speaking to a magistrate?” said the agent.
“I know I’m not speaking to the king, sir,” said Bill; “and I never
takes off my hat but to them I can respect and love. The Eye that sees
all knows I’ve no right either to respect or love an agent!”
“You scoundrel!” retorted the man in office, biting his lips with rage
at such an unusual and unexpected opposition, “I’ll teach you how to
be insolent again—I have the power, remember.”
“To the cost of the country, I know you have,” said Bill, who still
remained with his head as firmly covered as if he was the lord
Kingsale himself.
“But come,” said the magistrate; “have you got the money for me?—this
is rent-day. If there’s one penny of it wanting, or the running gale
that’s due, prepare to turn out before night, for you shall not remain
another hour in possession.”
“There is your rent,” said Bill, with an unmoved expression of tone
and countenance; “you’d better count it, and give me a receipt in full
for the running gale and all.”
The agent gave a look of amazement at the gold; for it was gold—real
guineas! and not bits of dirty ragged small notes, that are only fit
to light one’s pipe with. However willing the agent may have been to
ruin, as he thought, the unfortunate tenant, he took up the gold, and
handed the receipt to Bill, who strutted off with it as proud as a cat
of her whiskers.
The agent going to his desk shortly after, was confounded at beholding
a heap of gingerbread cakes instead of the money he had deposited
there. He raved and swore, but all to no purpose; the gold had become
gingerbread cakes, just marked like the guineas, with the king’s head,
and Bill had the receipt in his pocket; so he saw there was no use in
saying any thing about the affair, as he would only get laughed at for
his pains.
From that hour Bill Doody grew rich; all his undertakings prospered;
and he often blesses the day that he met with O’Donoghue, the great
prince that lives down under the lake of Killarney.
Like the butterfly, the spirit of O’Donoghue closely hovers over the
perfume of the hills and flowers it loves; while, as the reflection of
a star in the waters of a pure lake, to those who look not above,
that glorious spirit is believed to dwell beneath.
LINN-NA-PAYSHTHA.
XXXVI.
Travellers go to Leinster to see Dublin and the Dargle; to Ulster, to
see the Giant’s Causeway, and, perhaps, to do penance at Lough Dearg;
to Munster, to see Killarney, the beautiful city of Cork, and half a
dozen other fine things; but who ever thinks of the fourth
province?—who ever thinks of going—
—“westward, where Dick Martin _ruled_
The houseless wilds of Cunnemara?”
The Ulster-man’s ancient denunciation “to hell or to Connaught,” has
possibly led to the supposition that this is a sort of infernal place
above ground—a kind of terrestrial Pandemonium—in short, that
Connaught is little better than hell, or hell little worse than
Connaught; but let any one only go there for a month, and, as the
natives say, “I’ll warrant he’ll soon see the differ, and learn to
understand that it is mighty like the rest o’ green Erin, only
something poorer;” and yet it might be thought that in this particular
“worse would be needless;” but so it is.
“My gracious me,” said the landlady of the Inn at Sligo, “I wonder a
gentleman of your _teeste_ and _curosity_ would think of leaving
Ireland without making a _tower_ (tour) of Connaught, if it was
nothing more than spending a day at Hazlewood, and up the lake, and on
to the _ould_ abbey at Friarstown, and the castle at Dromahair.”
Polly M’Bride, my kind hostess, might not in this remonstrance have
been altogether disinterested; but her advice prevailed, and the dawn
of the following morning found me in a boat on the unruffled surface
of Lough Gill. Arrived at the head of that splendid sheet of water,
covered with rich and wooded islands with their ruined buildings, and
bounded by towering mountains, noble plantations, grassy slopes, and
precipitous rocks, which give beauty, and, in some places, sublimity
to its shores, I proceeded at once up the wide river which forms its
principal tributary. The “old abbey” is chiefly remarkable for having
been built at a period nearer to the Reformation than any other
ecclesiastical edifice of the same class. Full within view of it, and
at the distance of half a mile, stands the shattered remnant of
Breffni’s princely hall. I strode forward with the enthusiasm of an
antiquary, and the high-beating heart of a patriotic Irishman. I felt
myself on classic ground, immortalized by the lays of Swift and of
Moore. I pushed my way into the hallowed precincts of the grand and
venerable edifice. I entered its chambers, and, oh my countrymen, I
found them converted into the domicile of pigs, cows, and poultry! But
the exterior of “O’Rourke’s old hall,” gray, frowning, and
ivy-covered, is well enough; it stands on a beetling precipice, round
which a noble river wheels its course. The opposite bank is a very
steep ascent, thickly wooded, and rising to a height of at least
seventy feet; and, for a quarter of a mile, this beautiful copse
follows the course of the river.
The first individual I encountered was an old cowherd; nor was I
unfortunate in my cicerone, for he assured me there were plenty of old
stories about strange things that used to be in the place; “but,”
continued he, “for my own share, I never met any thing worse nor
myself. If it bees ould stories that your honour’s after, the story
about Linnna-Payshtha and Poul-maw-Gullyawn is the only thing about
this place that’s worth one jack-straw. Does your honour see that
great big black hole in the river yonder below?” He pointed my
attention to a part of the river about fifty yards from the old hall,
where a long island occupied the centre of the wide current, the water
at one side running shallow, and at the other assuming every
appearance of unfathomable depth. The spacious pool, dark and still,
wore a death-like quietude of surface. It looked as if the speckled
trout would shun its murky precincts—as if even the daring pike would
shrink from so gloomy a dwelling-place. “That’s Linn-na-Payshtha,
sir,” resumed my guide, “and Poul-maw-Gullyawn is just the very
_moral_ of it, only that it’s round, and not in a river, but standing
out in the middle of a green field, about a short quarter of a mile
from this. Well, ’tis as good as fourscore years—I often _hard_ my
father, God be merciful to him! tell the story—since Manus O’Rourke,
a great buckeen, a cockfighting, drinking blackguard that was long
ago, went to sleep one night, and had a dream about Linn-na-Payshtha.
This Manus, the dirty spalpeen, there was no ho with him; he thought
to ride rough-shod over his betters through the whole country, though
he was not one of the real stock of the O’Rourkes. Well, this fellow
had a dream that if he dived in Linn-na-Payshtha at twelve o’clock of
a Hollow-eve night, he’d find more gold than would make a man of him
and his wife, while grass grew or water ran. The next night he had the
same dream, and sure enough, if he had it the second night, it came to
him the third in the same form. Manus, well becomes him, never told
mankind or womankind, but swore to himself, by all the books that were
ever shut or open, that, any how, he would go to the bottom of the big
hole. What did he care for the Payshtha-more that was lying there to
keep guard on the gold and silver of the old ancient family that was
buried there in the wars, packed up in the brewing-pan? Sure he was as
good an O’Rourke as the best of them, taking care to forget that his
grandmother’s father was a cow-boy to the earl O’Donnel. At long last
Hollow-eve comes, and sly and silent master Manus creeps to bed early,
and just at midnight steals down to the river-side. When he came to
the bank his mind misgave him, and he wheeled up to Frank
M’Clure’s—the old Frank that was then at that time—and got a bottle
of whisky, and took it with him, and ’tis unknown how much of it he
drank. He walked across to the island, and down he went gallantly to
the bottom like a stone. Sure enough the Payshtha was there afore him,
lying like a great big conger eel, seven yards long, and as thick as a
bull in the body, with a mane upon his neck like a horse. The
Payshtha-more reared himself up; and, looking at the poor man as if
he’d eat him, says he, in good English,
“‘Arrah, then, Manus,’ says he, ‘what brought you here? It would have
been better for you to have blown your brains out at once with a
pistol, and have made a quiet end of yourself, than to have come down
here for me to deal with you.’
“‘Oh, plase your honour,’ says Manus, ‘I beg my life:’ and there he
stood shaking like a dog in a wet sack.
“‘Well, as you have some blood of the O’Rourkes in you, I forgive you
this once; but, by this and by that, if ever I see you, or any one
belonging to you, coming about this place again, I’ll hang a quarter
of you on every tree in the wood.’
“‘Go home,’ says the Payshtha—‘go home, Manus,’ says he; ‘and if you
can’t make better use of your time, get drunk; but don’t come here,
bothering me. Yet, stop! since you are here, and have ventured to
come, I’ll show you something that you’ll remember till you go to your
grave, and ever after, while you live.’
“With that, my dear, he opens an iron door in the bed of the river,
and never the drop of water ran into it; and there Manus sees a long
dry cave, or under-ground cellar like, and the Payshtha drags him in,
and shuts the door. It wasn’t long before the baste began to get
smaller, and smaller, and smaller; and at last he grew as little as a
taughn of twelve years old; and there he was a brownish little man,
about four feet high.
“‘Plase your honour,’ says Manus, ‘if I might make so bold, may be you
are one of the good people?’
“‘May be I am, and may be I am not; but, any how, all you have to
understand is this, that I’m bound to look after the Thiernas[34] of
Breffni, and take care of them through every generation; and that my
present business is to watch this cave, and what’s in it, till the
old stock is reigning over this country once more.’
[34] _Tighearna_—a lord. Vide O’BRIEN.
“‘May be you are a sort of a banshee?’
“‘I am not, you fool,’ said the little man. ‘The banshee is a woman.
My business is to live in the form you first saw me, in guarding this
spot. And now hold your tongue, and look about you.’
“Manus rubbed his eyes and looked right and left, before and behind;
and there were the vessels of gold and the vessels of silver, the
dishes, and the plates, and the cups, and the punch-bowls, and the
tankards: there was the golden mether, too, that every Thierna at his
wedding used to drink out of to the kerne in real usquebaugh. There
was all the money that ever was saved in the family since they got a
grant of this manor, in the days of the Firbolgs, down to the time of
their outer ruination. He then brought Manus on with him to where
there was arms for three hundred men; and the sword set with diamonds,
and the golden helmet of the O’Rourke; and he showed him the staff
made out of an elephant’s tooth, and set with rubies and gold, that
the Thierna used to hold while he sat in his great hall, giving
justice and the laws of the Brehons to all his clan. The first room in
the cave, ye see, had the money and the plate, the second room had the
arms, and the third had the books, papers, parchments, title-deeds,
wills, and every thing else of the sort belonging to the family.
“‘And now, Manus,’ says the little man, ‘ye seen the whole o’ this,
and go your ways; but never come to this place any more, or allow any
one else. I must keep watch and ward till the Sassanach is druv out of
Ireland, and the Thiernas o’ Breffni in their glory again.’ The little
man then stopped for awhile and looked up in Manus’s face, and says to
him in a great passion, ‘Arrah! bad luck to ye, Manus, why don’t ye go
about your business?’
“‘How can I?—sure you must show me the way out,’ says Manus, making
answer. The little man then pointed forward with his finger.
“‘Can’t we go out the way we came?’ says Manus.
“‘No, you must go out at the other end—that’s the rule o’ this
place. Ye came in at Linn-na-Payshtha, and you must go out at
Poul-maw-Gullyawn: ye came down like a stone to the bottom of one
hole, and ye must spring up like a cork to the top of the other.’ With
that the little man gave him one _hoise_, and all that Manus remembers
was the roar of the water in his ears; and sure enough he was found
the next morning, high and dry, fast asleep with the empty bottle
beside him, but far enough from the place he thought he landed, for it
was just below yonder on the island that his wife found him. My
father, God be merciful to him! heard Manus swear to every word of the
story.”
As there are few things which excite human desire throughout
all nations more than wealth, the legends concerning the
concealment, discovery and circulation of money, are, as may be
expected, widely extended; yet in all the circumstances, which
admit of so much fanciful embellishment, there every where
exists a striking similarity.
Like the golden apples of the Hesperides, treasure is guarded
by a dragon or serpent. Vide Creuzer, Religions de l’Antiquite,
traduction de Guigniaut, i. 248. Paris, 1825. Stories of its
discovery in consequence of dreams or spiritual agency are so
numerous, that, if collected, they would fill many volumes, yet
they vary little in detail beyond the actors and locality. Vide
Grimm’s Deutsche Sagen, i. 290. Thiele’s Danske Folkesagn, i.
112, ii. 24. Kirke’s Secret Commonwealth, p. 12, &c.
The circulation of money bestowed by the fairies or
supernatural personages, like that of counterfeit coin, is
seldom extensive. See story, in the Arabian Nights, of the old
rogue whose fine-looking money turned to leaves. When Waldemar,
Holgar, and Grœn Jette in Danish tradition, bestow money upon
the boors whom they meet, their gift sometimes turns to fire,
sometimes to pebbles, and sometimes is so hot, that the
receiver drops it from his hand, when the gold, or what
appeared to be so, sinks into the ground.
In poor Ireland, the wretched peasant contents himself by
soliloquizing—“Money is the devil, they say; and God is good
that He keeps it from us.”
ROCKS AND STONES.
“Forms in silence frown’d,
Shapeless and nameless; and to mine eye
Sometimes they rolled off cloudily,
Wedding themselves with gloom—or grew
Gigantic to my troubled view,
And seem’d to gather round me.”
BANIM’S _Celt’s Paradise_.
THE LEGEND OF CAIRN THIERNA.
XXXVII.
From the town of Fermoy, famous for the excellence of its bottled ale,
you may plainly see the mountain of Cairn Thierna. It is crowned with
a great heap of stones, which, as the country people remark, never
came there without “a crooked thought and a cross job.” Strange it is,
that any work of the good old times should be considered one of
labour; for round towers then sprung up like mushrooms in one night,
and people played marbles with pieces of rock, that can now no more be
moved than the hills themselves.
This great pile on the top of Cairn Thierna was caused by the words of
an old woman, whose bed still remains—_Labacally_, the hag’s bed—not
far from the village of Glanworth. She was certainly far wiser than
any woman, either old or young, of my immediate acquaintance. Jove
defend me, however, from making an envious comparison between ladies;
but facts are stubborn things, and the legend will prove my assertion.
O’Keefe was lord of Fermoy before the Roches came into that part of
the country; and he had an only son—never was there seen a finer
child; his young face filled with innocent joy was enough to make any
heart glad, yet his father looked on his smiles with sorrow, for an
old hag had foretold that this boy should be drowned before he grew up
to manhood.
Now, although the prophecies of Pastorini were a failure, it is no
reason why prophecies should altogether be despised. The art in modern
times may be lost, as well as that of making beer out of the mountain
heath, which the Danes did to great perfection. But I take it, the
malt of Tom Walker is no bad substitute for the one; and if evil
prophecies were to come to pass, like the old woman’s, in my opinion
we are far more comfortable without such knowledge.
“Infant heir of proud Fermoy,
Fear not fields of slaughter;
Storm and fire fear not, my boy,
But shun the fatal water.”
These were the warning words which caused the chief of Fermoy so much
unhappiness. His infant son was carefully prevented all approach to
the river, and anxious watch was kept over every playful movement. The
child grew up in strength and in beauty, and every day became more
dear to his father, who, hoping to avert the doom, which, however, was
inevitable, prepared to build a castle far removed from the dreaded
element.
The top of Cairn Thierna was the place chosen; and the lord’s vassals
were assembled, and employed in collecting materials for the purpose.
Hither came the fated boy; with delight he viewed the laborious work
of raising mighty stones from the base to the summit of the mountain,
until the vast heap which now forms its rugged crest was accumulated.
The workmen were about to commence the building, and the boy, who was
considered in safety when on the mountain, was allowed to rove about
at will. In his case how true are the words of the great dramatist:
——“Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it shall be, as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a _being_ up.”
A vessel which contained a small supply of water, brought there for
the use of the workmen, attracted the attention of the child. He saw,
with wonder, the glitter of the sunbeams within it; he approached more
near to gaze, when a form resembling his own arose before him. He gave
a cry of joy and astonishment and drew back; the image drew back also,
and vanished. Again he approached; again the form appeared, expressing
in every feature delight corresponding with his own. Eager to welcome
the young stranger, he bent over the vessel to press his lips; and,
losing his balance, the fatal prophecy was accomplished.
The father in despair abandoned the commenced building; and the
materials remain a proof of the folly of attempting to avert the
course of fate.
THE ROCK OF THE CANDLE.
XXXVIII.
A few miles west of Limerick stands the once formidable castle of
Carrigogunnel. Its riven tower and broken archway remain in mournful
evidence of the sieges sustained by that city. Time, however, the
great soother of all things, has destroyed the painful effect which
the view of recent violence produces on the mind. The ivy creeps
around the riven tower, concealing its injuries, and upholding it by a
tough swathing of stalks. The archway is again united by the
long-armed brier which grows across the rent, and the shattered
buttresses are decorated with wild flowers, which gaily spring from
their crevices and broken places.
Boldly situated on a rock, the ruined walls of Carrigogunnel now form
only a romantic feature in the peaceful landscape. Beneath them, on
one side, lies the flat marshy ground called Corcass land, which
borders the noble river Shannon; on the other side is seen the neat
parish church of Kilkeedy, with its glebe-house and surrounding
improvements; and at a short distance appear the irregular mud cabins
of the little village of Ballybrown, with the venerable trees of
Tervoo.
On the rock of Carrigogunnel, before the castle was built, or Brian
Boro born to build it, dwelt a hag named Grana, who made desolate the
surrounding country. She was gigantic in size, and frightful in
appearance. Her eyebrows grew into each other with a grim curve, and
beneath their matted bristles, deeply sunk in her head, two small gray
eyes darted forth baneful looks of evil. From her deeply-wrinkled
forehead issued forth a hooked beak, dividing two shrivelled cheeks.
Her skinny lips curled with a cruel and malignant expression, and her
prominent chin was studded with bunches of grisly hair.
Death was her sport. Like the angler with his rod, the hag Grana would
toil, and watch, nor think it labour, so that the death of a victim
rewarded her vigils. Every evening did she light an enchanted candle
upon the rock, and whoever looked upon it died before the next
morning’s sun arose. Numberless were the victims over whom Grana
rejoiced; one after the other had seen the light, and their death was
the consequence. Hence came the country round to be desolate, and
Carrigogunnel, the Rock of the Candle, by its dreaded name.
These were fearful times to live in. But the Finnii of Erin were the
avengers of the oppressed. Their fame had gone forth to distant
shores, and their deeds were sung by a hundred bards. To them the name
of danger was an invitation to a rich banquet. The web of enchantment
stopped their course as little as the swords of an enemy. Many a
mother of a son—many a wife of a husband—many a sister of a brother,
had the valour of the Finnian heroes bereft. Dismembered limbs
quivered, and heads bounded on the ground before their progress in
battle. They rushed forward with the strength of the furious wind,
tearing up the trees of the forest by their roots. Loud was their
warcry as the thunder, raging was their impetuosity above that of
common men, and fierce was their anger as the stormy waves of the
ocean!
It was the mighty Finn himself who lifted up his voice, and commanded
the fatal candle of the hag Grana to be extinguished. “Thine, Regan,
be the task,” he said, and to him he gave a cap thrice charmed by the
magician Luno of Lochlin.
With the star of the same evening the candle of death burned on the
rock, and Regan stood beneath it. Had he beheld the slightest glimmer
of its blaze, he, too, would have perished, and the hag Grana, with
the morning’s dawn, rejoiced over his corse. When Regan looked towards
the light, the charmed cap fell over his eyes and prevented his
seeing. The rock was steep, but he climbed up its craggy side with
such caution and dexterity, that, before the hag was aware, the
warrior, with averted head, had seized the candle, and flung it with
prodigious force into the river Shannon; the hissing waters of which
quenched its light for ever!
Then flew the charmed cap from the eyes of Regan, and he beheld the
enraged hag, with outstretched arms, prepared to seize and whirl him
after her candle. Regan instantly bounded westward from the rock just
two miles, with a wild and wondrous spring. Grana looked for a moment
at the leap, and then tearing up a huge fragment of the rock, flung it
after Regan with such tremendous force, that her crooked hands
trembled and her broad chest heaved with heavy puffs, like a smith’s
labouring bellows, from the exertion.
The ponderous stone fell harmless to the ground, for the leap of Regan
far exceeded the strength of the furious hag. In triumph he returned
to Fin;
“The hero valiant, renowned, and learned;
White-tooth’d, graceful, magnanimous, and active.”
The hag Grana was never heard of more; but the stone remains, and
deeply imprinted in it, is still to be seen the mark of the hag’s
fingers. That stone is far taller than the tallest man, and the power
of forty men would fail to move it from the spot where it fell.
The grass may wither around it, the spade and plough destroy dull
heaps of earth, the walls of castles fall and perish, but the fame of
the Finnii of Erin endures with the rocks themselves, and
_Clough-a-Regaun_ is a monument fitting to preserve the memory of the
deed!
CLOUGH NA CUDDY.
XXXIX.
Above all the islands in the lakes of Killarney give me
Innisfallen—“sweet Innisfallen,” as the melodious Moore calls it. It
is, in truth, a fairy isle, although I have no fairy story to tell you
about it; and if I had, these are such unbelieving times, and people
of late have grown so skeptical, that they only smile at my stories,
and doubt them.
However, none will doubt that a monastery once stood upon Innisfallen
island, for its ruins may still be seen; neither, that within its
walls dwelt certain pious and learned persons called Monks. A very
pleasant set of fellows they were, I make not the smallest doubt; and
I am sure of this, that they had a very pleasant spot to enjoy
themselves in after dinner—the proper time, believe me, and I am no
bad judge of such matters, for the enjoyment of a fine prospect.