a great difference either," the boy replied,
"for they both do eat. Tell me the big difference."
"I do not know it, my son; but I have always thought
there was a big difference. Perhaps it is that an old man
has memories of things which a boy cannot even guess
at."
"But they both have memories," said the boy, laugh-
ing, "and so it is not a big difference."
"That is true," said the Philosopher. "Maybe there
is not so much difference after all. Tell me things you
do, and we will see if I can do them also."
"But I don't know what I do," he replied.
"You must know the things you do," said the Philoso-
pher, "but you may not understand how to put them in
order. The great trouble about any kind of examination
is to know where to begin, but there are always two
places in everything with which we can commence--they
are the beginning and the end. From either of these
points a view may be had which comprehends the entire
period. So we will begin with the things you did this
morning."
"I am satisfied with that," said the boy.
The Philosopher then continued:
"When you awakened this morning and went out of
the house what was the first thing you did?"
The boy thought-
"I went out, then I picked up a stone and threw it into
the field as far as I could."
"What then?" said the Philosopher.
"Then I ran after the stone to see could I catch up on
it before it hit the ground."
"Yes," said the Philosopher.
"I ran so fast that I tumbled over myself into the
grass."
"What did you do after that?"
"I lay where I fell and plucked handfuls of the grass
with both hands and threw them on my back."
"Did you get up then?"
"No, I pressed my face into the grass and shouted a
lot of times with my mouth against the ground, and then
I sat up and did not move for a long time."
"Were you thinking?" said the Philosopher.
"No, I was not thinking or doing anything."
"Why did you do all these things?" said the Philoso-
pher.
"For no reason at all," said the boy.
"That," said the Philosopher triumphantly, "is the dif-
ference between age and youth. Boys do things for no
reason, and old people do not. I wonder do we get old
because we do things by reason instead of instinct?"
"I don't know," said the boy, "everything gets old.
Have you travelled very far to-day, sir?"
"I will tell you that if you will tell me your name."
"My name," said the boy, "is MacCushin."
"When I came last night," said the Philosopher, "from
the place of Angus Og in the Caste of the Sleepers I was
bidden say to one named MacCushin that a son would
be born to Angus Og and his wife, Caitilin, and that the
sleepers of Erinn had turned in their slumbers."
The boy regarded him steadfastly.
"I know," said he, "why Angus Og sent me that mes-
sage. He wants me to make a poem to the people of
Erinn, so that when the Sleepers arise they will meet with
friends."
"The Sleepers have arisen," said the Philosopher.
"They are about us on every side. They are walking
now, but they have forgotten their names and the mean-
ings of their names. You are to tell them their names
and their lineage, for I am an old man, and my work is
done."
"I will make a poem some day," said the boy, "and
every man will shout when he hears it."
"God be with you, my son," said the Philosopher, and
he embraced the boy and went forward on his journey.
About half an hour's easy travelling brought him to
a point from which he could see far down below to the
pine trees of Coille Doraca. The shadowy evening had
crept over the world ere he reached the wood, and when
he entered the little house the darkness had already de-
scended.
The Thin Woman of Inis Magrath met him as he
entered, and was about to speak harshly of his long ab-
sence, but the Philosopher kissed her with such unac-
customed tenderness, and spoke so mildly to her, that,
first, astonishment enchained her tongue, and then de-
light set it free in a direction to which it had long been
a stranger.
"Wife," said the Philosopher, "I cannot say how joy-
ful I am to see your good face again."
The Thin Woman was unable at first to reply to this
salutation, but, with incredible speed, she put on a pot
of stirabout, began to bake a cake, and tried to roast
potatoes. After a little while she wept loudly, and pro-
claimed that the world did not contain the equal of her
husband for comeliness and goodness, and that she was
herself a sinful person unworthy of the kindness of the
gods or of such a mate.
But while the Philosopher was embracing Seumas and
Brigid Beg, the door was suddenly burst open with a great
noise, four policemen entered the little room, and after
one dumbfoundered minute they retreated again bearing
the Philosopher with them to answer a charge of murder.
Top - Next chapter
