[FN#8] I have since heard that it was not the Kirwans, but their predecessors at Castle Hacket, the Hackets themselves, I think, who were descended from a man and a spirit, and were notable for beauty.  I imagine that the mother of Lord Cloncurry was descended from the Hackets.  It may well be that all through these stories the name of Kirwan has taken the place of the older name.  Legend mixes everything together in her cauldron.

John Kirwan was a great horse-racing man, and once landed in Liverpool with a fine horse, going racing somewhere in middle England.  That evening, as he walked by the docks, a slip of a boy came up and asked where he was stabling his horse.  In such and such a place, he answered.  “Don’t put him there,” said the slip of a boy; “that stable will be burnt to-night.”  He took his horse elsewhere, and sure enough the stable was burnt down.  Next day the boy came and asked as reward to ride as his jockey in the coming race, and then was gone.  The race-time came round.  At the last moment the boy ran forward and mounted, saying, “If I strike him with the whip in my left hand I will lose, but if in my right hand bet all you are worth.”  For, said Paddy Flynn, who told me the tale, “the left arm is good for nothing.  I might go on making the sign of the cross with it, and all that, come Christmas, and a Banshee, or such like, would no more mind than if it was that broom.”  Well, the slip of a boy struck the horse with his right hand, and John Kirwan cleared the field out.  When the race was over, “What can I do for you now?” said he.  “Nothing but this,” said the boy:  “my mother has a cottage on your land-they stole me from the cradle.  Be good to her, John Kirwan, and wherever your horses go I will watch that no ill follows them; but you will never see me more.”  With that he made himself air, and vanished.

Sometimes animals are carried off—­apparently drowned animals more than others.  In Claremorris, Galway, Paddy Flynn told me, lived a poor widow with one cow and its calf.  The cow fell into the river, and was washed away.  There was a man thereabouts who went to a red-haired woman —­for such are supposed to be wise in these things—­and she told him to take the calf down to the edge of the river, and hide himself and watch.  He did as she had told him, and as evening came on the calf began to low, and after a while the cow came along the edge of the river and commenced suckling it.  Then, as he had been told, he caught the cow’s tail.  Away they went at a great pace across hedges and ditches, till they came to a royalty (a name for the little circular ditches, commonly called raths or forts, that Ireland is covered with since Pagan times).  Therein he saw walking or sitting all the people who had died out of his village in his time.  A woman was sitting on the edge with a child on her knees, and she called out to him to mind what the red-haired woman had told him, and he remembered she had said, Bleed the cow.  So he stuck his knife into the cow and drew blood.  That broke the spell, and he was able to turn her homeward.  “Do not forget the spancel,” said the woman with the child on her knees; “take the inside one.”  There were three spancels on a bush; he took one, and the cow was driven safely home to the widow.