white heifers fairly in the meadow, “get between them and the lake if
you can, and, no matter who they belong to, we’ll just put them into
the pound.”
But the cow must have overheard Larry speaking, for down she went in a
great hurry to the shore of the lake, and into it with her, before all
their eyes: away made the seven heifers after her, but the boys got
down to the bank before them, and work enough they had to drive them
up from the lake to Larry Cotter.
Larry drove the seven heifers, and beautiful beasts they were, to the
pound: but after he had them there for three days, and could hear of
no owner, he took them out, and put them up in a field of his own.
There he kept them, and they were thriving mighty well with him, until
one night the gate of the field was left open, and in the morning the
seven heifers were gone. Larry could not get any account of them
after; and, beyond all doubt, it was back into the lake they went.
Wherever they came from, or to whatever world they belonged, Larry
Cotter never had a crop of grass off the meadow through their means.
So he took to drink, fairly out of the grief; and it was the drink
that killed him, they say.
THE ENCHANTED LAKE.
XX.
In the west of Ireland there was a lake, and no doubt it is there
still, in which many young men had been at various times drowned. What
made the circumstance remarkable was, that the bodies of the drowned
persons were never found. People naturally wondered at this: and at
length the lake came to have a bad repute. Many dreadful stories were
told about that lake; some would affirm, that on a dark night its
waters appeared like fire—others would speak of horrid forms which
were seen to glide over it; and every one agreed that a strange
sulphureous smell issued from out of it.
There lived, not far distant from this lake a young farmer, named
Roderick Keating, who was about to be married to one of the prettiest
girls in that part of the country. On his return from Limerick, where
he had been to purchase the wedding-ring, he came up with two or three
of his acquaintance, who were standing on the shore, and they began to
joke with him about Peggy Honan. One said that young Delaney, his
rival, had in his absence contrived to win the affection of his
mistress:—but Roderick’s confidence in his intended bride was too
great to be disturbed at this tale, and putting his hand in his
pocket, he produced and held up with a significant look the
wedding-ring. As he was turning it between his fore-finger and thumb,
in token of triumph, somehow or other the ring fell from his hand, and
rolled into the lake: Roderick looked after it with the greatest
sorrow; it was not so much for its value, though it had cost him
half-a-guinea, as for the ill-luck of the thing; and the water was so
deep, that there was little chance of recovering it. His companions
laughed at him, and he in vain endeavoured to tempt any of them by the
offer of a handsome reward to dive after the ring: they were all as
little inclined to venture as Roderick Keating himself; for the tales
which they had heard when children were strongly impressed on their
memories, and a superstitious dread filled the mind of each.
“Must I then go back to Limerick to buy another ring?” exclaimed the
young farmer. “Will not ten times what the ring cost tempt any one of
you to venture after it?”
There was within hearing a man who was considered to be a poor, crazy,
half-witted fellow, but he was as harmless as a child, and used to go
wandering up and down through the country from one place to another.
When he heard of so great a reward, Paddeen, for that was his name,
spoke out, and said, that if Roderick Keating would give him
encouragement equal to what he had offered to others, he was ready to
venture after the ring into the lake; and Paddeen, all the while he
spoke, looked as covetous after the sport as the money.
“I’ll take you at your word,” said Keating. So Paddeen pulled off his
coat, and without a single syllable more, down he plunged, head
foremost, into the lake: what depth he went to, no one can tell
exactly; but he was going, going, going down through the water, until
the water parted from him, and he came upon the dry land; the sky, and
the light, and every thing, was there just as it is here; and he saw
fine pleasure-grounds, with an elegant avenue through them, and a
grand house, with a power of steps going up to the door. When he had
recovered from his wonder at finding the land so dry and comfortable
under the water, he looked about him, and what should he see but all
the young men that were drowned working away in the pleasure-grounds
as if nothing had ever happened to them! Some of them were mowing down
the grass, and more were settling out the gravel walks, and doing all
manner of nice work, as neat and as clever as if they had never been
drowned; and they were singing away with high glee:—
“She is fair as Cappoquin;
Have you courage her to win?
And her wealth it far outshines
Cullen’s bog and Silvermines.
She exceeds all heart can wish;
Not brawling like the Foherish,
But as the brightly flowing Lee,
Graceful, mild, and pure is she!”
Well, Paddeen could not but look at the young men, for he knew some of
them before they were lost in the lake; but he said nothing, though he
thought a great deal more for all that, like an oyster:—no, not the
wind of a word passed his lips; so on he went towards the big house,
bold enough, as if he had seen nothing to speak of; yet all the time
mightily wishing to know who the young woman could be that the young
men were singing the song about.
When he had nearly reached the door of the great house, out walks from
the kitchen a powerful fat woman, moving along like a beer-barrel on
two legs, with teeth as big as horses’ teeth, and up she made towards
him.
“Good morrow, Paddeen,” said she.
“Good morrow, Ma’am,” said he.
“What brought you here?” said she.
“’Tis after Rory Keating’s gold ring,” said he, “I’m come.”
“Here it is for you,” said Paddeen’s fat friend, with a smile on her
face that moved like boiling stirabout [gruel.]
“Thank you, Ma’am,” replied Paddeen, taking it from her:—“I need not
say the Lord increase you, for you’re fat enough already. Will you
tell me, if you please, am I to go back the same way I came?”
“Then you did not come to marry me?” cried the corpulent woman in a
desperate fury.
“Just wait till I come back again, my darling,” said Paddeen: “I’m to
be paid for my message, and I must return with the answer, or else
they’ll wonder what has become of me.”
“Never mind the money,” said the fat woman: “if you marry me, you
shall live for ever and a day in that house, and want for nothing.”
Paddeen saw clearly that, having got possession of the ring, the fat
woman had no power to detain him; so without minding any thing she
said, he kept moving and moving down the avenue, quite quietly, and
looking about him; for, to tell the truth, he had no particular
inclination to marry a fat fairy. When he came to the gate, without
ever saying good by, out he bolted, and he found the water coming all
about him again. Up he plunged through it, and wonder enough there
was, when Paddeen was seen swimming away at the opposite side of the
lake; but he soon made the shore, and told Roderick Keating, and the
other boys that were standing there looking out for him, all that had
happened. Roderick paid him the five guineas for the ring on the spot;
and Paddeen thought himself so rich with such a sum of money in his
pocket, that he did not go back to marry the fat lady with the fine
house at the bottom of the lake, knowing she had plenty of young men
to choose a husband from, if she pleased to be married.
THE LEGEND OF O’DONOGHUE.
XXI.
In an age so distant that the precise period is unknown, a chieftain
named O’Donoghue ruled over the country which surrounds the romantic
Lough Lean, now called the lake of Killarney. Wisdom, beneficence, and
justice, distinguished his reign, and the prosperity and happiness of
his subjects were their natural results. He is said to have been as
renowned for his warlike exploits as for his pacific virtues; and as a
proof that his domestic administration was not the less rigorous
because it was mild, a rocky island is pointed out to strangers,
called “O’Donoghue’s Prison,” in which this prince once confined his
own son for some act of disorder and disobedience.
His end—for it cannot correctly be called his death—was singular and
mysterious. At one of those splendid feasts for which his court was
celebrated, surrounded by the most distinguished of his subjects, he
was engaged in a prophetic relation of the events which were to happen
in ages yet to come. His auditors listened, now wrapt in wonder, now
fired with indignation, burning with shame, or melted into sorrow, as
he faithfully detailed the heroism, the injuries, the crimes, and the
miseries of their descendants. In the midst of his predictions he rose
slowly from his seat, advanced with a solemn, measured, and majestic
tread to the shore of the lake, and walked forward composedly upon its
unyielding surface. When he had nearly reached the centre, he paused
for a moment, then turning slowly round, looked towards his friends,
and waving his arms to them with the cheerful air of one taking a
short farewell, disappeared from their view.
The memory of the good O’Donoghue has been cherished by successive
generations with affectionate reverence: and it is believed that at
sunrise, on every May-dew morning, the anniversary of his departure,
he revisits his ancient domains: a favoured few only are in general
permitted to see him, and this distinction is always an omen of good
fortune to the beholders: when it is granted to many, it is a sure
token of an abundant harvest,—a blessing, the want of which during
this prince’s reign was never felt by his people.
Some years have elapsed since the last appearance of O’Donoghue. The
April of that year had been remarkably wild and stormy; but on
May morning the fury of the elements had altogether subsided. The air
was hushed and still; and the sky, which was reflected in the serene
lake, resembled a beautiful but deceitful countenance, whose smiles,
after the most tempestuous emotions, tempt the stranger to believe
that it belongs to a soul which no passion has ever ruffled.
The first beams of the rising sun were just gilding the lofty summit
of Glenaa, when the waters near the eastern shores of the lake became
suddenly and violently agitated, though all the rest of its surface
lay smooth and still as a tomb of polished marble; the next moment a
foaming wave darted forward, and, like a proud high-crested war-horse,
exulting in his strength, rushed across the lake towards Toomies
mountain. Behind this wave appeared a stately warrior fully armed,
mounted upon a milk-white steed; his snowy plume waved gracefully from
a helmet of polished steel, and at his back fluttered a light blue
scarf. The horse, apparently exulting in his noble burden, sprang
after the wave along the water, which bore him up like firm earth,
while showers of spray that glittered brightly in the morning sun were
dashed up at every bound.
The warrior was O’Donoghue; he was followed by numberless youths and
maidens who moved lightly and unconstrained over the watery plain, as
the moonlight fairies glide through the fields of air: they were
linked together by garlands of delicious spring flowers, and they
timed their movements to strains of enchanting melody. When O’Donoghue
had nearly reached the western side of the lake, he suddenly turned
his steed, and directed his course along the wood-fringed shore of
Glenaa, preceded by the huge wave that curled and foamed up as high as
the horse’s neck, whose fiery nostrils snorted above it. The long
train of attendants followed with playful deviations the track of
their leader, and moved on with unabated fleetness to their celestial
music, till gradually, as they entered the narrow strait between
Glenaa and Dinis, they became involved in the mists which still
partially floated over the lakes, and faded from the view of the
wondering beholders: but the sound of their music still fell upon the
ear, and echo, catching up the harmonious strains, fondly repeated and
prolonged them in soft and softer tones, till the last faint
repetition died away, and the hearers awoke as from a dream of bliss.
_Thierna na Oge_, or the Country of Youth, is the name given to
the foregoing section, from the belief that those who dwell in regions
of enchantment beneath the water are not affected by the
movements of time.
LEGENDS OF THE MERROW.
——“The mysterious depths
And wild and wondrous forms of ocean old.”
MATTIMA’S _Conchologist_.
THE LADY OF GOLLERUS.
XXII.
On the shore of Smerwick harbour, one fine summer’s morning, just at
day-break, stood Dick Fitzgerald “shoghing the dudeen,” which may be
translated, smoking his pipe. The sun was gradually rising behind the
lofty Brandon, the dark sea was getting green in the light, and the
mists, clearing away out of the valleys, went rolling and curling like
the smoke from the corner of Dick’s mouth.
“’Tis just the pattern of a pretty morning,” said Dick, taking the
pipe from between his lips, and looking towards the distant ocean,
which lay as still and tranquil as a tomb of polished marble. “Well,
to be sure,” continued he, after a pause, “’tis mighty lonesome to be
talking to one’s self by way of company, and not to have another soul
to answer one—nothing but the child of one’s own voice, the echo! I
know this, that if I had the luck, or may be the misfortune,” said
Dick with a melancholy smile, “to have the woman, it would not be this
way with me!—and what in the wide world is a man without a wife? He’s
no more surely than a bottle without a drop of drink in it, or dancing
without music, or the left leg of a scissors, or a fishing line
without a hook, or any other matter that is no ways complete—Is it
not so?” said Dick Fitzgerald, casting his eyes towards a rock upon
the strand, which though it could not speak, stood up as firm and
looked as bold as ever Kerry witness did.
But what was his astonishment at beholding, just at the foot of that
rock a beautiful young creature combing her hair, which was of a
sea-green colour; and now the salt water shining on it, appeared in
the morning light, like melted butter upon cabbage.
Dick guessed at once that she was a Merrow, although he had never seen
one before, for he spied the _cohuleen driuth_, or little enchanted
cap, which the sea people use for diving down into the ocean, lying
upon the strand, near her; and he had heard that if once he could
possess himself of the cap, she would lose the power of going away
into the water: so he seized it with all speed, and she, hearing the
noise, turned her head about as natural as any Christian.
When the Merrow saw that her little diving-cap was gone, the salt
tears—doubly salt, no doubt, from her—came trickling down her
cheeks, and she began a low mournful cry with just the tender voice of
a new-born infant. Dick, although he knew well enough what she was
crying for, determined to keep the _cohuleen driuth_, let her cry
never so much, to see what luck would come out of it. Yet he could not
help pitying her, and when the dumb thing looked up in his face, and
her cheeks all moist with tears, ’twas enough to make any one feel let
alone Dick, who had ever and always, like most of his countrymen, a
mighty tender heart of his own.
“Don’t cry, my darling,” said Dick Fitzgerald; but the Merrow, like
any bold child, only cried the more for that.
Dick sat himself down by her side, and took hold of her hand, by way
of comforting her. ’Twas in no particular an ugly hand, only there was
a small web between the fingers, as there is in a duck’s foot; but
’twas as thin and as white as the skin between egg and shell.
“What’s your name, my darling?” says Dick, thinking to make her
conversant with him; but he got no answer; and he was certain sure
now, either that she could not speak, or did not understand him: he
therefore squeezed her hand in his, as the only way he had of talking
to her. It’s the universal language; and there’s not a woman in the
world, be she fish or lady, that does not understand it.
The Merrow did not seem much displeased at this mode of conversation;
and, making an end of her whining all at once—“Man,” says she,
looking up in Dick Fitzgerald’s face, “Man, will you eat me?”
“By all the red petticoats and check aprons between Dingle and
Tralee,” cried Dick, jumping up in amazement, “I’d as soon eat myself,
my jewel! Is it I eat you, my pet?—Now ’twas some ugly ill-looking
thief of a fish put that notion into your own pretty head, with the
nice green hair down upon it, that is so cleanly combed out this
morning!”
“Man,” said the Merrow, “what will you do with me, if you won’t eat
me?”
Dick’s thoughts were running on a wife: he saw, at the first glimpse,
that she was handsome; but since she spoke, and spoke too like any
real woman, he was fairly in love with her. ’Twas the neat way she
called him man, that settled the matter entirely.
“Fish,” says Dick, trying to speak to her after her own short fashion;
“fish,” says he, “here’s my word, fresh and fasting, for you this
blessed morning, that I’ll make you mistress Fitzgerald before all the
world, and that’s what I’ll do.”
“Never say the word twice,” says she; “I’m ready and willing to be
yours, mister Fitzgerald; but stop, if you please, ’till I twist up my
hair.”
It was some time before she had settled it entirely to her liking; for
she guessed, I suppose, that she was going among strangers, where she
would be looked at. When that was done, the Merrow put the comb in her
pocket, and then bent down her head and whispered some words to the
water that was close to the foot of the rock.
Dick saw the murmur of the words upon the top of the sea, going out
towards the wide ocean, just like a breath of wind rippling along, and
says he in the greatest wonder; “Is it speaking you are, my darling,
to the salt water?”
“It’s nothing else,” says she quite carelessly, “I’m just sending word
home to my father, not to be waiting breakfast for me; just to keep
him from being uneasy in his mind.”
“And who’s your father, my duck?” says Dick.
“What!” said the Merrow, “did you never hear of my father? he’s the
king of the waves, to be sure!”
“And yourself, then, is a real king’s daughter?” said Dick, opening
his two eyes to take a full and true survey of his wife that was to
be.
“Oh, I’m nothing else but a made man with you, and a king your
father;—to be sure he has all the money that’s down in the bottom of
the sea!”
“Money,” repeated the Merrow, “what’s money?”
“’Tis no bad thing to have when one wants it,” replied Dick; “and may
be now the fishes have the understanding to bring up whatever you bid
them?”
“Oh! yes,” said the Merrow, “they bring me what I want.”
“To speak the truth, then,” said Dick, “’tis a straw bed I have at
home before you, and that, I’m thinking, is no ways fitting for a
king’s daughter: so, if ’twould not be displeasing to you, just to
mention, a nice feather-bed, with a pair of new blankets—but what am
I talking about? may be you have not such things as beds down under
the water?”
“By all means,” said she, “Mr. Fitzgerald—plenty of beds at your
service. I’ve fourteen oyster-beds of my own, not to mention one just
planting for the rearing of young ones.”
“You have?” says Dick, scratching his head and looking a little
puzzled. “’Tis a feather-bed I was speaking of—but clearly, yours is
the very cut of a decent plan, to have bed and supper so handy to each
other, that a person when they’d have the one, need never ask for the
other.”
However, bed or no bed, money or no money, Dick Fitzgerald determined
to marry the Merrow, and the Merrow had given her consent. Away they
went, therefore, across the strand, from Gollerus to Ballinrunnig,
where Father Fitzgibbon happened to be that morning.
“There are two words to this bargain, Dick Fitzgerald,” said his
Reverence, looking mighty glum. “And is it a fishy woman you’d
marry?—the Lord preserve us!—Send the scaly creature home to her own
people, that’s my advice to you, wherever she came from.”
Dick had the _cohuleen driuth_ in his hand, and was about to give it
back to the Merrow, who looked covetously at it, but he thought for a
moment, and then, says he—
“Please your Reverence she’s a king’s daughter.”
“If she was the daughter of fifty kings,” said Father Fitzgibbon, “I
tell you, you can’t marry her, she being a fish.”
“Please your Reverence,” said Dick again, in an under tone, “she is as
mild and as beautiful as the moon.”
“If she was as mild and as beautiful as the sun, moon, and stars, all
put together, I tell you, Dick Fitzgerald,” said the Priest stamping
his right foot, “you can’t marry her, she being a fish!”
“But she has all the gold that’s down in the sea only for the asking,
and I’m a made man if I marry her; and,” said Dick, looking up slily,
“I can make it worth any one’s while to do the job.”
“Oh! that alters the case entirely,” replied the Priest; “why there’s
some reason now in what you say: why didn’t you tell me this
before?—marry her by all means if she was ten times a fish. Money,
you know, is not to be refused in these bad times, and I may as well
have the hansel of it as another, that may be would not take half the
pains in counselling you as I have done.”
So Father Fitzgibbon married Dick Fitzgerald to the Merrow, and like
any loving couple, they returned to Gollerus well pleased with each
other. Every thing prospered with Dick—he was at the sunny side of
the world; the Merrow made the best of wives, and they lived together
in the greatest contentment.
It was wonderful to see, considering where she had been brought up,
how she would busy herself about the house, and how well she nursed
the children; for, at the end of three years, there were as many young
Fitzgeralds—two boys and a girl.
In short, Dick was a happy man, and so he might have continued to the
end of his days, if he had only the sense to take proper care of what
he had got; many another man, however, beside Dick, has not had wit
enough to do that.
One day when Dick was obliged to go to Tralee, he left his wife,
minding the children at home after him, and thinking she had plenty to
do without disturbing his fishing tackle.
Dick was no sooner gone than Mrs. Fitzgerald set about cleaning up the
house, and chancing to pull down a fishing-net, what should she find
behind it in a hole in the wall but her own _cohuleen driuth_.
She took it out and looked at it, and then she thought of her father
the king, and her mother the queen, and her brothers and sisters, and
she felt a longing to go back to them.
She sat down on a little stool and thought over the happy days she had
spent under the sea; then she looked at her children, and thought on
the love and affection of poor Dick, and how it would break his heart
to lose her. “But,” says she, “he won’t lose me entirely, for I’ll
come back to him again; and who can blame me for going to see my
father and my mother, after being so long away from them.”
She got up and went towards the door, but came back again to look once
more at the child that was sleeping in the cradle. She kissed it
gently, and as she kissed it, a tear trembled for an instant in her
eye and then fell on its rosy cheek. She wiped away the tear, and
turning to the eldest little girl, told her to take good care of her
brothers, and to be a good child herself, until she came back. The
Merrow then went down to the strand.—The sea was lying calm and
smooth, just heaving and glittering in the sun, and she thought she
heard a faint sweet singing, inviting her to come down. All her old
ideas and feelings came flooding over her mind, Dick and her children
were at the instant forgotten, and placing the _cohuleen driuth_ on
her head, she plunged in.
Dick came home in the evening, and missing his wife, he asked
Kathelin, his little girl, what had become of her mother, but she
could not tell him. He then inquired of the neighbours, and he learned
that she was seen going towards the strand with a strange looking
thing like a cocked hat in her hand. He returned to his cabin to
search for the _cohuleen driuth_. It was gone and the truth now
flashed upon him.