Stories
& Legends of Ireland
THE
BEWITCHED BUTTER, pt. 1
John Keegan
About
the commencement of the last century there lived in the vicinity of
the once famous village of Aghaboe, a wealthy farmer, named Bryan Costigan.
This man kept an extensive dairy and a great many milch cows, and every
year made considerable sums by the sale of milk and butter. The luxuriance
of the pasture lands in this neighbourhood has always been proverbial;
and, consequently, Bryan's cows were the finest and most productive
in the country, and his milk and butter the richest and sweetest, and
brought the highest price at every market at which he offered these
articles for sale.
Things
continued to go on thus prosperously with Bryan Costigan, when, one
season, all at once, he found his cattle declining in appearance, and
his dairy almost entirely profitless. Bryan, at first, attributed this
change to the weather, or some such cause, but soon found or fancied
reason to assign it to a far different source. The cows, without any
visible disorder, daily declined, and were scarcely able to crawl about
on their pasture: many of them, instead of milk, gave nothing but blood;
and the scanty quantity of milk which some of them continued to supply
was so bitter that even the pigs would not drink it; whilst the butter
which it produced was of such a bad quality, and stunk so horribly,
that the very dogs would not cat it. Bryan applied for remedies to all
the quacks and 'fairy-women' in the country - but in vain. Many of the
imposters declared that the mysterious malady in his cattle went beyond
their skill; whilst others, although they found no difficulty in tracing
it to superhuman agency, declared that they had no control in the matter,
as the charm under the influence of which his property was made away
with, was too powerful to be dissolved by anything less than the special
interposition of Divine Providence. The poor farmer became almost distracted;
he saw ruin staring him in the face; yet what was he to do? Sell his
cattle and purchase others! No; that was out of the question, as they
looked so miserable and emaciated, that no one would even take them
as a present, whilst it was also impossible to sell to a butcher, as
the flesh of one which he killed for his own family was as black as
a coal, and stunk like any putrid carrion.
The unfortunate
man was thus completely bewildered. He knew not what to do; he became
moody and stupid; his sleep forsook him by night, and all day he wandered
about the fields, amongst his 'fairy-stricken' cattle like a maniac.
