Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland (Part Three)

The Banshee, the dance of the dead and eagles that fly you to the moon! Its the final part of three with Lady ‘Speranza’ Wilde's 1887 work, Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms and Superstitions of Ireland.

'Sometimes the Banshee assumes the form of some sweet singing virgin of the family who died young. Or she may be seen at night as a shrouded woman, crouched beneath the trees, lamenting with veiled face, or flying past in the moonlight'.

Tales From Antiquaria is a podcast dedicated to exploring the legacy of work published regarding folklore and local history during the golden age of antiquarian writing in the nineteenth century.

For show notes and links, visit the episodes page at thelocalmythstorian.com

Episode written, produced and presented by Eli Lewis-Lycett. All source material taken directly from the stated publication. Main theme music by Humanoid Media. Incidental music from Restum-Anoush. 

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Transcript

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The Banshee, the Dance of the Dead, and Eagles that fly you to the moon. My name's Eli, and this is Tales from Antiquaria: Ancient Legends, Mystic Charms, and Superstitions of Ireland, Part Three. This is part three of our journey through ancient legends, mystic charms, and superstitions of Ireland, the wonderful collection of Lady Speranza Wild. So far we've had werewolves, leprechaunes, and all manner of fairy lore. So let's see what this third part of the collection brings. The clearing of guilt. To prove innocence of a crime, a certain ancient form is gone through, which the people look on with great awe and call it emphatically the clearing. It is equally terrible for the accuser as well as the accused. On a certain day fixed for the ordeal, the accused goes to the churchyard and carries away a skull. Then wrapped in a white sheet and bearing the skull in his hand, he proceeds to the house of the accuser, where a great crowd is assembled for the news of the clearing. And there before the house of his accuser, he kneels down on his bare knees, kisses the skull, and prays for some time in silence. Then the accuser, pale and trembling, comes forward and stands before the kneeling man, and with uplifted hands he adjures him to speak the truth, utters the most fearful impeccation known in the Irish language, almost as terrible as the curse of the druids, which is so awful that it is yet to be put into English words. The accused prays that if he fail to speak the truth, all the sins of the man whose skull he holds may be laid upon his soul, and all the sins of his forefathers back to Adam, and all their weaknesses and sorrow, both of body and soul, be laid on him both in this life and in the life to come for evermore. But if the accuser has falsely accused and out of malice, then may all of evil rest on his head through this life and forever, and may his soul perish everlastingly. If nothing happens, the man rises from his knees and after an interval is pronounced innocent by the judgment of the people, and no word is ever uttered against him again. But the accuser would then be looked on with fear and dislike, and seeing that his life is often made so miserable by the coldness and suspicion of the people, many would rather suffer wrong than force the accused person to undergo so terrible a trial as the clearing. The Dance of the Dead. One November night, a woman of Shark Island coming home late at the hour of the dead, grew tired and sat down to rest, when presently a young man came up and talked to her. Wait here a bit, he said, and you will see the most beautiful dancing you ever looked on there by the side of the hill. She looked at him steadily. He was very pale and seemed sad. Why are you so sad? she asked. Well look at me, he answered. Do you not know me? Yes, I know you now, she said. You a young Brian that was drowned last year went out fishing. What are you here for? Look, he said. And she looked and saw a great company dancing to sweet music, and amongst them were all the dead who had died as long as she could remember. Men, women and children, all in white and their faces were pale as the moonlight. Now, said the young man, run for your life, for if once the fairies bring you into the dance you will never be able to leave them any more. But while they were talking, the fairies came up and danced around her in a circle, joining their hands. She fell to the ground in a faint, and knew no more till she woke up in the morning in her own bed at home, and they all saw that her face was pale as the dead, and they knew that she had got the fairy stroke. So the herb doctor was sent for, and every measure tried to save her, but without avail, for just as the moon rose that night, soft low music was heard around the house, and when they looked at the woman, she was dead. Sean Moore, a legend of Innisark. The islanders believe firmly in the existence of fairies who live in caves by the sea. They're little men about the height of a sod of turf, who come out into the fishes of the rocks and are bright and merry, and ready enough to help anyone they like, though often very malicious if offended or insulted. There was an old man on the island called Shawn Moore, who said that he had often travelled at night with the little men and carried their sacks for them, and in return they gave him strange fairy gifts and taught him the secrets of power, so that he might always triumph over his enemies. And even to the fairies he was as wise as any of them, and could fight half a dozen of them together if he was so minded. The fairies were angered at his pride, and determined to do him a malicious turn. So one night when he was returning home, he suddenly saw a great river between him and his house. Where did that come from? And how shall I get across? he cried aloud. Immediately an eagle came up to him. Don't cry, Sean Moore, said the eagle, but get on my back and I'll carry you safely. So Shawn Moor mounted and they flew right up ever so high, till at last the eagle tumbled him off by the side of a great mountain in a place he had never seen before. This is a bad trick you have played me, said Sean. Tell me where I am. You are on the moon, said the eagle. And get down the best way you can, for now I must be off. So goodbye. Just then a cleft in the rock opened, and out came a man as pale as the dead with a reaping hook in his hand. What brings you here? he said. Your worship, he said. Tell me how I can get down and help me, I beseech you. Aye, that I will, said the pale faced man. Here is the help I can give you. And with that he gave Sean a blow of the reaping hook, which tumbled him right over the edge of the moon, and he fell and fell ever so far till luckily he came in the midst of a flock of geese. The gander that was leading them stopped and eyed him. What are you doing here, Sean Moore? he said. For I know you well. I've often seen you down in shark. Oh, Your Honor, said the poor man, it's an evil turn of the evil witches for they have done all of this. But let me just get up on your back, and if Your Honor brings me safe to my own house, I shall be forever grateful to every goose and gander in the world for as long as I live. Well then, get up on my back, said the bird, fluttering its wings with a great clatter over Sean. But he couldn't manage to get on its back. So he caught hold of one leg, and he and the gander went down and down until they came to the sea. Let go, said the gander, and find your way home the best you can, for I have lost a great deal of time with you already and must be away. The gander shook off Sean Moore, who dropped plumped down into the sea, and he was almost dead when a great whale came sailing by and flapped at him all over with its fins. He knew no more till he opened his eyes lying on the grass of his own field by a great stone, his wife standing over him, drenching him with a pail of water. He told his wife the whole story, which he said was true as gospel, but I don't think she believed a word of it. Though she was afraid to let on the light to Sean Moore, who affirms to this day that it was all the work of the fairies. An Irish adept of the islands. Some persons, even at the present day amongst the peasants, have strange gifts of knowledge of the hidden mysteries, yet they can only impart this knowledge when they know that death is on them, and then it must be to a female, to an unmarried man or a childless woman, for these are the most susceptible to the mysterious power by which miracles can be worked. A man now living at Inisark has a strange and mystic gift. He can heal diseases by a word, even at a distance, and his glance seems into the very heart and reads the secret thoughts of men. He has never touched beer, spirits, or meat in all his life, but has lived entirely on bread, fruit and vegetables. A man who knew him describes him thus. Winter and summer his dress is the same, merely a flannel shirt and coat. He will pay for his share at a feast, but neither eats nor drinks of the food and drink set before him. He speaks no English, and could never be made to learn the English tongue, though he says it might be used with great effect to curse one's enemy. And he maintains that people are right in keeping to their ancient usages, such as to never dig a grave on a Monday, and to carry a coffin three times round the grave following the course of the sun, for the dead to rest in peace. Like the people also he holds suicides as a cursed, for they believe that all the dead who have been recently buried turn over on their faces if a suicide is laid amongst them. He stands quite apart from life, and by this means holds his power over the mysteries. No money will ever tempt him to impart his knowledge to another, for if he did he would be struck dead, so he believes. The Banshee The Banshee was the spirit of death, the most weird and awful of all the fairy powers. Sometimes the Banshee assumes the form of some sweet singing virgin of the family who died young, or she may be seen at night as a shrouded woman crouched beneath the trees lamenting with a veiled face, or even flying past in the moonlight crying bitterly, and the cry of the spirit is mournful beyond all other sounds on earth, and its sound betokens certain death to some member of the family whenever it is heard in the silence of the night. The Banshee even follows the old race across the ocean and to distant lands, for space and time offer no hindrance to the mystic power which is selected and appointed to bear the prophecy of death to a family. Of this a while authenticated instance happened a few years ago. A branch of the ancient race of the O'Gradis had settled in Canada, far removed apparently from all the associations, traditions, and mysterious influences of the old land and their forefathers. But one night a strange and mournful lamentation was heard outside the house. No word was uttered, only a bitter cry, as of one of the deepest agony of sorrow. Inquiry was made, but no one had been seen near the house at the time. Next day it so happened that the gentleman and his eldest son went out boating. As they did not return, however, at the usual time for dinner, some alarm was excited, and messengers were sent down to the shore to look for them. But no tidings came until precisely at the exact hour of the night when the spirit cry had been heard the previous evening. A crowd of men were seen approaching the house, bearing with them the dead bodies of the father and the son, who had both been drowned by the accidental upsetting of the boat, within sight of land, but not near enough for any help to reach them in time. Thus the Banshee had fulfilled her mission of doom, after which she disappeared, and the cry of the spirit of death was heard no more. Incredible stuff. We'll be back soon with the next episode where we're coming back to England and back to Lancashire. So until then, take care, may your God go with you, and beware the fairies. You can find out more about the show and about my other projects at the local mythstorian.com.