THE

CONFESSIONS OF TOM BOURKE.

            VII.

Tom Bourke lives in a low long farm-house,
resembling in outward appearance a large barn,
placed at the bottom of the hill, just where the
new road strikes off from the old one, leading
from the town of Kilworth to that of Lismore.
He is of a class of persons who are a sort of black
swans in Ireland: he is a wealthy farmer. Tom's
father had, in the good old times, when a hundred
pounds were no inconsiderable treasure, either to
lend or spend, accommodated his landlord with
that sum, at interest; and obtained, as a return for
the civility, a long lease, about half a dozen times
more valuable than the loan which procured it.
The old man died worth several hundred pounds,
the greater part of which, with his farm, he be-
queathed to his son Tom.  But, besides all this,
Tom received from his father, upon his deathbed,
another gift, far more valuable than worldly
riches, greatly as he prized and is still known to
prize them. He was invested with the privilege,
enjoyed by few of the sons of men, of communi-
cating with those mysterious beings called " the
good people."
Tom Bourke is a little, stout, healthy, active




man, about fifty-five years of age.  His hair is
perfectly white, short and bushy behind, but
rising in front erect and thick above his forehead,
like a new clothes-brush.  His eyes are of that
kind which I have often observed with persons
of a quick but limited intellect-they are small,
grey, and lively.  The large and projecting eye-
brows under, or rather within, which they twinkle,
give them an expression of shrewdness and intel-
ligence, if not of cunning. And this is very much
the character of the man.  If you want to make
a bargain with Tom Bourke, you must act as if
you were a general besieging a town, and make
your advances a long time before you can hope to
obtain possession; if you march up boldly, and
tell him at once your object, you are for the most
part sure to have the gates closed in your teeth.
Tom does not wish to part with what you wish to
obtain, or another person has been speaking to
him for the whole of the last week.  Or, it may
be, your proposal seems to meet the most favour-
able reception. "Very well, sir;" "That's true,
sir;" "I'm very thankful to your honour," and
other expressions of kindness and confidence,
greet you in reply to every sentence; and you
part from him wondering how he can have ob-
tained the character which he universally bears,
of being a man whom no one can make any thing
of in a bargain.  But when you next meet him,
the flattering illusion is dissolved: you find you
are a great deal farther from your object than
you were when you thought you had almost suc-
ceeded: his eye and his tongue express a total
forgetfulness of what the mind within never lost





sight of for an instant; and you have to begin
operations  afresh, with the disadvantage of having
put Your adversary completely upon his guard.
     Yet although  Tom Bourke is, whether from
supernatural revealings, or (as many will think
more probable) from the tell-truth, experience,
so distrustful of mankind, and so close in his
dealings with them, he is no misanthrope.  No
man loves better the pleasures of the genial board.
The love of money, indeed, which is with him
(and who will blame him ?) a very ruling propen-
sity, and the gratification which it has received
from habits of industry, sustained throughout a
pretty long and successful life, have taught him
the value of sobriety, during those seasons, at least,
when a man's business requires him to keep pos-
session of his senses.  He has therefore a general
rule, never to get drunk but on Sundays. But, in
order that it should be a general one to all intents
and purposes, he takes a method which, accord-
ing to better logicians than he is, always proves
the rule. He has many exceptions: among these,
of course  are the evenings of all the fair and
market days that happen in his neighbourhood;
so also all the days on which funerals, marriages,
and christenings take place among his friends
within many miles of him. As to this last class of
exceptions, it may appear at first very singular,
that he is much more punctual in his attendance
at the funerals, than at the baptisms or weddings
of his friends.  This may be construed as an
instance of disinterested affection for departed
worth, very uncommon in this selfish world. But I
am afraid that the motives which lead Tom Bourke



to pay more court to the dead than the living are
precisely those which lead to the opposite conduct
in the generality of mankind-a hope of future
benefit and a fear of future evil.  For the good
people, who are a race as powerful as they are
capricious, have their favourites among those
who inhabit this world; often show their affection,
by easing the objects of it from the load of this
burdensome life; and frequently reward or punish
the living, according to the degree of reverence
paid to the obsequies and the memory of the
elected dead.
     It is not easy to prevail on Tom to speak of
those good people, with whom he is said to hold
frequent and intimate communications.  To the
faithful, who believe in their power, and their oc-
casional delegation of it to him, he seldom refuses,
if properly asked, to exercise his high prerogative,
when any unfortunate being is struck (1) in
his neigh-
bourhood.  Still, he will not be won unsued: he
is at first difficult of persuasion, and must be
overcome by a little gentle violence.  On these



occasions he is unusually solemn and mysterious
and if one word of reward be mentioned, he at
once abandons the unhappy patient, such a pro-
position being a direct insult to his supernatural
superiors. It is true, that as the labourer is wor-
thy of his hire, most persons, gifted as he is, do
not scruple to receive a token of gratitude from
the patients or their friends after their recovery
     To do Tom Bourke justice, he is on these oc-
casions, as I have heard from many competent
authorities, perfectly disinterested.  Not many
months since, he recovered a young woman (the
sister of a tradesman living near him), who had
been struck speechless after returning from a fu-
neral, and had continued so for several days. He
stedfastly refused receiving any compensation
saying, that even if he had not as much as would
buy him his supper, he could take nothing in this
case, because the girl had offended at the funeral
one of the good people belonging to his own fa-
mily, and though he would do her a kindness, he
could take none from her.
     About the time this last remarkable affair took
place, my friend Mr. Martin, who is a neighbour
of Tom's, had some business to transact with him,
which it was exceedingly difficult to bring to a
conclusion. At last Mr. Martin, having tried all
quiet means, had recourse to a legal process, which
brought Tom to reason, and the matter was
arranged to their mutual satisfaction, and with
perfect good humour between the parties. The
accommodation took place after dinner at Mr.
Martin's house, and he invited Torn to walk into
the parlour and take a glass of punch, made of



some excellent potteen, which was on the table:
he had long wished to draw out his highly-
endowed neighbour on the subject of his super-
natural powers, and as Mrs. Martin, who was in
the room, was rather a favourite of Tom's, this
seemed a good opportunity.
     "Well, Tom," said Mr. Martin, "that was a
curious business of Molly Dwyer's, who reco-
vered her speech so suddenly the other day."
     "You may say that, sir," replied Tom Bourke;
" but I had to travel far for it: no matter for
that, now. Your health, ma'am," said he, turning
to Mrs. Martin.
     "Thank you, Tom.  But I am told you had
some trouble once in that way in your own fa-
mily," said Mrs. Martin.
     "So I had, ma'am; trouble enough; but you
were only a child at that time."
     "Come, Tom," said the hospitable Mr. Martin,
interrupting him, "take another tumbler;" and
he then added, " I wish you would tell us some-
thing of the manner in which so many of your
children died.  I am told they dropped off, one
after another, by the same disorder, and that your
eldest son was cured in a most extraordinary
way, when the physicians had given him over."
     "Tis true for you, sir," returned Tom; "your
father, the doctor (God be good to him, I won't
belie him in his grave) told me, when my fourth
little boy was a week sick, that himself and Doc-
tor Barry did all that man could do for him; but
they could not keep him from going after the
rest. No more they could, if the people that
took away the rest wished to take him too. But



they left him; and sorry to the heart I am I did
not know before why they were taking my boys
from me; if I did, I would not be left trusting to
two of 'em now. "
     "And how did you find it out, Tom?" enquired
Mr. Martin.
     "Why, then, I'll tell you, sir," said Bourke.
"When your father said what I told you, I did
not know very well what to do.  I walked down
the little bohereen you know, sir, that goes to the
river side near Dick Heafy's ground; for 'twas
a lonesome place, and I wanted to think of myself.
I was heavy, sir, and my heart got weak in me,
when I thought I was to lose my little boy; and
I did not know well how to face his mother with
the news, for she doted down upon him. Beside,
she never got the better of all she cried at his
brother's berrin (burying) the week before.  As I
was going down the bohereen, I met an old bo-
cough (2), that used to come about the place once
or
twice a year, and used always sleep in our barn
while he staid in the neighbourhood. So he asked
me how I was. 'Bad enough, Shamous (James,)'
says I. ' I'm sorry for your trouble,' says he;
'but you're a foolish man, Mr. Bourke. Your son
would be well enough if you would only do what
you ought with him.'  'What more can I do with
him, Shamous?' says I: ' the doctors give him
over.' 'The doctors know no more what ails him
than they do what ails a cow when she stops her
milk,' says Shamous: ' but go to such a one,'



says he, telling me his name, ' and try what he'll
say to you.
     "And who was that, Tom?" asked Mr. Martin.
     "I could not tell you that, sir," said Bourke,
with a mysterious look: " howsoever, you often
saw him, and he does not live far from this. But
I had a trial of him before; and if I went to him
at first, may be I 'd have now some of them that's
gone, and so Shamous often told me. Well, sir,
I went to this man, and he came with me to the
house.  By course, I did every thing as he bid
me. According to his order, I took the little boy
out of the dwelling-house immediately, sick as he
was, and made a bed for him and myself in the
cow-house.  Well, sir, I lay down by his side,
in the bed, between two of the cows, and he fell
asleep.  He got into a perspiration, saving your
presence, as if he was drawn through the river,
and breathed hard, with a great impression (op-
pression) on his chest, and was very bad-very
bad entirely through the night.  I thought about
twelve o'clock he was going at last, and I was just
getting up to go call the man I told you of; but
there was no occasion.  My friends were getting
the better of them that wanted to take him away
from me. There was nobody in the cowhouse but
the child and myself. There was only one half-
penny candle lighting, and that was stuck in the
wall at the far end of the house. I had just enough
of light where we were laying to see a person
walking or standing near us: and there was no
more noise than if it was a churchyard, except the
cows chewing the fodder in the stalls. Just as I
was thinking of getting up, as I told you -- I



won't belie my father, sir - he was a good father
to me - I saw him standing at the bed-side, hold-
ing out his right hand to me, and leaning his
other hand on the stick he used to carry when he
was alive, and looking pleasant and smiling at me,
all as if he was telling me not to be afeard, for I
would not lose the child.  ' Is that you, father?'
says I. He said nothing. ' If that's you,' says I
again, ' for the love of them that's gone, let me
catch your hand.' And so he did, sir, and his
hand was as soft as a child's.  He stayed about as
long as you'd be going from this to the gate below
at the end of the avenue, and then went away. In
less than a week the child was as well as if nothing
ever ailed him; and there isn't to-night a healthier
boy of nineteen, from this blessed house to the
town of Ballyporeen, across the Kilworth moun-
tains."
     "But I think, Tom," said Mr. Martin, "it
appears as if you are more indebted to your father
than to the man recommended to you by Shamous;
or do you suppose it was he who made favour
with your enemies among the good people, and
that then your father --"
     "I beg your pardon, sir," said Bourke, inter-
rupting him; "but don't call them my enemies.
'Twould not be wishing to me for a good deal to
sit by when they are called so.  No offence to
you, sir.--Here's wishing you a good health and
long life."
     "I assure you," returned Mr. Martin, " I
meant no offence, Tom; but was it not as I
say?"
     "I can't tell you that, sir," said Bourke; "I'm



bound down, sir. Howsoever, you may be sure
the man I spoke of, and my father, and those they
know, settled it between them."
     There was a pause, of which Mrs. Martin took
advantage to enquire of Tom, whether something
remarkable had not happened about a goat and a
pair of pigeons, at the time of his son's illness --
circumstances often mysteriously hinted at by
Tom.
     "See that now," said he, turning to Mr. Mar-
tin, "how well she remembers it! True for you,
ma'am.  The goat I gave the mistress, your mo-
ther, when the doctors ordered her goats' whey."
     Mrs. Martin nodded assent, and Tom Bourke
continued -- " Why, then, I'll tell you how that
was. The goat was as well as e' er a goat ever
was, for a month after she was sent to Killaan to
your father's.  The morning after the night I just
told you of, before the child woke, his mother was
standing at the gap, leading out of the barn-yard
into the road, and she saw two pigeons flying from
the town of Kilworth, off the church, down to-
wards her.  Well, they never stopped, you see,
till they came to the house on the hill at the other
side of the river, facing our farm.  They pitched
upon the chimney of that house, and after looking
about them for a minute or two, they flew straight
across the river, and stopped an the ridge of the
cow-house where the child and I were lying.
Do you think they came there for nothing, sir ?"
     "Certainly not, Tom," returned Mr. Martin.
     "Well, the woman came in to me, frightened,
and told me.  She began to cry. -- 'Whisht, you
fool!' says I: ' 't is all for the better.' 'Twas



true for me.  What do you think, ma'am; the
goat that I gave your mother, that was seen feed-
ing at sunrise that morning by Jack Cronin, as
merry as a bee, dropped down dead, without any
body knowing why, before Jack's face : and at
that very moment he saw two pigeons fly from the
top of the house out of the town, towards the
Lismore road.  'Twas at the same time my wo-
man saw them, as I just told you."
     " 'Twas very strange, indeed, Tom," said Mr.
Martin; "I wish you could give us some expla-
nation of it."
     "I wish I could, sir," was Tom Bourke's an-
swer; " but I'm bound down.  I can't tell but
what I'm allowed to tell, any more than a sentry
is let walk more than his rounds."
     "I think you said something of having had 
some former knowledge of the man that assisted
in the cure of your son," said Mr. Martin.
     "So I had, sir," returned Bourke.  " I had a
trial of that man. But that's neither here nor
there. I can't tell you any thing about that, sir
But would you like to know how he got his
skill?"
      Oh ! very much, indeed," said Mr. Martin.
     "But you can tell us his Christian name, that
we may know him the better through the story, "
added Mrs. Martin.  Tom Bourke paused for a
minute to consider this proposition.
     "Well, I believe I may tell you that, any how ;
his name is Patrick.  He was always a smart,
active, 'cute boy, and would be a great clerk if
he stuck to it.  The first time I knew him, sir,
was at my mother's wake. I was in great trouble,



for I did not know where to bury her. Her peo-
ple and my father's people -- I mean their friends,
sir, among the good people, had the greatest battle
that was known for many a year, at Dunmanway-
cross, to see to whose Churchyard she'd be taken.
They fought for three nights, one after another,
without being able to settle it.  The neighbours
wondered how long I was before I buried my
mother; but I had my reasons, though I could
not tell them at that time.  Well, sir, to make
my story short, Patrick came on the fourth morn-
ing and told me he settled the business, and that
day we buried her in Kilcrumper churchyard,
with my father's people."
     "He was a valuable friend, Tom," said Mrs.
Martin, with difficulty suppressing a smile. "But
you were about to tell how he became so skilful."
     "So I will, and welcome," replied Bourke.
"Your health, ma'am. I am drinking too much of
this punch, sir; but to tell the truth, I never
tasted the like of it:  it goes down one's throat
like sweet oil.  But what was I going to say? -
Yes  - well - Patrick, many a long year ago, was
coming home from a berrin late in the evening,
and walking by the side of the river, opposite the
big inch (3), near Ballyhefaan ford. (4) He had taken
a drop, to be sure; but he was only a little merry,
as you may say, and knew very well what he was
doing.  The moon was shining, for it was in the
month of August, and the river was as smooth



and as bright as a looking-glass.  He heard no-
thing for a long time but the fall of the water at
the mill wier about a mile down the river, and now
and then the crying of the lambs on the other side
of the river. All at once, there was a noise of a
great number of people, laughing as if they'd break
their hearts, and of a piper playing among them,
It came from the inch at the other side of the ford,
and he saw, through the mist that hung over the
river, a whole crowd of people dancing on the inch.
Patrick was as fond of a dance as he was of a glass,
and that's saying enough for him; so he whipped (5)
off his shoes and stockings, and away with him
across the ford.  After putting on his shoes and
stockings at the other side of the river, he walked
over to the crowd, and mixed with them for some
time without being minded.  He thought, sir,
that he'd show them better dancing than any of
themselves, for he was proud of his feet, sir, and
good right he had, for there was not a boy in the
same parish could foot a double or treble with
him.  But pwah ! - his dancing was no more to
theirs than mine would be to the mistress there.
They did not seem as if they had a bone in their
bodies, and they kept it up as if nothing could
tire them. Patrick was 'shamed within himself,
for he thought he had not his fellow in all the
country round; and was going away, when a little
old man, that was looking at the company for
some time bitterly, as if he did not like what was
going on, came up to him.  'Patrick,' says lie



Patrick started, for he did not think any body
there knew him.  ' Patrick,' says he, ' you're
discouraged, and no wonder for you. But you
have a friend near you.  I'm your friend, and
your father's friend, and I think worse (more) of
your little finger than I do of all that are here,
though they think no one is as good as themselves.
Go into the ring and call for a lilt. Don't be
afeard.  I tell you the best of them did not do
as well as you shall, if you will do as I bid you.'
Patrick felt something within him as if he ought
not to gainsay the old man.  He went into the
ring, and called the piper to play up the best
double he had.  And, sure enough, all that the
others were able for was nothing to him!  He
bounded like an eel, now here and now there, as
light as a feather, although the people could hear
the music answered by his steps, that beat time
to every turn of it, like the left foot of the piper.
He first danced a hornpipe on the ground. Then
they got a table, and he danced a treble on it
that drew down shouts from the whole company.
At last he called for a trencher ; and when they
saw him, all as if he was spinning on it like a top,
they did not know what to make of him.  Some
praised him for the best dancer that ever entered
a ring; others hated him because he was better
than themselves; although they had good right
to think themselves better than him or any other
man that never went the long journey."
     "And what was the cause of his great success?"
enquired Mr. Martin.
     "He could not help it, sir," replied Tom
Bourke. " They that could make him do more



than that made him do it.  Howsomever, when
he had done, they wanted him to dance again, but
he was tired, and they could not persuade him.
At last he got angry, and swore a big oath, saving
your presence, that he would not dance a step
more; and the word was hardly out of his mouth,
when he found himself all alone, with nothing but
a white cow grazing by his side."
     "Did he ever discover why he was gifted with
these extraordinary powers in the dance, Tom?"
said Mr. Martin.
     "I'll tell you that too, sir," answered Bourke,
"when I come to it.  When he went home, sir,
he was taken with a shivering, and went to bed;
and the next day they found he got the fever, or
something like it, for he raved like as if he was
mad.  But they couldn't make out what it was
he was saying, though he talked constant.  The
doctors gave him over.  But it 's little they
know what ailed him.  When he was, as you may
say, about ten days sick, and every body thought
he was going, one of the neighbours came in to
him with a man, a friend of his, from Ballinlacken,
that was keeping with him some time before.  I
can't tell you his name either, only it was Darby.
The minute Darby saw Patrick, he took a little
bottle, with the juice of herbs in it, out of his
pocket, and gave Patrick a drink of it.  He did
the same every day for three weeks, and then
Patrick was able to walk about, as stout and as
hearty as ever he was in his life. But he was a
long time before he came to himself ; and he used
to walk the whole day sometimes by the ditch
side, talking to himself, like as if there was some



one along with him. And so there was, surely,
or he wouldn't be the man he is to-day.
     "I suppose it was from some such companion
he learned his skill," said Mr. Martin.
     " You have it all now, sir," replied Bourke.
" Darby told him his friends were satisfied with
what he did the night of the dance ; and though
they couldn't hinder the fever, they'd bring him
over it, and teach him more than many knew be-
side him.  And so they did.  For you see all the
people he met on the inch that night were friends
of a different faction; Only the old man that spoke
to him ; he was a friend of Patrick's family, and
it went again' his heart, you see, that the others
were so light and active, and he was bitter in
himself to hear 'em boasting how they'd dance with
any set in the whole country round.  So he gave
Patrick the gift that night, and afterwards gave
him the skill that makes him the wonder of all
that know him.  And to be sure it was only
learning he was that time when he was wandering
in his mind after the fever."
     "I have heard many strange stories about that
inch near Ballyhefaan ford," said Mr. Martin.
     " 'Tis a great place for the good people, isn't it,
Tom?"
     "You may say that, sir," returned Bourke.
"I could tell you a great deal about it.  Many
a time I sat for as good as two hours by moon-
light, at th' other side of the river, looking at 'em
playing goal as if they'd break their hearts over
it; with their coats and waistcoats off, and white
handkerchiefs on the heads of one party, and red
ones on th' other, just as you'd see on a Sunday



in Mr. Simming's big field. I saw 'em one night
play till the moon set, without one party being
able to take the ball from th' other.  I'm sure
they were going to fight, only 'twas near morn-
ing.  I'm told your grandfather, ma'am, used to
see 'em there, too," said Bourke, turning to Mrs.
Martin.
     "So I have been told, Tom," replied Mrs.
Martin.  " But don't they say that the church
yard of Kilcrumper (6) is just as favourite a place
with the good people, as Ballyhefaan inch."
     "Why, then, may be, you never heard, ma'am,
what happened to Davy Roche in that same
churchyard," said Bourke ; and turning to Mr,
Martin, added, " 't was a long time before he
went into your service, sir.  He was walking
home, of an evening, from the fair of Kilcummer,
a little merry, to be sure, after the day, and he
came up with a berrin.  So he walked along with
it, and thought it very queer, that he did not
know a mother's soul in the crowd, but one man,
and he was sure that man was dead many years
afore.  Howsomever, he went on with the berrin,
till they came to Kilcrumper churchyard; and
faith he went in and staid with the rest, to see the
corpse buried. As soon as the grave was covered,
what should they do but gather about a piper
that come along with 'em and fall to dancing as if
it was a wedding.  Davy longed to be among 'em
(for he hadn't a bad foot of his own, that time,
whatever he may now); but he was loath to begin,



because they all seemed strange to him, only the
man I told you that he thought was dead. Well,
at last this man saw what Davy wanted, and came
up to him. 'Davy,' says he, 'take out a partner,
and show what you can do, but take care and don't
offer to kiss her.'   ' That I won't,' says Davy, ' al-
though her lips were made of honey.'  And with
that he made his bow to the purtiest girl in the
ring, and he and she began to dance. 'T was a jig
they danced, and they did it to th' admiration, do
you see, of all that were there.  'Twas all very
well till the jig was over ; but just as they had
done, Davy, for he had a drop in, and was warm
with the dancing, forgot himself, and kissed his
partner, according to custom.  The smack was
no sooner off of his lips, you see, than he was left
alone in the churchyard, without a creature near
him, and all he could see was the tall tombstones.
Davy said they seemed as if they were dancing
too, but I suppose that was only the wonder that
happened him, and he being a little in drink.
Howsomever, he found it was a great many hours
later than he thought it ; 'twas near morning
when he came home ; but they couldn't get a
word out of him till the next day, when he 'woke
out of a dead sleep about twelve o'clock."
     When Tom had finished the account of Davy
Roche and the berrin, it became quite evident
that spirits of some sort were working too strong
within him to admit of his telling many more tales
of the good people.  Tom seemed conscious of
this.-- He muttered for a few minutes broken
sentences concerning churchyards, river-sides,
leprechans, and dina magh, which were quite un-



intelligible, perhaps to himself, certainly to Mr.
Martin and his lady.  At length he made a slight
motion of the head upwards, as if he would say,
"I can talk no more;" stretched his arm on the
table, upon which he placed the empty tumbler
slowly, and with the most knowing and cautious
air; and rising from his chair, walked, or rather
rolled, to the parlour-door.  Here he turned
round to face his host and hostess ; but after
various ineffectual attempts to bid them good
night, the words, as they rose, being always
choked by a violent hiccup, while the door, which
he held by the handle, swung to and fro, carrying
his unyielding body along with it, he was obliged
to depart in silence.  The cow-boy, sent by
Tom's wife, who knew well what sort of allure-
ment detained him, when he remained out after a
certain hour, was in attendance to conduct his
master home. I have no doubt that he returned
without meeting any material injury, as I know
that within the last month, he was, to use his own
words, " As stout and hearty a man as any of
his age in the county Cork." 

(1) The term "fairy struck" is applied to paralytic affec-
tions, which are supposed to proceed from a blow given by
the invisible hand of an offended fairy; this belief, of course,
creates fairy doctors, who by means of charms and myste-
rious journeys profess to cure the afflicted.  It is only fair
to add, that the term has also a convivial acceptation, the
fairies being not unfrequently made to bear the blame of
the effects arising from too copious a sacrifice to the jolly
god.
    The importance attached to the manner and place of
burial by the peasantry is almost incredible; it is always a
matter of consideration and often of dispute whether the
deceased shall be buried with his or her "own people." 

(2) A peculiar class of beggars resembling the Gaberlunzie
man of Scotland.

(3) Inch - low meadow ground near a river.

(4) A ford of the river Funcheon (the Fanclun of Spenser),
on the road leading from Fermoy to Araglin.

(5) i.e. "in the time of the crack of a whip," he took off his
shoes and stockings.

(6) About two hundred yards off the Dublin mail-coach
road, nearly mid-way between Kilworth and Fermoy.