How many lovely spots in this our beautiful country are never embraced
within those pilgrimages after the picturesque, which numbers
periodically undertake, rather to see what is known to many, and
therefore should be so to them, than to visit nature, for her own sweet
sake, in her more devious and undistinguished haunts! For my part, I
am well pleased that the case stands thus. I love to think that I am
treading upon ground unsullied by the footsteps of the now numerous
tribe of mere professional peripatetics--that my eyes are wandering over
scenery, the freshness of which has been impaired by no transfer to the
portfolio of the artist or the tablets of the poetaster: that, save
the scattered rustic residents, there is no human link to connect its
memorials with the days of old, and, save their traditionary legends, no
story to tell of its fortunes in ancient times. The sentiment is no doubt
selfish as well as anti-utilitarian; but then I must add that it is only
occasional, and will so far be pardoned by all who know how delightful
it is to take refuge in the indulgent twilight of tradition from the
rugged realities of recorded story. At all events, a rambler in any of
our old, and especially mountainous tracts, will rarely lack abundant
aliment for his thus modified sense of beauty, sublimity, or antiquarian
fascination; and scenes have unexpectedly opened upon me in the solitudes
of the hills and lakes of some almost untrodden and altogether unwritten
districts, that have had more power to stir my spirit than the lauded and
typographed, the versified and pictured magnificence of Killarney or of
Cumberland, of Glendalough or of Lomond. It may have been perverseness
of taste, or the fitness of mood, or the influence of circumstance, but
I have been filled with a feeling of the beautiful when wandering among
noteless and almost nameless localities to which I have been a stranger,
when standing amid the most boasted beauties with the appliances of
hand-book and of guide, with appetite prepared, and sensibilities on the
alert. It is I suppose partly because the power of beauty being relative,
a high pitch of expectancy requires a proportionate augmentation of
excellence, and partly because the tincture of contrariety in our
nature ever inclines us to enact the perverse critic, when called on to
be the implicit votary. This in common with most others I have often
felt, but rarely more so than during a casual residence some short
time since among the little celebrated, and therefore perhaps a little
more charming, mountain scenery of the county, which either has been,
or might be, called Leitrim of the Lakes; for a tract more pleasantly
diversified with well-set sheets of water, it would I think be difficult
to name. Almost every hill you top has its still and solitary tarn, and
almost every amphitheatre you enter, encompasses its wild and secluded
lake--not seldom bearing on its placid bosom some little islet, linked
with the generations past, by monastic or castellated ruins, as its
seclusion or its strength may have invited the world-wearied anchorite to
contemplation, or the predatory chieftain to defence.
On such a remote and lonely spot I lately chanced to alight, in the
course of a long summer day’s ramble among the heights and hollows of
that lofty range which for a considerable space abuts upon the borders
of Sligo and Roscommon. The ground was previously unknown to me, and
with all the zest which novelty and indefiniteness can impart, I started
staff in hand with the early sun, and ere the mists had melted from the
purple heather of their cloud-like summits, was drawing pure and balmy
breath within the lonely magnificence of the hills. About noon, as I was
casting about for some pre-eminently happy spot to fling my length for
an hour or two’s repose, I reached the crest of a long gradual ascent
that had been some time tempting me to look what lay beyond; and surely
enough I found beauty sufficient to dissolve my weariness, had it been
tenfold multiplied, and to allay my pulse, had it throbbed with the
vehemence of fever. An oblong valley girdled a lovely lake on every side;
here with precipitous impending cliffs, and there with grassy slopes of
freshest emerald that seemed to woo the dimpling waters to lave their
loving margins, and, as if moved with a like impulse, the little wavelets
met the call with the gentle dalliance of their ebb and flow. A small
wooded island, with its fringe of willows trailing in the water, stood
about a furlong from the hither side, and in the centre of its tangled
brake, my elevation enabled me to descry what I may call the remnants of
a ruin--for so far had it gone in its decay--here green, there grey, as
the moss, the ivy, or the pallid stains of time, had happened to prevail.
A wild duck, with its half-fledged clutch, floated fearless from its
sedgy shore. More remote, a fishing heron stood motionless on a stone,
intent on its expected prey; and the only other animated feature in the
quiet scene was a fisherman who had just moored his little boat, and
having settled his tackle, was slinging his basket on his arm and turning
upward in the direction where I lay. I watched the old man toiling up
the steep, and as he drew nigh, hailed him, as I could not suffer him to
pass without learning at least the name, if it had one, of this miniature
Amhara. He readily complied, and placing his fish-basket on the ground,
seated himself beside it, not unwilling to recover his breath and recruit
his scanty stock of strength almost expended in the ascent. “We call it,”
said he in answer to my query, “the Lake of the Ruin, or sometimes, to
such as know the story, the Lake of the Lovers, after the two over whom
the tombstone is placed inside yon mouldering walls. It is an old story.
My grandfather told me, when a child, that he minded his grandfather
telling it to him, and for anything he could say, it might have come down
much farther. Had I time, I’d be proud to tell it to your honour, who
seems a stranger in these parts, for it’s not over long; but I have to go
to the Hall, and that’s five long miles off, with my fish for dinner, and
little time you’ll say I have to spare, though it be down hill nearly all
the way.” It would have been too bad to allow such a well-met chronicler
to pass unpumped, and, putting more faith in the attractions of my pocket
than of my person, I produced on the instant my luncheon-case and
flask, and handing him a handsome half of the contents of the former,
made pretty sure of his company for a time, by keeping the latter in my
own possession till I got him regularly launched in the story, when, to
quicken at once his recollection and his elocution, I treated him to an
inspiring draught. When he had told his tale, he left me with many thanks
for the refection; and I descending to his boat, entered it, and with the
aid of a broken oar contrived to scull myself over to the island, the
scene of the final fortunes of Connor O’Rourke and Norah M’Diarmod, the
faithful-hearted but evil-fated pair who were in some sort perpetuated in
its name. There, in sooth, within the crumbled walls, was the gravestone
which covered the dust of him the brave and her the beautiful; and
seating myself on the fragment of a sculptured capital, that showed
how elaborately reared the ruined edifice had been, I bethought me how
poorly man’s existence shows even beside the work of his own hands, and
endeavoured for a time to make my thoughts run parallel with the history
of this once-venerated but now forsaken, and, save by a few, forgotten
structure; but finding myself fail in the attempt, settled my retrospect
on that brief period wherein it was identified with the two departed
lovers whose story I had just heard, and which, as I sat by their lowly
sepulchre, I again repeated to myself.
This lake, as my informant told me, once formed a part of the boundary
between the possessions of O’Rourke the Left-handed and M’Diarmod the
Dark-faced, as they were respectively distinguished, two small rival
chiefs, petty in property but pre-eminent in passion, to whom a most
magnificent mutual hatred had been from generations back “bequeathed from
bleeding sire to son”--a legacy constantly swelled by accruing outrages,
for their paramount pursuits were plotting each other’s detriment or
destruction, planning or parrying plundering inroads, inflicting or
avenging injuries by open violence or secret subtlety, as seemed more
likely to promote their purposes. At the name of an O’Rourke, M’Diarmod
would clutch his battle-axe, and brandish it as if one of the detested
clan were within its sweep: and his rival, nothing behind in hatred,
would make the air echo to his deep-drawn imprecation on M’Diarmod
and all his abominated breed when any thing like an opportunity was
afforded him. Their retainers of course shared the same spirit of mutual
abhorrence, exaggerated indeed, if that were possible, by their more
frequent exposure to loss in cattle and in crops, for, as is wont to be
the case, the cottage was incontinently ravaged when the stronghold was
prudentially respected. O’Rourke had a son, an only one, who promised
to sustain or even raise the reputation of the clan, for the youth knew
not what it was to blench before flesh and blood--his feet were over
foremost, in the wolf-hunt or the foray, and in agility, in valour, or
in vigour, none within the compass of a long day’s travel could stand
in comparison with young Connor O’Rourke. Detestation of the M’Diarmods
had been studiously instilled from infancy, of course; but although the
youth’s cheek would flush and his heart beat high when any perilous
adventure was the theme, yet, so far at least, it sprang more from
the love of prowess and applause than from the deadly hostility that
thrilled in the pulses of his father and his followers. In the necessary
intervals of forbearance, as in seed-time, harvest, or other brief
breathing-spaces, he would follow the somewhat analogous and bracing
pleasures of the chase; and often would the wolf or the stag--for shaggy
forests then clothed these bare and desert hills--fall before his spear
or his dogs, as he fleetly urged the sport afoot. It chanced one evening
that in the ardour of pursuit he had followed a tough, long-winded stag
into the dangerous territory of M’Diarmod. The chase had taken to the
water of the lake, and he with his dogs had plunged in after in the
hope of heading it; but having failed in this, and in the hot flush of
a hunter’s blood scorning to turn back, he pressed it till brought down
within a few spear-casts of the M’Diarmod’s dwelling. Proud of having
killed his venison under the very nose of the latter, he turned homeward
with rapid steps; for, the fire of the chase abated, he felt how fatal
would be the discovery of his presence, and was thinking with complacency
upon the wrath of the old chief on hearing of the contemptuous feat, when
his eye was arrested by a white figure moving slowly in the shimmering
mists of nightfall by the margin of the lake. Though insensible to the
fear of what was carnal and of the earth, he was very far from being so
to what savoured of the supernatural, and, with a slight ejaculation half
of surprise and half of prayer, he was about changing his course to give
it a wider berth, when his dogs espied it, and, recking little of the
spiritual in its appearance, bounded after it in pursuit. With a slight
scream that proclaimed it feminine as well as human, the figure fled, and
the youth had much to do both with legs and lungs to reach her in time to
preserve her from the rough respects of his ungallant escort. Beautiful
indignation lightened from the dark eyes and sat on the pouting lip of
Norah M’Diarmod--for it was the chieftain’s daughter--as she turned
disdainfully towards him.
“Is it the bravery of an O’Rourke to hunt a woman with his dogs? Young
chief, you stand upon the ground of M’Diarmod, and your name from the
lips of her”--she stopped, for she had time to glance again upon his
features, and had no longer heart to upbraid one who owned a countenance
so handsome and so gallant, so eloquent of embarrassment as well as
admiration.
Her tone of asperity and wounded pride declined into a murmur of
acquiescence as she hearkened to the apologies and deprecations of the
youth, whose gallantry and feats had so often rung in her ears, though
his person she had but casually seen, and his voice she had never before
heard. The case stood similar with Connor. He had often listened to the
praises of Norah’s beauty; he had occasionally caught distant glimpses of
her graceful figure; and the present sight, or after recollection, often
mitigated his feelings to her hostile clan, and, to his advantage, the
rugged old chief was generally associated with the lovely dark-eyed girl
who was his only child.
Such being their respective feelings, what could be the result of
their romantic rencounter? They were both young, generous children
of nature, with hearts fraught with the unhacknied feelings of youth
and inexperience: they had drunk in sentiment with the sublimities
of their mountain homes, and were fitted for higher things than the
vulgar interchange of animosity and contempt. Of this they soon were
conscious, and they did not separate until the stars began to burn above
them, and not even then, before they had made arrangements for at least
another--one more secret interview. The islet possessed a beautiful
fitness for their trysting place, as being accessible from either side,
and little obnoxious to observation; and many a moonlight meeting--for
the _one_ was inevitably multiplied--had these children of hostile
fathers, perchance on the very spot on which my eyes now rested, and
the unbroken stillness around had echoed to their gladsome greetings or
their faltering farewells. Neither dared to divulge an intercourse that
would have stirred to frenzy the treasured rancour of their respective
parents, each of whom would doubtless have preferred a connexion with
a blackamoor--if such were then in circulation--to their doing such
grievous despite to that ancient feud which as an heirloom had been
transmitted from ancestors whose very names they scarcely knew. M’Diarmod
the Dark-faced was at best but a gentle tiger even to his only child; and
though his stern cast-iron countenance would now and then relax beneath
her artless blandishments, yet even with the lovely vision at his side,
he would often grimly deplore that she had not been a son, to uphold the
name and inherit the headship of the clan, which on his demise would
probably pass from its lineal course; and when he heard of the bold
bearing of the heir of O’Rourke, he thought he read therein the downfall
of the M’Diarmods when he their chief was gone. With such ill-smothered
feelings of discontent he could not but in some measure repulse the
filial regards of Norah, and thus the confiding submission that would
have sprung to meet the endearments of his love, was gradually refused
to the inconsistencies of his caprice; and the maiden in her intercourse
with her proscribed lover rarely thought of her father, except as one
from whom it should be diligently concealed.
But unfortunately this was not to be. One of the night marauders of his
clan chanced in an evil hour to see Connor O’Rourke guiding his coracle
to the island, and at the same time a cloaked female push cautiously
from the opposite shore for the same spot. Surprised, he crouched among
the fern till their landing and joyous greeting put all doubt of their
friendly understanding to flight; and then, thinking only of revenge or
ransom, the unsentimental scoundrel hurried round the lake to M’Diarmod,
and informed him that the son of his mortal foe was within his reach.
The old man leaped from his couch of rushes at the thrilling news, and,
standing on his threshold, uttered a low gathering-cry, which speedily
brought a dozen of his more immediate retainers to his presence. As he
passed his daughter’s apartment, he for the first time asked himself who
can the woman be? and at the same moment almost casually glanced at
Norah’s chamber, to see that all there was quiet for the night. A shudder
of vague terror ran through his sturdy frame as his eye fell on the low
open window. He thrust in his head, but no sleeper drew breath within; he
re-entered the house and called aloud upon his daughter, but the echo of
her name was the only answer. A kern coming up put an end to the search,
by telling that he had seen his young mistress walking down to the
water’s edge about an hour before, but that, as she had been in the habit
of doing so by night for some time past, he had thought but little of it.
The odious truth was now revealed, and, trembling with the sudden gust of
fury, the old chief with difficulty rushed to the lake, and, filling a
couple of boats with his men, told them to pull for the honour of their
name and for the head of the O’Rourke’s first-born.
During this stormy prelude to a bloody drama, the doomed but unconscious
Connor was sitting secure within the dilapidated chapel by the side
of her whom he had won. Her quickened ear first caught the dip of an
oar, and she told her lover; but he said it was the moaning of the
night-breeze through the willows, or the ripple of the water among the
stones, and went on with his gentle dalliance. A few minutes, however,
and the shock of the keels upon the ground, the tread of many feet, and
the no longer suppressed cries of the M’Diarmods, warned him to stand on
his defence; and as he sprang from his seat to meet the call, the soft
illumination of love was changed with fearful suddenness into the baleful
fire of fierce hostility.
“My Norah, leave me; you may by chance be rudely handled in the scuffle.”
The terrified but faithful girl fell upon his breast.
“Connor, your fate is mine; hasten to your boat, if it be not yet too
late.”
An iron-shod hunting pole was his only weapon; and using it with his
right arm, while Norah hung upon his left, he sprang without further
parley through an aperture in the wall, and made for the water. But his
assailants were upon him, the M’Diarmod himself with upraised battle-axe
at their head.
“Spare my father,” faltered Norah; and Connor, with a mercifully
directed stroke, only dashed the weapon from the old man’s hand, and
then, clearing a passage with a vigorous sweep, accompanied with the
well-known charging cry, before which they had so often quailed, bounded
through it to the water’s brink. An instant, and with her who was now
more than his second self, he was once more in his little boat; but,
alas! it was aground, and so quickly fell the blows against him, that he
dare not adventure to shove it off. Letting Norah slip from his hold,
she sank backwards to the bottom of the boat; and then, with both arms
free, he redoubled his efforts, and after a short but furious struggle
succeeded in getting the little skiff afloat. Maddened at the sight, the
old chief rushed breast-deep into the water; but his right arm had been
disabled by a casual blow, and his disheartened followers feared, under
the circumstances, to come within range of that well-wielded club. But
a crafty one among them had already seized on a safer and surer plan.
He had clambered up an adjacent tree, armed with a heavy stone, and now
stood on one of the branches above the devoted boat, and summoned him to
yield, if he would not perish. The young chief’s renewed exertions were
his only answer.
“Let him escape, and your head shall pay for it,” shouted the infuriated
father.
The fellow hesitated. “My young mistress?”
“There are enough here to save her, if I will it. Down with the stone, or
by the blood----”
He needed not to finish the sentence, for down at the word it came,
striking helpless the youth’s right arm, and shivering the frail timber
of the boat, which filled at once, and all went down. For an instant
an arm re-appeared, feebly beating the water in vain--it was the young
chief’s broken one: the other held his Norah in its embrace, as was seen
by her white dress flaunting for a few moments on and above the troubled
surface. The lake at this point was deep, and though there was a rush of
the M’Diarmods towards it, yet in their confusion they were but awkward
aids, and the fluttering ensign that marked the fatal spot had sunk
before they reached it. The strength of Connor, disabled as he was by
his broken limb, and trammelled by her from whom even the final struggle
could not dissever him, had failed; and with her he loved locked in his
last embrace, they were after a time recovered from the water, and laid
side by side upon the bank, in all their touching, though, alas, lifeless
beauty! Remorse reached the rugged hearts even of those who had so
ruthlessly dealt by them; and as they looked on their goodly forms, thus
cold and senseless by a common fate, the rudest felt that it would be
an impious and unpardonable deed to do violence to their memory, by the
separation of that union which death itself had sanctified. Thus were
they laid in one grave; and, strange as it may appear, their fathers,
crushed and subdued, exhausted even of resentment by the overwhelming
stroke--for nothing can quell the stubborn spirit like the extremity of
sorrow--crossed their arms in amity over their remains, and grief wrought
the reconciliation which even centuries of time, that great pacificator,
had failed to do.
The westering sun now warning me that the day was on the wane, I gave but
another look to the time-worn tombstone, another sigh to the early doom
of those whom it enclosed, and then, with a feeling of regret, again left
the little island to its still, unshared, and pensive loneliness.
ANCIENT IRISH LITERATURE--No. IV.
The composition which we have selected as our fourth specimen of the
ancient literature of Ireland, is a poem, more remarkable, perhaps,
for its antiquity and historical interest, than for its poetic merits,
though we do not think it altogether deficient in those. It is ascribed,
apparently with truth, to the celebrated poet Mac Liag, the secretary of
the renowned monarch Brian Boru, who, as our readers are aware, fell at
the battle of Clontarf in 1014; and the subject of it is a lamentation
for the fallen condition of Kincora, the palace of that monarch,
consequent on his death.
The decease of Mac Liag, whose proper name was Muircheartach, is thus
recorded in the Annals of the Four Masters, at the year 1015:--
“Mac Liag, i. e. Muirkeartach, son of Conkeartach, at this time laureate
of Ireland, died.”
A great number of his productions are still in existence; but none of
them have obtained a popularity so widely extended as the poem before us.
Of the palace of Kincora, which was situated on the banks of the Shannon,
near Killaloe, there are at present no vestiges.