In the tip of the little finger of a simple poor man from the Donegal Mountains, who lived in times long past, there was more wisdom than most of our most famous lawyers or philosophers now have. This poor man's name was Dark Patrick.
It was not solid tomes in expensive bindings that preserved his history and examples of his wisdom for posterity. No, they were preserved by the hearts of people.
The best person to tell the stories about Dark Patrick, as I know, with amazing authenticity, was Fiorgal Otallejor. The same Fiorgal Otallejor, who spent his entire life listening to the roaring, growling, seething, running, cascading, rushing, mad waterfall of the Gray Mare's Tail, which falls headlong from a height of a thousand feet into the valley of Eini from the three mountain lakes of Lugai Mora. You might also hear from him a wonderful story about the trial of Dark Patrick.
One day - and this happened a long time ago, back in the time of Dark Patrick - all of Ireland seemed to split in two on the occasion of the most ordinary dispute that arose in Dublin. It began between two of the most bosom friends that this glorious city has ever known - between the venerable Lord Mayor and the most respectable owner of the Head Inn.
It used to be that you couldn’t force the Lord Mayor out of the Head Inn from his friend Ned, even if you spilled water on them, neither at night, nor during the day, nor in the morning. And the most cherished time of the day, which the Lord Mayor would never miss, was lunch time: the smells of the kitchen of the famous chef “The Head,” as he liked to say to the most respected owner of the inn, were dearer to him than the magical aromas of heavenly cuisine.
But, as often happens, the bosom friends quarreled, and, to annoy him, the owner of the inn demanded in court that his newly-made enemy pay for the smells from dinners for three years! It was a case like no other before, perhaps the most delicate that the Chief Justices of Dublin had ever had the pleasure of trying. On this occasion they were divided into two camps. Then the whole of Dublin split into two violent parties. And soon these insane unrest swept across all of Ireland: one half of the population stood for the owner of the inn and demanded that the venerable Lord Mayor pay everything according to honor, while the other half declared the most venerable owner of the “Head” to be simply a highwayman, and even the most dangerous among them. Moreover, they threatened the honorable Lord Mayor that they would strangle him if he paid even one copper penny to this notorious swindler.
Poor Ireland fell into a deplorable state - the population was so carried away by the decision of who was right and who was wrong in this great dispute that everyone forgot about their field, and about their cattle, about their house and about their wife; everything was heading towards death and ruin.
And then the wise poor man from the Donegal mountains, Dark Patrick, deeply saddened by the misfortune that threatened his country, threw down his shovel, polished his shoes and went to Dublin.
When Dark Patrick arrived there and the Dubliners learned that some poor simpleton Highlander was going to judge a case that had proved beyond the power of the smartest heads in the country, it caused so much fun and ridicule that all the hostility was almost drowned in them and the stupid business ended.
It didn’t take long for the Dublin scoffers to convince the judges to stop the brawl and scuffle and give the judge’s chair to a poor simpleton from the mountains: it would be a holiday, long-awaited for the Dubliners, they said, the most noisy and unusual in the last hundred years.
And indeed, it turned out to be a rare day for the Dublin merrymakers, when a small black-bearded highlander sat on the judge's chair and began to listen to the warring parties, witnesses and defenders, with long faces laying out the essence of the case to him.
Dark Patrick patiently listened to everyone to the end, and then asked the innkeeper, who was suing for three hundred pounds sterling for the smell of a thousand dinners, how much these dinners would cost a person who would not only smell them, but also eat them.
“Their full price is one pound for one meal, and for the whole thing it’s a thousand pounds,” answered the owner of the “Head.” “Although in fact,” he continued, “the smell of a real dinner is worth the whole half of it, but since all my honest and noble life I have been famous for generosity, kindness and courtesy, I demand from this scoundrel even less than one third, that is, only three hundred pounds - a paltry bill.” Oh well! Kindness is above all else for me.
Dark Patrick then turned to the venerable Lord Mayor and asked him to send his servant home for a bag containing a thousand sovereigns.
– But I still won’t take them! - said the noble innkeeper. “No one in the world will force me to take more than three hundred pounds, even for one gold piece!”
- Shh-shh-shsh! – Dark Patrick reassured him. The bewildered crowd could only wonder and wait until the servant of the venerable Lord Mayor turned around with an errand. Then Dark Patrick invited the chief judge to come up and personally count the sovereigns in front of everyone, then put them back in the bag and hand them over to the Lord Mayor. And while everyone in the courtroom sat with bated breath and wondered what would happen next, he ordered the Lord Mayor to approach the innkeeper and hand him a bag of money.
– Do you see this bag? – Dark Patrick asked the owner of the “Head”.
“I see, of course,” answered the innkeeper.
– And do you know what’s in it?
“I know, of course,” answered the innkeeper.
“Come closer,” said Dark Patrick to the venerable Lord Mayor, “and shake the bag over this gentleman’s ear.” The Lord Mayor complied with this.
– What do you hear, most respected master? – asked Dark Patrick.
“The ringing of a thousand gold pieces,” answered the innkeeper.
And then, addressing the court, Dark Patrick announced his verdict:
“According to this gentleman’s statement, one meal at the Head Inn costs one pound sterling.” Consequently, the ringing of a thousand gold coins completely covers the smell of a thousand dinners. And please,” he now turned to the owner of the inn, “give this venerable Mr. Lord Mayor a receipt with a seal and signature that you have received everything in full.”
As soon as the surprised spectators had overcome the feeling of shame, and then a fit of unbridled joy, they picked up the poor highlander in their arms and, although he resisted, carried him in triumph through all the streets of Dublin, and then on their knees begged him to stay with them and become the very, very supreme judge. But Dark Patrick politely thanked them and resolutely refused, saying that only a learned person could occupy such a responsible position, and that he, a poor and dark mountaineer, was far, far away from that. And most importantly, as he said, he couldn’t wait to see a tiny potato field on the slope of the Carnowin Mountains in Donegal, which needed to be weeded.
And he slipped out of the crowd that surrounded him, and went straight to a small hut in a remote corner, where he spent the night. Having paid sixpence for lodging and breakfast, he tied his belongings in a red scarf, slung it over his shoulder on a thorn stick, and walked along the road north.
In the old days they said:
This is the kind of person he is, he will prove that the Pope himself is a Protestant.
Translated from Russian · original on wisdomlib.ru