The fairy tales and folktales of Ireland have had a vast cultural influence throughout the world. It is all the more fortunate, therefore, that Ireland’s greatest poet, William Butler Yeats, undertook in the late 19th century to collect those tales and present them in an accessible and engaging format. Yeats’s Fairy and Folk Tales of Ireland provides a splendid look at one of the great folkloric traditions of the world.
This edition, as published by the Touchstone imprint of Simon & Schuster in 1998, is actually a bringing-together of two separate Yeats works, Fairy and Folk Tales of the Irish Peasantry (1889) and Irish Fairy Tales (1891). In a helpful foreword, Benedict Kiely relates Yeats’s compilation of these tales to Yeats’s well-known affinity for mysticism generally, and relates this collection to a thematic question Yeats would ask “To the end of his days…what if the irrational should return?” (p. x). The return of the irrational here, of course, is not the grim worldwide breakdown of reason depicted in Yeats’s “The Second Coming,” but rather a pre-rationalistic worldview in which the supernatural is a routine part of everyday life – a variant of the irrational that some readers may find attractive.
Yeats is admirably thorough in setting forth not only the basics of different Irish folktale traditions, but also specific stories that somehow illustrate those traditions. When it comes to the well-known lore of the banshee, for example, Yeats provides a suitably scholarly definition – “The banshee (from ban [bean], a woman, and shee [sidhe], a fairy) is an attendant fairy that follows the old families, and none but them, and wails before a death. Many have seen her as she goes wailing and clapping her hands. The keen [caione], the funeral cry of the peasantry, is said to be an imitation of her cry. When more than one banshee is present, and they wail and sing in chorus, it is for the death of some holy or great one” (p. 99).
Yeats provides not only this helpful definition of the banshee, but also an authentic folktale of “How Thomas Connolly Met the Banshee,” rendered in the kind of phonetic English that was highly popular for writers in the 19th century. The frightened Mr. Connolly reports to us that the banshee’s face was “as pale as a corpse, an’ a most o’ freckles on it, like the freckles on a turkey’s egg; an’ the two eyes sewn in wid thread, from the terrible power o’ crying the’ had to do; an’ such a pair iv eyes as the’ wor…as blue as two foget-me-nots, an’ as cowld as the moon in a bog-hole of a frosty night, an’ a dead-an’-live look in them that sent a cowld shiver through the marra o’ me bones” (p. 101). Yeats is clearly enjoying the musicality of this Irishman’s language as he tells this story of terror; and if you find the phonetic misspellings not to be to your taste, just try reading it aloud. That musical quality of Thomas Connolly’s testimony does come through.
If someone’s always after your Lucky Charms, then you’ll be pleased to know that the leprechaun or Lepracaun gets his fair share of attention here. Yeats is happy to let us know that “The name Lepracaun…is from the Irish leith brog – i.e., the One-shoemaker, since he is generally seen working at a single shoe” – and that “The Lepracaun makes shoes continually, and has grown very rich. Many treasure-crocks, buried of old in war-time, has he now for his own” (p. 75). Those treasure-crocks are about as close as we get to the proverbial pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.
And fans of the Jimmy Stewart movie Harvey (1950) – a whimsical tale of the Stewart character’s friendship with a six-foot-tall, invisible rabbit known as a “pooka” -- will no doubt enjoy reading Yeats’s chapter on “The Pooka, rectè Púca, [who] seems essentially an animal spirit” – a mischievous spirit who “has many shapes – is now a horse, now an ass, now a bull, now a goat, now an eagle” (p. 87). Not a rabbit in sight, I’m sorry to say.
Saint Patrick, that English-born lad who escaped from slavery in pre-Christian Ireland but then returned to Christianize the island, is here as well, in stories such as that of the conversion of the two young daughters of King Laoghair of Connaught. As Yeats tells it, the two girls, on their way to take their bath at a well in the Rath of Croghan, see Patrick and his priests there. “The young girls said to Patrick, ‘Whence are ye, and whence come ye?’ and Patrick answered, ‘It were better for you to confess to the true God than to inquire concerning our race’” (p. 202).
Patrick is not one for small talk, apparently.
The two girls do accept conversion and baptism, “and Patrick asked them would they live on or would they die and behold the face of Christ? They chose death, and died immediately, and were buried near the well Clebach” (p. 202). King Laoghair’s response to learning that his young daughters had responded to Patrick’s ministry by choosing to die is not recorded.
Yeats’s own preface to the 1891 publication of Irish Fairy Tales reveals much regarding the great poet’s own attitude toward these tales and their importance. Yeats, writing within the context of the modern age and all its industrialization and mechanization, acknowledges that “I am often doubted when I say that the Irish peasantry still believe in fairies. People think that I am merely trying to bring back a little of the old dead beautiful world of romance into this century of great engines and spinning-jinnies. Surely the hum of wheels and clatter of printing presses, to let alone the lecturers with their black coats and tumblers of water, have driven away the goblin kingdom and made silent the feet of the little dancers” (p. 301).
But Yeats is having none of that. Citing the testimony of one “Old Biddy Hart,” a passionate believer in the fairies and all they represent, Yeats closes his preface by asking, “Do you think the Irish peasant would be so full of poetry if he had not his fairies? Do you think the peasant girls of Donegal, when they are going to service inland, would kneel down as they do and kiss the sea with their lips if both sea and land were not made lovable to them by beautiful legends and wild sad stories? Do you think the old men would take life so cheerily and mutter their proverb, ‘The lake is not burdened by its swan, the steed by its bridle, or a man by the soul that is in him,’ if the multitude of spirits were not near them?” (p. 303)
Yeats’s pride in these stories is rooted not only in the cultural richness of Irish storytelling traditions, but also in a mode of knowledge that resists the cold mechanistic impulses of the modern era. One who reads this volume of Fairy and Folk Tales of Ireland in that spirit will find much to savor here.