wife, but he never saw her more. Dick never married again, always
thinking that the Merrow would sooner or later return to him, and
nothing could ever persuade him but that her father the king kept her
below by main force; “For,” says Dick, “she surely would not of
herself give up her husband and her children.”
While she was with him, she was so good a wife in every respect, that
to this day she is spoken of in the tradition of the country as the
pattern for one, under the name of THE LADY OF GOLLERUS.
FLORY CANTILLON’S FUNERAL.
XXIII.
The ancient burial-place of the Cantillon family was on an island in
Ballyheigh Bay. This island was situated at no great distance from the
shore, and at a remote period was overflowed in one of the
encroachments which the Atlantic has made on that part of the coast of
Kerry. The fishermen declare they have often seen the ruined walls of
an old chapel beneath them in the water, as they sailed over the clear
green sea, of a sunny afternoon.[19] However this may be, it is well
known that the Cantillons were, like most other Irish families,
strongly attached to their ancient burial-place; and this attachment
led to the custom, when any of the family died, of carrying the corpse
to the seaside, where the coffin was left on the shore within reach of
the tide. In the morning it had disappeared, being, as was
traditionally believed, conveyed away by the ancestors of the deceased
to their family tomb.
[19] “The neighbouring inhabitants,” says Dr. Smith, in his
History of Kerry, speaking of Ballyheigh, “show some rocks
visible in this bay only at low tides, which, they say, are the
remains of an island, that was formerly the burial-place of the
family of Cantillon, the ancient proprietors of Ballyheigh.” p.
210.
Connor Crowe, a county Clare man, was related to the Cantillons by
marriage. “Connor Mac in Cruagh, of the seven quarters of Breintragh,”
as he was commonly called, and a proud man he was of the name. Connor,
be it known, would drink a quart of salt water, for its medicinal
virtues, before breakfast; and for the same reason, I suppose, double
that quantity of raw whisky between breakfast and night, which last he
did with as little inconvenience to himself as any man in the barony
of Moyferta; and were I to add Clanderalaw and Ibrickan, I don’t think
I should say wrong.
On the death of Florence Cantillon, Connor Crowe was determined to
satisfy himself about the truth of this story of the old church under
the sea: so when he heard the news of the old fellow’s death, away
with him to Ardfert, where Flory was laid out in high style, and a
beautiful corpse he made.
Flory had been as jolly and as rollocking a boy in his day as ever was
stretched, and his wake was in every respect worthy of him. There was
all kind of entertainment and all sort of diversion at it, and no less
than three girls got husbands there—more luck to them. Every thing
was as it should be: all that side of the country, from Dingle to
Tarbet, was at the funeral. The Keen was sung long and bitterly; and,
according to the family custom, the coffin was carried to Ballyheigh
strand, where it was laid upon the shore with a prayer for the repose
of the dead.
The mourners departed, one group after another, and at last Connor
Crowe was left alone: he then pulled out his whisky bottle, his drop
of comfort as he called it, which he required, being in grief; and
down he sat upon a big stone that was sheltered by a projecting rock,
and partly concealed from view, to await with patience the appearance
of the ghostly undertakers.
The evening came on mild and beautiful; he whistled an old air which
he had heard in his childhood, hoping to keep idle fears out of his
head; but the wild strain of that melody brought a thousand
recollections with it, which only made the twilight appear more
pensive.
“If ’twas near the gloomy tower of Dunmore, in my own sweet county, I
was,” said Connor Crowe, with a sigh, “one might well believe that the
prisoners, who were murdered long ago, there in the vaults under the
castle, would be the hands to carry off the coffin out of envy, for
never a one of them was buried decently, nor had as much as a coffin
amongst them all. ’Tis often, sure enough, I have heard lamentations
and great mourning coming from the vaults of Dunmore Castle; but,”
continued he, after fondly pressing his lips to the mouth of his
companion and silent comforter, the whisky bottle, “didn’t I know all
the time well enough, ’twas the dismal sounding waves working through
the cliffs and hollows of the rocks, and fretting themselves to foam.
Oh then, Dunmore Castle, it is you that are the gloomy-looking tower
on a gloomy day, with the gloomy hills behind you; when one has gloomy
thoughts on their heart, and sees you like a ghost rising out of the
smoke made by the kelp-burners on the strand, there is, the Lord save
us! as fearful a look about you as about the Blue Man’s Lake at
midnight. Well then, any how,” said Connor, after a pause, “is it not
a blessed night, though surely the moon looks mighty pale in the face?
St. Senan himself between us and all kinds of harm!”
It was, in truth a lovely moonlight night; nothing was to be seen
around but the dark rocks, and the white pebbly beach, upon which the
sea broke with a hoarse and melancholy murmur. Connor, notwithstanding
his frequent draughts, felt rather queerish, and almost began to
repent his curiosity. It was certainly a solemn sight to behold the
black coffin resting upon the white strand. His imagination gradually
converted the deep moaning of old ocean into a mournful wail for the
dead, and from the shadowy recesses of the rocks he imaged forth
strange and visionary forms.
As the night advanced, Connor became weary of watching; he caught
himself more than once in the fact of nodding, when suddenly giving
his head a shake, he would look towards the black coffin. But the
narrow house of death remained unmoved before him.
It was long past midnight, and the moon was sinking into the sea, when
he heard the sound of many voices, which gradually became stronger,
above the heavy and monotonous roll of the sea: he listened, and
presently could distinguish a Keen, of exquisite sweetness, the notes
of which rose and fell with the heaving of the waves, whose deep
murmur mingled with and supported the strain!
The Keen grew louder and louder, and seemed to approach the beach, and
then fell into a low plaintive wail. As it ended, Connor beheld a
number of strange, and in the dim light, mysterious-looking figures,
emerge from the sea, and surround the coffin, which they prepared to
launch into the water.
“This comes of marrying with the creatures of earth,” said one of the
figures, in a clear, yet hollow tone.
“True,” replied another, with a voice still more fearful, “our king
would never have commanded his gnawing white-toothed waves to devour
the rocky roots of the island cemetery, had not his daughter,
Durfulla, been buried there by her mortal husband!”
“But the time will come,” said a third, bending over the coffin,
“When mortal eye—our work shall spy,
And mortal ear—our dirge shall hear.”
“Then,” said a fourth, “our burial of the Cantillons is at an end for
ever!”
As this was spoken the coffin was borne from the beach by a retiring
wave, and the company of sea people prepared to follow it; but at the
moment one chanced to discover Connor Crowe, as fixed with wonder and
as motionless with fear as the stone on which he sat.
“The time is come,” cried the unearthly being, “the time is come: a
human eye looks on the forms of ocean, a human ear has heard their
voices; farewell to the Cantillons; the sons of the sea are no longer
doomed to bury the dust of the earth!”
One after the other turned slowly round, and regarded Connor Crowe,
who still remained as if bound by a spell. Again arose their funeral
song; and on the next wave they followed the coffin. The sound of the
lamentation died away, and at length nothing was heard but the rush of
waters. The coffin and the train of sea people sank over the old
churchyard, and never, since the funeral of old Flory Cantillon, have
any of the family been carried to the strand of Ballyheigh, for
conveyance to their rightful burial-place, beneath the waves of the
Atlantic.
THE LORD OF DUNKERRON.
XXIV.
The lord of Dunkerron[20]—O’Sullivan More,
Why seeks he at midnight the sea-beaten shore?
His bark lies in haven his hounds are asleep;
No foes are abroad on the land or the deep.
Yet nightly the lord of Dunkerron is known
On the wild shore to watch and to wander alone;
For a beautiful spirit of ocean, ’tis said,
The lord of Dunkerron would win to his bed.
When, by moonlight, the waters were hush’d to repose,
That beautiful spirit of ocean arose;
Her hair, full of lustre, just floated and fell
O’er her bosom, that heaved with a billowy swell.
Long, long had he loved her—long vainly essay’d
To lure from her dwelling the coy ocean maid;
And long had he wander’d and watch’d by the tide,
To claim the fair spirit O’Sullivan’s bride!
The maiden she gazed on the creature of earth,
Whose voice in her breast to a feeling gave birth;
Then smiled; and, abashed as a maiden might be,
Looking down, gently sank to her home in the sea.
Though gentle that smile, as the moonlight above,
O’Sullivan felt ’twas the dawning of love,
And hope came on hope, spreading over his mind,
Like the eddy of circles her wake left behind.
The lord of Dunkerron he plunged in the waves,
And sought through the fierce rush of waters, their caves;
The gloom of whose depth studded over with spars,
Had the glitter of midnight when lit up by stars.
Who can tell or can fancy the treasures that sleep,
Entombed in the wonderful womb of the deep?
The pearls and the gems, as if valueless, thrown
To lie ‘mid the sea-wrack concealed and unknown.
Down, down went the maid,—still the chieftain pursued;
Who flies must be followed ere she can be wooed.
Untempted by treasures, unawed by alarms,
The maiden at length he has clasped in his arms!
They rose from the deep by a smooth-spreading strand,
Whence beauty and verdure stretch’d over the land.
’Twas an isle of enchantment! and lightly the breeze,
With a musical murmur, just crept through the trees.
The haze-woven shroud of that newly born isle,
Softly faded away, from a magical pile,
A palace of crystal, whose bright-beaming sheen
Had the tints of the rainbow—red, yellow, and green.
And grottoes, fantastic in hue and in form,
Were there, as flung up—the wild sport of the storm;
Yet all was so cloudless, so lovely, and calm,
It seemed but a region of sunshine and balm.
“Here, here shall we dwell in a dream of delight,
Where the glories of earth and of ocean unite!
Yet, loved son of earth! I must from thee away;
There are laws which e’en spirits are bound to obey!
“Once more must I visit the chief of my race,
His sanction to gain ere I meet thy embrace.
In a moment I dive to the chambers beneath:
One cause can detain me—one only—’tis death!”
They parted in sorrow, with vows true and fond;
The language of promise had nothing beyond.
His soul all on fire, with anxiety burns:
The moment is gone—but no maiden returns.
What sounds from the deep meet his terrified ear—
What accents of rage and of grief does he hear?
What sees he? what change has come over the flood—
What tinges its green with a jetty of blood?
Can he doubt what the gush of warm blood would explain?
That she sought the consent of her monarch in vain!
For see all around him, in white foam and froth,
The waves of the ocean boil up in their wroth!
The palace of crystal has melted in air,
And the dyes of the rainbow no longer are there;
The grottoes with vapour and clouds are o’ercast,
The sunshine is darkness—the vision has past!
Loud, loud was the call of his serfs for their chief;
They sought him with accents of wailing and grief:
He heard, and he struggled—a wave to the shore,
Exhausted and faint, bears O’Sullivan More!
[20] The remains of Dunkerron Castle are distant about a mile
from the village of Kenmare, in the county of Kerry. It is
recorded to have been built in 1596, by Owen O’Sullivan
More.—[_More_, is merely an epithet signifying _the Great_.]
THE WONDERFUL TUNE.
XXV.
Maurice Connor was the king, and that’s no small word, of all the
pipers in Munster. He could play jig and planxty without end, and
Ollistrum’s March, and the Eagle’s Whistle, and the Hen’s Concert, and
odd tunes of every sort and kind. But he knew one, far more surprising
than the rest, which had in it the power to set every thing dead or
alive dancing.
In what way he learned it is beyond my knowledge, for he was mighty
cautious about telling how he came by so wonderful a tune. At the very
first note of that tune, the brogues began shaking upon the feet of
all who heard it—old or young it mattered not—just as if their
brogues had the ague; then the feet began going—going—going from
under them, and at last up and away with them, dancing like
mad!—whisking here, there, and every where, like a straw in a
storm—there was no halting while the music lasted!
Not a fair, nor a wedding, nor a patron in the seven parishes round,
was counted worth the speaking of without “blind Maurice and his
pipes.” His mother, poor woman, used to lead him about from one place
to another, just like a dog.
Down through Iveragh—a place that ought to be proud of itself, for
’tis Daniel O’Connell’s country—Maurice Connor and his mother were
taking their rounds. Beyond all other places Iveragh is the place for
stormy coast and steep mountains: as proper a spot it is as any in
Ireland to get yourself drowned, or your neck broken on the land,
should you prefer that. But, notwithstanding, in Ballinskellig bay
there is a neat bit of ground, well fitted for diversion, and down
from it towards the water, is a clean smooth piece of strand—the dead
image of a calm summer’s sea on a moonlight night, with just the curl
of the small waves upon it.
Here it was that Maurice’s music had brought from all parts a great
gathering of the young men and the young women—_O the darlints!_—for
’twas not every day the strand of Trafraska was stirred up by the
voice of a bagpipe. The dance began; and as pretty a rinkafadda it was
as ever was danced. “Brave music,” said every body, “and well done,”
when Maurice stopped.
“More power to your elbow, Maurice, and a fair wind in the bellows,”
cried Paddy Dorman, a hump-backed dancing-master, who was there to
keep order. “’Tis a pity,” said he, “if we’d let the piper run dry
after such music; ’twould be a disgrace to Iveragh, that didn’t come
on it since the week of the three Sundays.” So, as well became him,
for he was always a decent man, says he: “Did you drink, piper?”
“I will, sir,” says Maurice, answering the question on the safe side,
for you never yet knew piper or schoolmaster who refused his drink.
“What will you drink, Maurice?” says Paddy.
“I’m no ways particular,” says Maurice; “I drink any thing, and give
God thanks, barring _raw_ water; but if ’tis all the same to you,
mister Dorman, may be you wouldn’t lend me the loan of a glass of
whiskey.”
“I’ve no glass, Maurice,” said Paddy; “I’ve only the bottle.”
“Let that be no hindrance,” answered Maurice; “my mouth just holds a
glass to the drop; often I’ve tried it, sure.”
So Paddy Dorman trusted him with the bottle—more fool was he; and, to
his cost, he found that though Maurice’s mouth might not hold more
than the glass at one time, yet, owing to the hole in his throat, it
took many a filling.
“That was no bad whisky neither,” says Maurice, handing back the empty
bottle.
“By the holy frost, then!” says Paddy, “’tis but _cowld_ comfort
there’s in that bottle now; and ’tis your word we must take for the
strength of the whisky, for you’ve left us no sample to judge by:” and
to be sure Maurice had not.
Now I need not tell any gentleman or lady with common understanding,
that if he or she was to drink an honest bottle of whiskey at one
pull, it is not at all the same thing as drinking a bottle of water;
and in the whole course of my life, I never knew more than five men
who could do so without being overtaken by the liquor. Of these
Maurice Connor was not one, though he had a stiff head enough of his
own—he was fairly tipsy. Don’t think I blame him for it; ’tis often a
good man’s case; but true is the word that says, “when liquor’s in,
sense is out;” and puff, at a breath, before you could say “Lord save
us!” out he blasted his wonderful tune.
’Twas really then beyond all belief or telling the dancing Maurice
himself could not keep quiet; staggering now on one leg, now on the
other, and rolling about like a ship in a cross sea, trying to humour
the tune. There was his mother too, moving her old bones as light as
the youngest girl of them all; but her dancing, no, nor the dancing of
all the rest, is not worthy the speaking about to the work that was
going on down on the strand. Every inch of it covered with all manner
of fish jumping and plunging about to the music, and every moment more
and more would tumble in out of the water, charmed by the wonderful
tune. Crabs of monstrous size spun round and round on one claw with
the nimbleness of a dancing-master, and twirled and tossed their other
claws about like limbs that did not belong to them. It was a sight
surprising to behold. But perhaps you may have heard of father
Florence Conry, a Franciscan Friar, and a great Irish poet; _bolg an
dana_, as they used to call him—a wallet of poems. If you have not he
was as pleasant a man as one would wish to drink with of a hot
summer’s day; and he has rhymed out all about the dancing fishes so
neatly, that it would be a thousand pities not to give you his verses;
so here’s my hand at an upset of them into English:
The big seals in motion,
Like waves of the ocean,
Or gouty feet prancing,
Came heading the gay fish,
Crabs, lobsters, and cray fish,
Determined on dancing.
The sweet sounds they follow’d,
The gasping cod swallow’d;
’Twas wonderful, really!
And turbot and flounder,
‘Mid fish that were rounder,
Just caper’d as gaily.
John-dories came tripping;
Dull hake, by their skipping
To frisk it seem’d given;
Bright mackerel went springing,
Like small rainbows winging
Their flight up to heaven.
The whiting and haddock
Left salt-water paddock,
This dance to be put in:
Where skate with flat faces
Edged out some odd plaices;
But soles kept their footing.
Sprats and herrings in powers
Of silvery showers
All number out-number’d;
And great ling so lengthy
Were there in such plenty,
The shore was encumber’d.
The scollop and oyster
Their two shells did roister,
Like castanets fitting;
While limpets moved clearly,
And rocks very nearly
With laughter were splitting.
Never was such an ullabulloo in this world, before or since; ’twas as
if heaven and earth were coming together; and all out of Maurice
Connor’s wonderful tune!
In the height of all these doings, what should there be dancing among
the outlandish set of fishes but a beautiful young woman—as beautiful
as the dawn of day! She had a cocked hat upon her head; from under it
her long green hair—just the colour of the sea—fell down behind,
without hindrance to her dancing. Her teeth were like rows of pearl;
her lips for all the world looked like red coral; and she had an
elegant gown, as white as the foam of the wave, with little rows of
purple and red sea-weeds settled out upon it; for you never yet saw a
lady, under the water or over the water, who had not a good notion of
dressing herself out.
Up she danced at last to Maurice, who was flinging his feet from under
him as fast as hops—for nothing in this world could keep still while
that tune of his was going on—and says she to him, chaunting it out
with a voice as sweet as honey—
“I’m a lady of honour
Who live in the sea;
Come down, Maurice Connor,
And be married to me.
“Silver plates and gold dishes
You shall have, and shall be
The king of the fishes,
When you’re married to me.”
Drink was strong in Maurice’s head, and out he chaunted in return for
her great civility. It is not every lady, may be, that would be after
making such an offer to a blind piper; therefore ’twas only right in
him to give her as good as she gave herself—so says Maurice,
“I’m obliged to you, madam:
Off a gold dish or plate,
If a king, and I had ’em,
I could dine in great state.
“With your own father’s daughter
I’d be sure to agree;
But to drink the salt water
Wouldn’t do so with me!”
The lady looked at him quite amazed, and swinging her head from side
to side like a great scholar, “Well,” says she, “Maurice, if you’re
not a poet, where is poetry to be found?”
In this way they kept on at it, framing high compliments; one
answering the other, and their feet going with the music as fast as
their tongues. All the fish kept dancing too: Maurice heard the
clatter, and was afraid to stop playing lest it might be displeasing
to the fish, and not knowing what so many of them may take it into
their heads to do to him if they got vexed.
Well, the lady with the green hair kept on coaxing of Maurice with
soft speeches, till at last she overpersuaded him to promise to marry
her, and be king over the fishes, great and small. Maurice was well
fitted to be their king, if they wanted one that could make them
dance; and he surely would drink, barring the salt water, with any
fish of them all.
When Maurice’s mother saw him, with that unnatural thing in the form
of a green-haired lady as his guide, and he and she dancing down
together so lovingly to the water’s edge through the thick of the
fishes, she called out after him to stop and come back. “Oh then,”
says she, “as if I was not widow enough before, there he is going away
from me to be married to that scaly woman. And who knows but ’tis
grandmother I may be to a hake or a cod—Lord help and pity me, but
’tis a mighty unnatural thing!—and may be ’tis boiling and eating my
own grandchild I’ll be, with a bit of salt butter, and I not knowing
it!—Oh Maurice, Maurice, if there’s any love or nature left in you,
come back to your own _ould_ mother, who reared you like a decent
Christian!”
Then the poor woman began to cry and ullagoane so finely that it would
do any one good to hear her.
Maurice was not long getting to the rim of the water; there he kept
playing and dancing on as if nothing was the matter, and a great
thundering wave coming in towards him ready to swallow him up alive;
but as he could not see it, he did not fear it. His mother it was who
saw it plainly through the big tears that were rolling down her
cheeks; and though she saw it, and her heart was aching as much as
ever mother’s heart ached for a son, she kept dancing, dancing, all
the time for the bare life of her. Certain it was she could not help
it, for Maurice never stopped playing that wonderful tune of his.
He only turned the bothered ear to the sound of his mother’s voice,
fearing it might put him out in his steps, and all the answer he made
back was—
“Whisht with you, mother—sure I’m going to be king over the fishes
down in the sea, and for a token of luck, and a sign that I am alive
and well, I’ll send you in, every twelvemonth on this day, a piece of
burned wood to Trafraska.” Maurice had not the power to say a word
more, for the strange lady with the green hair, seeing the wave just
upon them, covered him up with herself in a thing like a cloak with a
big hood to it, and the wave curling over twice as high as their
heads, burst upon the strand, with a rush and a roar that might be
heard as far as Cape Clear.
That day twelvemonth the piece of burned wood came ashore in
Trafraska. It was a queer thing for Maurice to think of sending all
the way from the bottom of the sea. A gown or a pair of shoes would
have been something like a present for his poor mother; but he had
said it, and he kept his word. The bit of burned wood regularly came
ashore on the appointed day for as good, ay, and better than a hundred
years. The day is now forgotten, and may be that is the reason why
people say how Maurice Connor has stopped sending the luck-token to
his mother. Poor woman, she did not live to get as much as one of
them; for what through the loss of Maurice, and the fear of eating her
own grandchildren, she died in three weeks after the dance—some say
it was the fatigue that killed her, but whichever it was, Mrs. Connor
was decently buried with her own people.
Seafaring men have often heard off the coast of Kerry, on a still
night, the sound of music coming up from the water; and some, who have
had good ears, could plainly distinguish Maurice Connor’s voice
singing these words to his pipes:—
Beautiful shore, with thy spreading strand,
Thy crystal water, and diamond sand;
Never would I have parted from thee
But for the sake of my fair ladie.[21]