BITS OF BLARNEY
BY
R. SHELTON MACKENZIE
EDITOR OF "THE LIFE OF CURRAN," "SHEIL'S SKETCHES OF THE
IRISH BAR," &c.
[Illustration]
REDFIELD
No 34 BEEKMAN STREET
NEW YORK.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by
J. S. REDFIELD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
EDWARD O. JENKINS,
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
26 Frankfort St., N. Y.
TO J. S. REDFIELD, ESQ.
MY DEAR SIR:--The deified heroes of the Norse mythology are believed to
spend their afternoons in drinking something stronger than lemonade out
of their enemies' skulls, and some ill-natured persons, seizing on the
idea, have declared that publishers use the skulls of their authors as
drinking-cups, in the same manner. For my own part, I discredit the
assertion--as far as my relations with yourself enable me to judge; I
suspect that the time has gone by when Napoleon's health was drank as "a
friend of literature," because he had shot a bookseller; and I give you
unlimited permission to use my skull, in the Norse fashion, provided
that you wait until "in death I shall calm recline," when I shall have
no further occasion for it. In such case, the least you can do will be
to drink my memory, "in solemn silence"--the beverage being
whiskey-punch, as a delicate compliment to my country.
Seriously speaking (or writing), however, I take leave to dedicate this
volume to you, with the solemn assurance that my doing so must not be
taken as--a Bit of Blarney.
The book is Irish--to all intents and purposes, and is put forth with
the least possible pretence. It contains Legends--familiar to me in my
youth; Stories, which, more or less, are literally "founded upon facts;"
recollections of Eccentric Characters, whose peculiarities it would have
been difficult to exaggerate;--and Sketches of the two great Irish
leaders of the last and present century, Grattan, who won National
Independence for Ireland, and O'Connell, who obtained Emancipation for
the great majority of his countrymen. The Sketch of the great Agitator
has extended almost to a biography--but I knew the man well, and write
of him on that knowledge. In _this_ volume he is certainly entitled to a
niche, having been the greatest professor of "Blarney" these later days
have seen or heard.
Yours faithfully,
R. SHELTON MACKENZIE
NEW YORK, _August 20, 1855_.
CONTENTS.
Legends.
PAGE
BLARNEY CASTLE 9
LEGEND OF THE LAKE 16
LEGEND OF CORRIG-NA-CAT 21
LEGEND OF THE ROCK CLOSE 27
CON O'KEEFE AND THE GOLDEN CUP 35
LEGENDS OF FINN MAC COUL 48
FINN AND THE FISH 53
THE BREAKS OF BALLYNASCORNEY 61
FINN MAC COUL'S FINGER-STONE 64
Irish Stories.
THE PETRIFIED PIPER--
1. WHO THE PIPER WAS 74
2. WHAT THE PIPER DID 85
3. HOW THE PIPER GOT ON 91
4. HOW THE PIPER BECAME A PETRIFACTION 103
5. HOW IT ALL ENDED 121
THE GERALDINE 145
CAPTAIN ROCK--
1. THE WAKE 151
2. THE LEADER 165
3. THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE 172
4. CHURCHTOWN BARRACKS 181
5. THE ATTACK ON ROSSMORE 191
6. THE TRIAL 201
A NIGHT WITH THE WHITEBOYS 223
BUCK ENGLISH 231
Eccentric Characters.
THE BARD O'KELLY 251
FATHER PROUT 271
FATHER PROUT'S SERMON 283
IRISH DANCING MASTERS 291
CHARLEY CROFTS 305
Irish Publicists.
HENRY GRATTAN 323
DANIEL O'CONNELL 342
LEGENDS.
BITS OF BLARNEY.
How many have heard of "Blarney," and how few know how and why this
appropriate term has originated! How could they, indeed, unless they had
made a pilgrimage to the Castle, as I did, in order to man[oe]uvre Tim
Cronin into a narration of its legends?--They may go to Blarney,
whenever they please, but the _genius loci_ has vanished. Tim Cronin has
been gathered to his fathers. By no lingering or vulgar disease did he
perish; he died----of a sudden.
Scarcely any part of Ireland has attained more celebrity than the
far-famed village of Blarney, in the county, and near the city of Cork.
At Blarney may be seen the mysterious talisman, which has the
extraordinary power of conferring remarkable gifts of persuasion on the
lips which, with due reverence and proper faith in its virtues, invoke
the hidden genii of The Stone, to yield them its inspiration. The
ceremony is brief:--only a kiss on the flinty rock, and the kisser is
instantly endowed with the happy faculty of flattering the fair sex _ad
libitum_, without their once suspecting that it can be flattery. On the
masculine gender it is not less effective. Altogether, it enables the
kisser, like History,
"To lie like truth, and still most truly lie."
Immortal poesie has already celebrated the locality of Blarney. The
far-famed _chanson_, written by Richard Alfred Milliken,[1] and called
"The Groves of Blarney," has been heard or read by every one:--in these
later days the polyglot edition, by him who has assumed the name of
Father Prout, is well known to the public. There is an interpolated
verse, which may be adopted (as it sometimes is) into the original
_chanson_, on account of the earnestness with which it declares that
"The stone this is, whoever kisses,
He never misses to grow eloquent:
'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber,
Or become a member of Parliament."
Blarney Castle is surrounded by the Groves mentioned in the song. It
stands four miles to the northwest of "the beautiful city called Cork,"
and, of course, in the fox-hunting district of Muskerry. All that can
now be seen are the remains of an antique castellated pile, to the east
of which was rather incongruously attached, a century ago, a large
mansion of modern architecture.
[1] In Lockhart's Life of Scott, this renowned Song is attributed
to "the poetical Dean of Cork" (Dr. Burrowes, who wrote "The Night
before Larry was stretched"), but really was written by Milliken, a
poetical lawyer of whom Maguire says (O'Doherty Papers, vol. ii.,
p. 181) that not even Christopher North himself--
"Be he tipsy or sober, Was not more than his match, in wine,
wisdom, or wit."
The Castle stands on the north side of a precipitous ridge of limestone
rock, rising from a deep valley, and its base is washed by a small and
beautifully clear river called the Aw-martin. A large, square, and
massive tower--a sort of Keep,--is all that remains of the original
fortress. The top of this building is surrounded with a parapet,
breast-high, and on the very summit is the famous Stone which is said to
possess the power, already mentioned, of conferring on every gentleman
who _kisses_ it the peculiar property of telling any thing, in the way
of praise (commonly called flattery), with unblushing cheek and
"forehead unabashed." As the fair sex have to receive, rather than
bestow compliments, the oscular homage to the Stone conveys no power to
_them_. From the virtues which it communicates to the masculine
pilgrims, we have the well-known term _blarney_ and _blarney-stone_.
The real Stone is in such a dangerous position, from its elevation, that
it is rarely kissed, except by very adventurous pilgrims of the Tom
Sheridan class, who will _do_ the thing, and not be content with saying
they have done it! The stone which officiates as its deputy, is one
which was loosened by a shot from the cannon of Oliver Cromwell's
troops, who were encamped on the hill behind the Castle. This stone is
secured in its place by iron stanchions, and it is this that the
visitors kiss, as aforesaid, and by mistake. The Song, it may be
remembered, speaks of the Cromwellian bombardment of the Castle:
"'Tis Lady Jeffreys that owns this station,
Like Alexander, or like Helen, fair.
There's no commander throughout the nation
In emulation can with her compare:
Such walls surround her, that no nine-pounder
Could ever plunder her place of strength,
Till Oliver Cromwell he did her pummel,
And made a breach in her battlement."
Between Blarney Castle and the hill whereon Cromwell's troops
_bivouacked_, is a sweet vale called the Rock Close. This is a charming
spot, whereon (or legends lie) the little elves of fairy-land once loved
to assemble in midnight revelry. At one end of this vale is a lake of
unfathomable depth, and Superstition delights to relate stories of its
wonders.
When Sir Walter Scott was in Ireland, he visited Blarney, accompanied by
Anne Scott, Miss Edgeworth, and Mr. Lockhart. A few days after he was
there, it was my fortune to tread in his steps to the same classic
shrine.
The barefooted and talkative guide who _would_ accompany me over the
Castle, thus described "the Ariosto of the North," and his
companions:--"A tall, bulky man, who halted a great deal, came here,
with his daughter and a very small lady, and a dash of a gentleman, with
a bright keen eye that looked here, and there, and everywhere in a
minute. They thrust themselves, ransacking, into every nook and cranny
that a rat would not go through, scarcely. When the lame gentleman came
to the top of the Castle, wasn't he delighted, and didn't he take all
the country down upon paper with a pencil, while one of us sang 'The
Groves of Blarney.' He made us sing it again, and gave me a crown-piece,
and said that he'd converse a poem on the Castle, himself, may-be!"
While I am thus gossiping, I am neglecting Tim Cronin, "the best
story-teller" (to use his own words) "within the whole length, and
breadth, and cubic mensuration of the Island."
After my visit to Blarney Castle, I met this worthy. I had struck from
the common path into that which led through the Rock Close. This valley
is divided into several fields, all of which are extremely fertile,
except that immediately washed by the waters of the lake. It was now far
in the summer; and, although the mowers had to cut down the rich grass
of the other fields, there was scarcely a blade upon this. It was as
smooth, green, and close-shaven as the trim turf before a cottage
_ornée_. While I was remarking this, I was startled by a sudden touch
upon the shoulder, and, turning round, I found myself _vis-à-vis_ with a
Herculean-built fellow, who doffed his hat, with a sort of rude
courtesy, made an attempt at a bow, and, before I could say a word,
struck into conversation.
"Wondering at this meadow being so bare, I warrant you, sir?"
I confessed that it had surprised me.
"Didn't know the why nor the wherefore of it, may-be? It's Tim
Cronin--and that's myself--that can tell you all about it, before you
have time to get fat."
I ventured to exhibit my ignorance, by asking who Tim Cronin might be?
"Faith, sir, you may know a great deal of Latin and Greek--and 'tis easy
to see that the College mark is upon you--but you know little of _real_
literature in old Ireland, if you don't know _me_. Not know Cronin, the
renowned Philomath, that bothered the Provost of old Trinity in
Algebra--from the Saxon _al_, noble, and the Arabic _Geber_, the
philosopher? Never once heard, perhaps, of the great Cronin that does
all the problems and answers, for the Lady's Diary, in mathematics--from
the Greek _mathema_, instruction? Nothing like getting at the roots of
words--the _unde derivatur?_"
Even at the hazard of appearing as an ignoramus in the eyes of Mr.
Cronin, I was fain to admit that I had not previously heard of his name
and erudition. I ventured to intimate, as a sort of half-apology, that I
was a stranger in that part of the country.
"Strange enough, I'll be bound," said he, with a shrug of the shoulders.
"Know, then, that I am that same Tim Cronin,--'our ingenious
correspondent,' as the Mathematical Journal calls me, when it refuses
one of my articles, 'from want of space,'--bad luck to 'em, as if they
could not push out something else to make room for me. Curious, sir, not
to have heard of me, that keeps one of the finest academies, under a
hedge, in the Province of Munster! Just sit down on the bank here, and
I'll soon enlighten you so, about that good-looking lake before your two
eyes, that I'll be bound you won't forget me in a hurry."
Complying with the request of this august personage, I had the
satisfaction of listening to his legend, thus:
LEGEND OF THE LAKE.
Once upon a time, and there was no lake here, at all at all. In the
middle of the place where that lake is, there stood a large castle, and
in it dwelt an unbaptized giant--it was before blessed Saint Patrick
came into the country, Heaven rest his soul--and this giant had martial
rule over all the country, far and near.
In his time, the Aw-martin, nor any other river, did not flow near us.
Indeed, though there was plenty of wine in the Castle, there was a great
want of water. This was very inconvenient for the ladies--the fellow had
as many wives as a Turk--because they were always wanting to wash their
clothes, and their pretty faces, and their white hands, and their
well-shaped bodies; and, more than that, they could not make themselves
a raking cup of tea, by any means, for the want of good soft water. So,
one and all, they sent a petition to the giant, praying that he would
have the kindness to procure them a well of water. When he read it, he
made no more ado but whipped off through the air--just like a bird of
Paradise--to his old aunt, who was a fairy, and had foretold that, some
day or other, water would be the death of him. Perhaps that was the
reason that he always took his liquor neat.
Well, he told her what he had come about, and after a world of
entreaty--for she had a foreboding that something unfortunate would come
of it--the old fairy put a little bottle into his hands. "Take this,"
said she, "and drill a hole in the rock at the foot of the Castle
barbican, where the sun throws his latest ray before he sinks into the
west. Make a stone-cover for the top of it--one that will fit it
exactly. Then pour the water from this bottle into that hole in the
rock, and there will be a well of pure water, for the use of yourself
and your family. But, when no one is actually taking water out of this
well, be sure that the close-fitting stone-cover is always left upon it,
for it is the nature of the liquid to overflow, unless it be kept
confined."
He gave her a thousand thanks, and home he went. The first thing he did
was to drill a hole in the rock (and he did not find _that_ a very easy
job), then to fit it with an air-tight stone-cover, and, lastly, to pour
in the water out of the little bottle.
Sure enough, there immediately bubbled up an abundance of bright, clear,
and sparkling water. The giant then assembled all his family, and told
them how the stone-cover must always be kept over the well when they
were not using it. And then his wives agreed that, as they had been so
anxious to get this water, one of them, turn about, should sit by the
well, day and night, and see that no one left it uncovered. They were
content to submit to this trouble, rather than run the risk of losing
the water.
Things went on very well for some time. At last, as _must_ be the case
when a woman is to the fore, there came a tremendous blow-up. One of the
giant's ladies was a foreigner, and had been married, in her own
country, before she fell into his hands. Mild and pale she always was,
pretty creature! lamenting the land she had left and the lover she had
lost. It happened, one day as she sat by the well, that an old pilgrim
came to the gate, asked for a draught of water, in God's name, and held
out his pitcher for it. Her thoughts were far away, never fear, but she
had a tender heart, and she raised the cover from the well to fill his
vessel. While she was doing this, the pilgrim pulled off his gown and
his false beard, and who should he be but her own husband! She sprang
off her seat towards him, and then, faint with joy and pale as death,
she sank back into the oaken chair on which she had been sitting, as the
guardian of the well. A bird never flew through the air faster than _he_
flew towards _her_. He seated himself beside her in the chair, held her
lovingly in his arms, kissed her cheeks and lips twenty times over,
called her all manner of fond names, and sprinkled her with water until
the fresh color came again into her face, and the warm life into her
heart.
All this time the well was left uncovered, and the waters
rose--rose--rose, until they surrounded the Castle. Higher and higher
did they rise, until, at last, down fell the gates, and then the stream
rushed in, drowning every living soul within the place, and settling
down into the very lake that we sit by now.
The moral of the story is, that the lady and the pilgrim escaped--for
the oaken chair supported them and floated them until they safely put
their feet on dry land. All the rest perished, because they had
willingly consented to live in sin with the giant; but this one lady had
been kept there entirely against her will. The two thanked God for their
escape, and returned to their own country, where they lived long and
happily. It had been the giant's pride to put all his best jewels on
whoever kept watch over the well, in order that all who passed might
notice them and pay respect to his wealth. As this lady had them all
upon her when the Castle was swallowed up, she and her husband had money
enough, out of the sale of them, to keep them in a very genteel way of
life at home. Some people say that, at times, the walls of the drowned
Castle can be seen through the waters of the lake,--but I won't swear to
the fact, as I never noticed it myself.
* * * * *
Such was Tim Cronin's account of the formation of the lake--a version
more pleasant than probable. I ventured to inquire how the meadow next
the waters came to be so bare, while all the others bore such luxuriant
grass and grain? Mr. Cronin asked me, whether I saw a gray rock on the
left, with three pines on its summit. I noticed them, as required.
"Then," said he, "look well at the place all around, and I shall tell
you another story or two about Blarney."
Thus admonished, I took a closer survey of the place. The rock rose with
a gentle swell in the distance, but its front was so precipitous as to
be nearly perpendicular; and it was thickly covered with ivy, tangled
like network, with which were mingled wild honeysuckle, dog-rose, and
other parasites. There was a sort of rugged entrance at its base, over
which the wild-brier and honeysuckle had formed a natural arch. Except
this, the rock had a commonplace aspect.
THE LEGEND OF CORRIG-NA-CAT.
We call that rock by a strange name--from a strange circumstance, said
Cronin. Upon the top, some hundreds of years ago, there stood a castle,
belonging to the old Kings of Muskerry. Some cousin of theirs lived in
it with his family, and was as happy as the day is long. How it
happened, never could be ascertained; but happen it certainly did, that,
one night, castle and people and all suddenly disappeared. I misdoubt
that there were bad spirits at work. However, the general belief is,
that the rock opened and swallowed all up, and that the lord and lady
are kept there, spell-bound, as it were, in the shape of cats. From
this, the rock is called Corrig-na-cat, or the Cat Rock. 'Tis a mighty
pretty derivation.
Whether the castle were swallowed up in that manner, or not, strange
sights have been seen, by the light of the full moon, about that place.
There is a little green spot on the brow of the hill, where there is a
fairy-circle; on that spot sweet music has been heard by night, and the
good people (as well as the fairies) have been seen dancing on the green
turf, dressed in green and gold, with beautiful crowns upon their
heads, and white wands in their little hands. Ah, sir, you may smile,
but that's the belief in this part of the country, and he'd be looked
upon as no better than a heathen who'd venture to say a word against it.
My grandfather, although a trifle given to drink, was as honest a man as
ever broke bread. One summer night, while he lay in bed, between asleep
and awake, he heard a strange deep voice speak to him. It said, " The
words of fate! heed them. Go, at midnight, to Corrig-na-cat; take with
you a box of candles and a hundred fathoms of line; fasten one end of
the line to the tree that grows just outside the mouth of the cave, and,
tying the other end round your waist, boldly advance with a pair of
lighted candles in your hands: the use of the line is, that you may roll
it up as you come back, and not lose your way. Keep to the right-hand
side, and go on until you come to a large room with two cats in it. In
the room beyond that, there is as much gold as would buy a kingdom. You
may take with you a bag to carry away as much of it as you please; but,
on your peril, do not touch anything else; your life will not be worth a
brass sixpence, if you do."
You may be sure, sir, that this piece of information astonished my
grandfather. But he was a sensible man, and, doubting whether two heads
would be better than one in such a serious matter, nudged my grandmother
with his elbow, to know if she was awake. She slept--sound as a top; so
he let her sleep on. He was rather too knowing to let _her_ into the
secret. He thought over all that he had ever heard of Corrig-na-cat; he
called to mind how his mother had always said that our family were the
real descendants of the lord and lady of the castle. He began to fancy
that this was some great oracle that had come to visit him, in order
that _he_ might break the spell that kept the castle and its inhabitants
closed up in the rock. Indeed, he was very much perplexed, but
determined to wait a bit, and carefully keep his own counsel.
A warning from the world of spirits is worth nothing, if it is not
repeated. The next night, my grandfather again was cautioned to listen
to the words of fate. The third night the visitation was repeated. He
knew, then, that the thing was no feint; and on the fourth night, he
stole out of the house to go on the adventure.
It was as pitch dark as if light had never been invented. He took the
hundred fathoms of line, the box of candles, a sack to bring home a
supply of gold, and a good-sized flask of strong whiskey. When he
reached the rock, his heart began to fail him. The night was so still
that he could hear the beating of his heart--thump, thump, thump,
against his breast. He could hear the bats flying about, and he could
see the owls looking on him with their great, round, brown eyes.
Swallowing most of the contents of the flask at one pull, he found his
spirits wonderfully restored, and he pushed forward to the mouth of the
cave. He fastened one end of the line to the tree; he said an _Ave_ or
two--for we are all of us a pious family--he drained the flask, and then
he dashed forward.
The way was as straight as an arrow for about thirty yards, but, after
that, it took as many turnings and twistings as a problem of Euclid in
the sixth book, and branched out into many directions. My grandfather
followed on the right-hand side, as he had been told, and soon found
himself at the gateway of an old hall. He pushed open the door, and saw
that there were doors upon doors, leading off to many a place. He still
kept to the right, and in a few minutes found himself in a
state-chamber. Pillars of white marble supported the roof, and, at the
farthest end, the hall opened into an apartment, through which there
beamed a soft and beautiful light, as if it came from a thousand shaded
lamps.
Here was the end of his journey. A carved mantel-piece of white marble
was over the fireplace, and there lay two beautiful white cats, on
crimson-velvet cushions, before the fire. Diamonds and rubies, emeralds
and amethysts, pearls and topazes, were piled on the ground in heaps,
and ceiling and walls were covered all over with them, so that rays of
light gleamed down upon him, wherever he looked.
There was no living thing in the room with my grandfather but the cats.
The creatures had golden collars, embossed with diamonds, round their
necks; and to these were fastened long gold chains, which just gave them
liberty to move round the room, being fastened to the walls, one at each
side, by golden staples. He noticed that the animals steadily kept their
eyes upon him, and appeared to watch every motion of his.
My grandfather passed on into the inner room. The gold lay on the floor
like wheat in a miller's store. He filled his sack with the coin to the
brim, until, though he was said to be the strongest man in the whole
barony, he had some difficulty in lifting it. As he passed through the
room in which the cats were, he paused for a moment, to have a parting
glance at all the treasures he was leaving. There was one golden star,
studded with diamonds as big as walnuts, and blazing like a lamp,
hanging down before him from the ceiling. It was too tempting. He forgot
the advice not to touch anything but the gold in the inner room, and
reached out his hand to seize the sparkling prize. One of the cats, who
had eagerly watched his motions, sprang forward as he touched the jewel,
and quick as a lightning-stroke, hit out his right eye with a sharp dash
of his paw. At the same moment, an invisible hand whipped off the sack
of gold from his shoulders, as if it were only a bag of feathers. Out
went all the lights. My grandfather groped his way out as well as he
could, by the help of the guiding-line fastened to his wrist, and cursed
his greediness, that would not be content with enough. He got home by
daybreak, with only one eye in his head, and that, without meaning to
joke on his misfortune, was the _left_ one.
Next day he sent for the priest, and told him what had happened. My
grandmother said that all the misfortune was owing to _her_ not being in
the secret. The priest said nothing. Before long, all the country heard
of the story, and half the country believed it. To be sure, as my
grandfather was rather addicted to liquor (and there was a private
still, in those days, in almost every corner), it was a chance that he
might have dreamt all this:--but then, there was his right eye absent.
There were some malicious people, indeed, who hinted that he fell over
the cliff, in a drunken fit, and that his eye was scratched out in that
manner. But it would ill beseem me to make a story-teller of my
dead-and-gone grandfather, and so I maintain the truth of his own
statement. If it is not true, it deserves to be.
In this conclusion I fully agreed, and the Philomath, proud of the
display of his legendary lore, and happy on having fallen in with a
patient and willing auditor, next proceeded to acquaint me with the
accredited legend of the meadow next the lake. As before, I shall
endeavor, in repeating it, to adhere to the very words of my informant.
LEGEND OF THE ROCK CLOSE.
About a thousand years ago, or so--but, of course, _after_ this lake was
formed, to fulfil the old fairy's prophecy, that the giant would come to
his death by water--there was a man who owned all the fields in the Rock
Close. He was a farmer--a plain, honest man. Not long after he had
purchased the place, he noticed that, though this very field we are now
sitting in had the same cultivation as the others, it never gave him any
return. He had no idea of having a meadow look like a lawn in front of a
gentleman's country-house, and lost no time in speaking about it to his
herdsman, a knowledgeable man, who said it might be worth while to watch
the place, for, although he often saw the blades of grass a foot high at
night, all was as closely shaved as a bowling-green in the morning. His
master, who was one of the old stock of the Mac Carthies, thought there
was reason in what he said, and desired him to be on the watch, and try
to find out the real facts of the matter.
The herdsman did his bidding. The next morning he told Mac Carthy that
he had hid himself behind an old gateway (you may see the ruins of it
there to the left),--that, about midnight, he had seen the waters of the
lake very much disturbed,--that six cows came up out of the lake, and
set to, eating all the grass off the field, until, by daybreak, they had
made it as smooth as the palm of my hand,--and that, when the day
dawned, the cows walked back into the lake, and went down to the bottom,
as much at their ease as if they were on dry land.
This was strange news for Mac Carthy, and set him quite at his wits'
ends. The herdsman was a little man, with the heart of a lion, and he
offered to watch again on that evening, to seize one of the cows, and
either put it into the pound, or go down into the lake with it, and make
a regular complaint of the trespass. Aye, and he did it, too. At dusk he
went again, hid himself, as before, and waited to see what would happen.
The six cows came up out of the lake, as before, and nibbled off the
grass, until the field was quite smooth. They could not get into any
other field, because they were surrounded by high, quickset hedges, and
I have noticed that cows are not very fond of taking flying-leaps.
Just at dawn, as the last cow was passing by him, on her return to the
lake, the herdsman made a dart at her tail, and took a fast hold of it.
The cow walked on, as if nothing had happened, turned her head, winked
one of her large eyes at him in a knowing manner, and the herdsman
followed, still holding the tail.
Down dashed the beast into the waters--but the herdsman still kept his
grasp. Down they went--deep, deep, to the very bottom of the lake. Sure
enough, there was the giant's castle, that had been drowned centuries
before. A little boy was in the court-yard, playing with a golden ball.
All round the yard were piles of armor--spears and helmets, swords and
shields,--all ornamented with gold. Into the court-yard dashed the cows,
and with them went the bold herdsman.
Out came a lady, richly dressed up in velvets and jewels, and her eyes
as bright as the sunbeams that dance on the wall on the morning of
Easter Sunday.[2] She carried a golden milk-pail in her hand. Loud and
shrill was her cry when she saw the herdsman.
[2] There is a popular belief in Ireland that the sunbeams dance on
the wall on Easter Sunday morning. In my youth I have often got up
at early dawn to witness the phenomenon.
I should have told you that, as they were going down, the cow whispered
to him, "I want to speak a word with you, in confidence."--"Honor
bright," said the herdsman.--"I think," said the cow, "that I'd like to
graze on that meadow of your master's, by day as well as by night, for
the grass is mighty sweet, and I don't think it agrees with my digestion
to be driven up and down the lake as I am. If I will you go bail that
the master will never put me into any other field but that?"--The
herdsman answered, "I'll promise you, by the holy poker, and that is as
good as if I was to swear by the blessed mud."--"Then my mind is at
ease," says the cow. "For the life of you, don't let go my tail,
whatever you may hear and see."
When the young lady shrieked with surprise at seeing a herdsman in that
place, out rushed a whole regiment of soldiers, with their cheeks as red
as the kitchen-fire five minutes before the dinner is done, and the
looks of them as fierce as if they were in the heat of battle--a little
fiercer, may-be.--"Oh, that villain!" says the lady, pointing to the
herdsman.--"Come here, and be killed," shouted the dragoons. But the
herdsman knew better. "Send your master to me," says he, as bold as
brass. "I always like to do business with principals."
They wondered, as well they might, at the fellow's impudence, but they
thought it best to call out their master. He came, with a golden crown
upon his head, and a purple velvet cloak on his shoulders, and a
beautiful pair of Hessian boots on his feet.--"I demand justice," said
the herdsman, "for the trespass that your cows have been committing on
Mac Carthy's field; and I seize this cow until the damage be ascertained
and made good."
He was firm as a rock, and neither coaxing nor threatening could make
him yield as much as a pin's point. He stood upon his right, and they
could not get him off it. The cow had been seized in the very act of
trespass, and all they dared do was to tempt the herdsman to surrender
her. He knew better. At last the master of them said, "We must
compromise this little matter. Leave the cow here, make out your bill
for damage, and if I don't pay it to you either in sterling money, or
notes of Delacour's bank at Mallow, or Joe Pike's in Cork, you can have
your remedy at law, and summon me, on a process, before the Assistant
Barrister and the bench of Magistrates at the next Quarter
Sessions."--But the herdsman knew better than that, and said he'd prefer
leaving matters as they were. "A cow in the hand"--says he. Then the
master of them said, "Take that golden ball that the child has, and
leave us the cow."--"Hand it over to me," says the herdsman.--"Come for
it," said they, in the hope that he'd leave the cow.--"I've a touch of
the rheumatism in my knee," says he, "and 'tis ill-convenient to move
the limb."--With that, they handed him the ball, and, as soon as he saw
that it really was gold, he put it into his breeches pocket, and said it
was not half enough.
Then they began to whisper among themselves, and he could hear them
proposing to get out a bloodhound--one of the breed that the Spaniards
had to hunt down the Indians in America--and he thought it full time to
make himself scarce. So, he whispered to the cow:--"My little cow,"
said he, "I'd like to go home." The cow took the hint, like a sensible
animal as she was, and stole backward through half the lake before they
missed her. "If we get safely back on dry land," says she, "neither you
nor any one else must swear in my presence, for the spell is upon me,
and then I shall be obliged to return to the lake."
Just then the hound was slipped, and he cut through the water like a
dolphin. But the cow had the start of him, by a good bit. Just as she
set her foot on land, the dog caught hold of the herdsman, and his bite
tore away part of the skirt of his coat. Indeed, it was noticed for some
days that the herdsman declined sitting down, just as if he had been
newly made a Freemason, so I won't say that the dog did not bite more
than the garment.
Mac Carthy had been cooling his heels on the bank of the lake all the
while that the herdsman was away, and glad enough he was to see him come
back, in company with the little cow. The herdsman told him all that
happened, and handed him the golden ball, which, people say, is in the
Jeffreys' family to this day. The hound runs round the lake, from
midnight to sunrise, on every first of July, and is to run, on that day,
until his silver shoes are worn out,--whenever that happens, Ireland is
to be a great nation, but not until then.
The field was not visited any more by the cattle from the lake, for
their master, below there, thought that though gratis grazing was
pleasant enough, it was not quite so pleasant to have the cows impounded
for trespass. From that time, never another field in all Munster gave
such produce; sow it, or sow it not, there was always a barn-full of
grain out of it. About half an acre of it was kept under grass, and on
that the cow from the lake had constant feeding.
In due season, the cow had young ones--the same breed that we now call
Kerry cows--those cattle, small in size, but good in substance, that
feed upon very little, yield a great deal of milk, and always fetch the
best of prices.
Mac Carthy was in a fair way of making a little fortune out of that cow
of his, she gave such a power of milk, but that, one day as a nag of his
was leaping over a hedge into the pasturage where the cow was, Mac
Carthy burst out with a rattling oath. The moment the words left his
lips, the cow cocked her ears, winked her eye knowingly at him, gave her
tail a toss in the air, and made one spring down into the lake. The
waters closed over her, and that was the last that mortal eye ever saw
of her.
From that time forth the field was again visited by the cattle from the
lake, and that's the reason why it is as smooth as you see it now. It is
supposed that so it will continue until somebody has the bold heart to
go down again and make another seizure for trespass.
Mr. Jeffreys, hearing a great deal of the treasures which are said to be
at the bottom of the lake, laid out a power of money in trying to drain
it. But it filled faster than the men could empty it. They might as well
think of emptying the Atlantic with a slop-basin.
* * * * *
Having thanked Mr. Tim Cronin, Philomath, for his legends, I took the
liberty of asking if he believed them? "Well," said he, "that same
question is a poser. If I am pressed on the point, I must admit that I
do not believe them _entirely_; but, when I meet curious gentlemen, I am
proud to tell them these stories--particularly when they invite me to
spend the afternoon with them at the little inn at the foot of the hill
beyond there."
The hint was taken--as far as enabling him, as he said, to partake of
his own hospitality, for my own time was limited, as I had to return to
dine in Cork. Thus, I was unable to judge whether Mr. Cronin was as
conversable after feeding-time as before it. He died some two years ago,
I have been told, and it will be difficult to meet with a Cicerone so
well qualified to describe and illustrate Blarney Castle and its
dependencies.
CON O'KEEFE AND THE GOLDEN CUP.
In Ireland, as in Scotland, among the lower orders, there is a prevalent
belief in the existence and supernatural powers of the gentry commonly
called "fairies." Many and strange are the stories told of this
mysterious and much dreaded race of beings. Loud and frequent have been
the exclamations of surprise, and even of anger, at the hard incredulity
which made me refuse, when I was young, to credit _all_ that was
narrated of the wonderful feats of Irish fairies--the most frolicksome
of the entire genus. The more my disbelief was manifested, the more
wonderful were the legends which were launched at me, to overthrow my
unlucky and matter-of-fact obstinacy.
I have forgotten many of the traditions which were thus made familiar to
me in my boyhood, but my memory retains sufficient to convince me to
what improbabilities Superstition clung--and the more wonderful the
story, the more implicit the belief. But in such cases the fanaticism
was harmless,--it was of the head rather than of the heart--of the
imagination rather than the reason. It would be fortunate if all
superstitions did as little mischief as _this_.
It is deeply to be lamented that the matter-of-factedness of the
Americans is not subdued or modified by any--even the slightest--belief
in the old-world superstitions of which I speak. Of fairy-lore they
cannot, and they do not, possess the slightest item. They read of it, as
if it were legendary, but nothing more. They feel it not--they know
it--they are, therefore, dreadfully actual. So much the worse for them!
Having imbibed a sovereign contempt for the wild and wonderful
traditions which had been duly accredited in the neighborhood, time out
of mind, I never was particularly chary in expressing such contempt at
every opportunity. When the mind of a boy soars above the ignorance
which besets his elders in an inferior station, who have had neither the
chance nor the desire of being enlightened, he is apt to pride himself,
as I did, on the "march of intellect" which has placed him superior to
their vulgar credulity.
Many years have passed since I happened to be a temporary visitor
beneath the hospitable roof of one of the better sort of farmers, in the
county of Cork, during the Midsummer holidays. As usual, I there
indulged in sarcasm against the credulity of the country. One evening,
in particular, I was not a little tenacious in laughing at the very
existence of "the fairy folk;" and, as sometimes happens, ridicule
accomplished more than argument could have effected. My hosts could
bear anything in the way of argument--at least of argument such as
mine--they could even suffer their favorite legends and theories about
the fairies to be abused; but to _laugh_ at them--that was an act of
unkindness which quite passed their comprehension, and grievously taxed
their patience.
My host was quite in despair, and almost in anger at my boyish jokes
upon his fairy-legends, when the village schoolmaster came in, an
uninvited but most welcome guest. A chair was soon provided for him in
the warmest corner--whiskey was immediately on the table, and the
schoolmaster, who was a pretty constant votary to Bacchus, lost no time
in making himself acquainted with its flavor.
I had often seen him before. He combined in his character a mixture of
shrewdness and simplicity; was a most excellent mathematician and a good
classical scholar--but of the world he knew next to nothing. From youth
to age had been spent within the limits of the parish over which, cane
in hand, he had presided for more than a quarter of a century,--at once
a teacher and an oracle! He was deeply imbued with a belief in the
superstitions of the district, but was more especially familiar with the
wild legends of that rocky glen (the defile near Kilworth, commonly
called Araglin, once famous for the extent of illicit distillation
carried on there), in which he had passed away his life, usefully, but
humbly employed.
To this eccentric character my host triumphantly appealed for proof
respecting the existence and vagaries of the fairies. He wasted no time
in argument, but, glancing triumphantly around, declared that he would
convert me by a particularly well-attested story. Draining his tumbler,
and incontinently mixing another, Mr. Patrick McCann plunged at once
into the heart of his narration, as follows:
"You know the high hill that overlooks the town of Fermoy? Handsome and
thriving place as it now is, I remember the time when there were only
two houses in that same town, and _one_ of them was then only in course
of building! Well, there lived on the other side of Corran Thierna (the
mountain in question, though _Corrig_ is the true name) one of the
Barrys, a gentleman who was both rich and good. I wish we had more of
the stamp among us now--'tis little of the Whiteboys or Ribbonmen would
trouble the country then. He had a fine fortune, kept up a fine house,
and lived at a dashing rate. It does not matter, here nor there, how
many servants he had; but I mention them, because one of them was a very
remarkable fellow. His equal was not to be had, far or near, for love
nor money.
"This servant was called Con O'Keefe. He was a crabbed little man, with
a face the very color and texture of old parchment, and he had lived in
the family time out of mind. He was such a small, dwarfish, deeny
creature, that no one ever thought of putting him to hard work. All
that they did was, now and again, from the want of a better messenger at
the moment, or to humor the old man, to send him to Rathcormac
post-office for letters. But he was too weak and feeble to walk so
far--though it was only a matter of three or four miles; so they got him
a little ass, and he rode upon it, quite as proud as a general at the
head of an army of conquerors. 'Twas as good as a play to see Con
mounted upon his donkey--you could scarcely make out which had the most
stupid look. But neither man nor beast can help his looks.
"At that time Rathcormac, though 'tis but a village now, was a borough,
and sent two members to the Irish Parliament. Was not the great Curran,
the orator and patriot, member for Rathcormac, when he was a young man?
Did not Colonel Tonson get made an Irish peer, out of this very borough,
which his son William is, to this very day, by the title of Baron
Riversdale of Rathcormac? Does not his shield bear an open hand between
two castles, and is not the motto, 'Manus hæc inimica tyrannis'--which
means that it was the enemy of tyrants? Did not the Ulster King of Arms
make the Tonsons a grant of these arms, in the time of Cromwell? But
here I have left poor little Con mounted on his donkey all this time.
"Con O'Keefe was not worth his keep, for any good he did; but, truth to
say, he had the name of being hand and glove with the fairies; and, at
that time, Corran Thierna swarmed with them. They changed their quarters
when the regiments from Fermoy barracks took to firing against targets
stuck up at the foot of the mountain. Not that a ball could ever hit a
fairy (except a silver one cast by a girl in her teens, who has never
wished for a lover, or a widow under forty who has not sighed for a
second husband--so there's little chance that it ever will be cast), but
they hate the noise of the firing and the smell of gunpowder, quite as
much as the Devil hates holy water.
"'Tis reckoned lucky in these parts to have a friend of the fairies in
the house with you, and that was partly the reason why Con O'Keefe was
kept at Barry's-fort. Many and many a one could swear to hearing him and
'the good folk' talk together at twilight on his return from Rathcormac
with the letter-bag. My own notion is, that if he _had_ anything to say
to them, he had more sense than to hold conversation with them on the
high road, for that might have led to a general discovery. Con was fond
of a drop, and, when he took it (which was in an algebraic way, that is,
'any _given_ quantity'), he had such famous spirits, and his tongue went
so glibly, that, in the absence of other company, he was sometimes
forced to talk to himself, as he trotted home.
"One night, as he was going along, rather the worse for liquor, he
thought he heard a confused sound of voices in the air, directly over
his head. He stopped, and, sure enough, it was the fairies, who were
chattering away, like a bevy of magpies; but he did not know this at the
time.
"At first he thought it might be some of the neighbors wanting to play
him a trick. So, to show that he was not afraid (for the drink had made
him bold as a lion), when the voices above and around him kept calling
out 'High up! high up!' he put in his spoke, and shouted, as loud as any
of them, 'High up! high up with ye, my lads!' No sooner said than done.
He was whisked off his donkey in a twinkling, and was 'high up' in the
air, in the very middle of a crowd of 'good people'--for it happened to
be one of their festival nights, and the cry that poor little Con heard
was the summons for gathering them all together. There they were, mighty
small, moving about as quickly as motes in the sunshine. Although Con
had the reputation at Barry's-fort of being well acquainted with them
all, you may well believe that there was not a single face among the lot
that he knew.
"In less than no time, off they went, when their leader--a little morsel
of a fellow, not bigger than Hop-o'-my Thumb--bawled out, 'High for
France! high for France! high over!' Off they went, through the
air--quick as if they were on a steeplechase. Moss and moor--mountain
and valley--green field and brown bog--land and water were all left
behind, and they never once halted until they reached the coast of
France.
"They immediately made for the house (there it is called the _château_)
of a great lord--one of the Seigneurs of the Court--and bolted through
the key-hole into his wine-cellar, without leave or license. How little
Con was squeezed through, I never could understand, but it is as sure as
fate that he went into the cellar along with them. They soon got astride
the casks, and commenced drinking the best wines, without waiting to be
invited. Con, you may be sure, was not behind any of them, as far as the
drinking went. The more he drank, the better relish he had for their
tipple. The 'good people,' somehow or other, did not appear at all
surprised at Con's being among them, but they _did_ wonder at his great
thirst, and pressed him to take enough--and Con was not the man who'd
wait to be asked twice. So they drank on till night slipped away, when
the sun--like a proper gentleman as he is--sent in one of his earliest
beams, as a sort of gentle hint that it was full time for them to
return. They had a parting-glass, and, in half an hour or so, had
crossed the wide sea, and dropped little Con ('pretty well, I thank
you,' by this time) on the precise spot he had left on the evening
before. He had been drinking out of a beautiful golden cup in the
cellar, and, by some mistake or other, it had slipped up the sleeve of
the large loose coat he wore, and so he brought it home with him. Not
that Con was not honest enough, but surely a man may be excused for
taking 'a cup too much' in a wine-cellar.
"Con was soon awakened by the warm sunbeams playing upon his face. At
first, he thought he had been dreaming, and he might have thought so to
his dying day, but that, when he got on his feet, the golden cup rolled
on the road before him, and was proof positive that all was a reality.
"He said his prayers directly, between him and harm. Then he put up the
cup and walked home, where, as his little donkey had returned on the
previous night without him, the family had given him up as lost or
drowned. Indeed, some of them had sagaciously suggested the probability
of his having gone off for good with the fairies.
"Now, does not my story convince you that there _must_ be such things as
fairies? It is not more than twenty years since I heard Con O'Keefe tell
the whole story from beginning to end; and he'd say or swear with any
man that the whole of it was as true as gospel. And, as sure as my name
is Patrick McCann, I _do_ believe that Con was in strange company that
night."
I ventured to say to Mr. McCann that, being yet incredulous, I must have
better evidence than little Con's own declaration.
"To be sure you shall," said he. "Was not the golden cup taken up to
Barry's-fort, and to be seen--as seen it was--by the whole country?"
I answered that, "Certainly, if the cup is to be seen there, the case is
materially altered."
"I did not say that the cup _is_ at Barry's-fort," said McCann, "only
that it _was_. The end of the story, indeed, is nearly as strange as the
beginning.--When Con O'Keefe came back from his wonderful excursion, no
one believed a word of what he said; for though it was whispered that he
was great with the fairies, yet, when the matter came tangibly before
them, they did not credit it. But Con soon settled their doubts; he
brought forward the cup, and there was no gainsaying _that_ evidence.
"Mr. Barry took the cup into his own keeping, and, the name and
residence of the French lord being engraved upon it, determined (as in
honor bound) to send it home again. So he went off to Cove, without any
delay, taking Con with him; and, as there luckily was a vessel going off
to France that very day, he sent off little Con with the cup and his
very best compliments.
Now, the cup was a great favorite with the French lord (being a piece of
family plate, given to one of his ancestors by one of the old kings of
France, whose life he had saved in battle), and nothing could equal the
hubbub and confusion that arose when it was missing. His lordship called
for some wine at dinner, and great was his anger when the lackey handed
it to him in a glass, declaring that they could not find the golden
goblet. He threw glass, and wine, and all, at the servant's head--flew
into a terrible passion--and swore, by all that was good and bad, that
he would not take anything stronger than water until the cup was on the
table again; and that, if it was not forthcoming in a week, he'd turn
off every servant he had, without paying them their wages, or giving
them a character.
"The cup was well searched for, but all to no purpose, as you may
suppose. At last, the week came to an end--all the servants had their
clothes packed up, to be off in the morning. His lordship was getting
dreadfully tired of drinking cold water, and the whole house was, as one
may say, turned topsy-turvy, when, to the delight and admiration of all,
in came Con O'Keefe, from Ireland, with a letter from Mr. Barry and the
cup in his fist.
"I rather think they welcomed him. His lordship made it a point to get
'glorious' that night, and, as in duty bound, the entire household
followed his example, with all the pleasure in life. You may be certain
that Con played away finely at the wine--you know the fairies had made
him free of the cellar--so he knew the taste of the liquor, and relished
it too. There can be no doubt that there was a regular jollification in
the château that night.
"Con remained in France for a month, and was perfectly in clover, for,
from the lord to the lackey, every one liked him. When he returned, he
had a heavy purse of gold for himself, and many fine presents for his
master. Indeed, while the French lord lived, which was for fifteen good
years longer, a couple of hogsheads of excellent claret were annually
received at Barry's-fort, as a present from him, and there was no wine
in the country to equal it. As for Con O'Keefe, he never had the luck to
meet the fairies again, a misfortune he very sincerely lamented. And
that's the whole story."
I asked Mr. McCann, whether he really believed _all_ of it? That worthy
replied in these words:--
"Why, in truth, I must say, some parts of it require rather an elastic
mind to take in; but there's no doubt that Con _was_ sent over to
France, where, it is said, there was a great to-do about a golden cup. I
am positive that Mr. Barry used to receive a present of claret, every
year, from a French lord, for I've drank some of the best claret in
Ireland from Mr. Barry's cellar. If the tale _be_ true--and I have told
it as I have heard Con O'Keefe tell it, especially when overcome by
liquor, at which time, the truth is sure to come out--it is proof
positive, that there have been fairies in this neighborhood, and that
within the memory of man!"
Such a logical conclusion was incontrovertible, especially when enforced
by a facetious wink from the schoolmaster; so, I even left matters as
they were, and listened with all proper attention to other stories in
the same vein, and to the same effect. If the narrator did not credit
them, most of his auditors did, which amounts to much the same in the
end. Some other time, perhaps, I may be tempted to relate them.
LEGENDS OF FINN MAC COUL.
There is a similarity, all over the world, between the popular legends
and traditions of different nations. They are reproduced, with slight
differences of circumstance and costume, to suit each new locality. For
example, the Maiden Tower at Constantinople, actually built by the
Emperor Manuel, centuries ago, for the purpose of a double
communication--with Scutari, on the Asian side, and with the point of
coast occupied by the Serai Bournou on the Asian. Whenever the hostile
visit of a Venetian fleet was anticipated, a strong iron chain used to
be drawn on both sides, across the entire breadth of the strait.
Respecting this are several legends, all of which have their prototypes
in the West.
The generally received account has appropriated it as the place in
which, for safety, a damsel was held in close retirement until the fatal
time named in a prediction should have passed away; but a serpent,
accidentally brought up in a basket of fruit, caused the maiden's death.
Here is a striking illustration of the similarity between the legends of
the East and those of the West. In the Third Calendar's Story, in the
Arabian Nights' Entertainments (which have charmed all of us in youth,
and rarely fail to delight us when we return to them in maturer years),
the whole interest turns on an incident of the same character. Both
stories appear deeply imbued with that fatality which forms the
distinguishing feature in Eastern belief and practice. Near Bristol,
also, are the remains of a tower, called Cook's Folly, erected to be the
dwelling-place of a youth of whom it had been predicted that (like the
heroine of the Turkish legend) his life would be in peril from a serpent
until the completion of his eighteenth year. The dangerous time had
nearly expired, when the youth died from the venomous bite of an adder,
which had been accidentally conveyed to his isolated abode in a bundle
of fagots.
In the south of Ireland, on the summit of a mountain called Corrig
Thierna (the Chieftain's Rock), is a heap of stones which, if there be
truth in tradition, was brought there to build a castle in which was to
dwell a son of Roche, Prince of Fermoy, of whom it had been predicted
that he would be drowned before his twentieth year. The child, when only
five years old, fell into a pool of water which had been collected, on
the top of the mountain, to make mortar for the erection of the tower,
in which it was intended he should be kept "out of harm's way," until
the perilous period had elapsed. The child was drowned. In each case,
the prophecy appears to have brought about its own fulfilment. There is
a moral in these old traditions, did we but know how to seize and apply
it.
Washington Irving has localized several legends as American, but his Rip
Van Winkle has been traced to a German origin, and many of his other
legends appear to be old friends in a new attire. Who can say whence any
traditional stories are derived? Some years ago, a supplement to the
Thousand-and-One Nights, containing an Arabian tale called the Sage
Heycar, was published at Paris, and the translator noted the curious
fact that this Oriental story contained many incidents exactly similar
to passages in the life of Æsop: such as sixteen pages of details of a
visit made by Heycar to the court of Pharaoh, which are the same, word
for word, with the account of the like visit made by Æsop. So, too, the
challenge which Pharaoh sent to the King of Abyssinia, demanding him to
build a palace in the air, and the ingenious means to which Æsop had
recourse, are transferred to Heycar. Even the fables of Æsop, the
Phrygian, have been claimed for Lokman, the Arabian philosopher, and now
the very incidents of his life are taken from him by Heycar.
The Coventry legend of Lady Godiva is claimed by the Arabians. In Von
Hammer's new Arabian Nights is the story called Camaralzeman and the
Jeweller's Wife, founded on an incident precisely similar to that in
which the English heroine appears.
The truth is, it is impossible to ascertain what coincident mythology
connects the East and the West. We know not what relation Thor of
Scandinavia may have with Vishnu of Hindostan. The oldest English and
Irish stories appear to have corresponding legends among the Celts,
Danes, Scandinavians, and Normans, and, again, these have wandered
either to or from the East. Even such thoroughly English stories as Tom
Thumb, Jack the Giant Killer, and Whittington and his Cat, are claimed
as aboriginal in foreign countries. The Wise Men of Gotham, one of the
oldest English provincial legends, is given, nearly verbatim, in one of
the German popular stories, collected by the Brothers Grimm, and its
incidents may be found in the Pentamerone (in the story of Bardiello),
but has been translated from the Tamul tongue, which is a dialect of
Southern India, as the "Adventures of Gooroo Noodle and his Five
Disciples."
The Germans are very fond of legendary lore. Like the Irish, they have
their cellar-haunters, who invariably tap the best wine, and make
themselves merry with whatever the cellar and larder can supply. Like
the Irish, too, they have traditions of gigantic dwellers in the land,
in days gone by, and they re-people the Hartz with men of enormous
stature and strength, capable of daring and doing any thing, yet who
differ from the Genii, in the Arabian Tales, who are spoken of as
possessing supernatural powers, while the giants of Western tradition,
having nothing remarkable, except their size and strength, and so far
from being endowed with more than human powers, may be noticed, on the
contrary, as being slow-witted and rather dull of comprehension,--for,
like most very tall people of the present day, their upper story is
unfurnished. Such were Finn Mac Coul, and his great rival, Ossian,
neither of whom can be named as remarkably bright "boys." There are a
few instances of this which may be worth recording. For example:--
FINN AND THE FISH.
In the good old times, "when Malachi wore the collar of gold, which he
won from the proud invader," no Irish hero was more celebrated than Finn
Mac Coul. What cabin is there, from the Giant's Causeway to Cape Clear,
which is not full of his glory?
Finn Mac Coul was famous for his strength of mind and body, for his
wisdom and his might. The Saxons fled before him when he unfurled
Ireland's ancient banner--which bore the poetical name of The
Sunburst--and thousands arrayed themselves around it; mountain and vale,
plain and tarn, hall and bower, were full of the glory of his graceful
deeds of gentle courtesy. His mighty mind was suitably lodged, for he
was tall as one of the sons of Anak, and might have passed for own
brother to him of Gath.
Before relating any of his wonderful bodily achievements, it may be as
well to mention the mysterious manner in which his wisdom, like a
tangible revelation, fell upon him.
In the ancient days of Ireland's glory, the province of Munster was a
Kingdom, and was called Momonia. One of the Mac Carthy family had
sovereign sway. He was a good-natured, soft-hearted, fat-headed sort of
neutral character--one of that class, still too common in Ireland, known
by the apologetic _sobriquet_ of "nobody's enemy but his own." He kept
open house for all comers, and the effect of his undiscriminating
hospitality was, that, a monarch in name, he was next to a pauper in
reality, living, as the saying is, quite "from hand to mouth." This he
could have borne, for, like the eels, he was used to it, but the empty
state of his exchequer rendered him unable to pay for the military
services of his subjects, and the result was, that his dominions
gradually fell into a state of partition among his brother monarchs of
greater power, richer treasury, and smaller hospitality.
It happened that one of these, named Mac Murragh--an ancestor of him
whose daughter's frailty led to the subjugation of Ireland by Henry
II.--ruled over Leinster, while poor Mac Carthy was enjoying nominal
empire over the rich plains of Munster. Mac Murragh was ambitious. He
saw what an easy prey Momonia might be. He wished to feed his herds upon
that beautiful tract of land intersected by the river Suir, which even
yet is called "The Golden Vale," and he declared war to the knife
against King Mac Carthy.
It happened that Mac Carthy was fully aware of the value of the golden
vale--indeed, it was the very pride of his heart. He determined to
resist his foe, as best he could. But before taking up arms, on the
defensive, he resolved to have recourse to other than mortal aid.
It was some time before the avatar of Saint Patrick--that redoubted
patriarch whose mission it was to teach the benighted Irish the benefits
of religion and the blessings of whiskey. Therefore, under King Mac
Carthy, Druidism was the "established church." One of the most ancient
Arch-Druids in Munster resided in a cave near Mitchelstown, dug by his
own hands in one of the Galtee Mountains, and to him, in this emergency,
King Mac Carthy betook himself for advice and aid.
The Arch-Druid was noted, far and near, as an interpreter of dreams, a
diviner of auguries, an unraveller of mysteries, and a reader of
prophecies. Common rumor declared that he was master of
enchantments,--that the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed at his
command,--that he had communion with spirits from another world, and
could compel them to obey his bidding.
After the performance of many rites and ceremonies, some penance and
much prayer, the Arch-Druid asked the King of Munster whether he knew
that part of the West which we now call Mayo? Mac Carthy replied that he
ought to know it, for he had been brought up there. "Then," said the
Arch-Druid, "thither we must go. For in one of the rivers which run
through that district, by the foot of a lofty mountain, there is a
salmon, which, if caught, cooked, and eaten, will bestow long life and
health, wisdom and valor, success in arms and love, upon him who eats
it."
The King thanked the Arch-Druid for his information, and gave him a
liberal largess, when he added that in the book of the future it was
written that this wonderful fish was predestined to be caught by his own
royal hands. This put him into excellent spirits, and he proposed to the
Arch-Druid that they should "make a night of it," which they did, upon
mead or metheglin--for, in those days, whiskey had not been invented.
The next day they set off on their fishing-tour. The way was long, the
roads bad, and travelling rather dangerous. But, seating themselves on
the Arch-Druid's cloak, its wizard-owner muttering a few cabalistic
words, forthwith they were wafted, men and cloak, through the air, on
the swift wings of the wind, to the precipitous ridge of hills
surrounding the lofty rock now called Croagh Patrick. The cloak and its
two passengers finally dropped down on the bank of the river of which
the Arch-Druid had spoken.
They followed the course of the stream through one of the most fertile
valleys that sunshine ever glanced upon, until they reached a dark
cavern where the struggling waters sink suddenly into the earth. No one
has yet been able to ascertain whither the stream finally goes--whether
it again rises to the earth--whether it runs through a subterranean
channel, or is sucked in to quench the Phlegethon of this world's
central fires. No one knows--nor would it much matter if he did.
Close by the mouth of this cavern is a dark, deep hollow, over which the
gloom of eternal night ever seems to rest, and into which the stream
falls before it sinks into the abyss, whirling in foaming eddies,
warring as in agony, and casting up a jet of spray into the air. Loudly
the waters roar as they fall on the rugged rock beneath--they are
whirled round and round, until, at regular intervals, they descend into
the yawning gulf beneath.
In this pool, among thousands of fishes, of all sorts and sizes, was the
Salmon of Knowledge, the possession of which was to make King Mac Carthy
amazingly wise, and irresistibly mighty. By this pool he sat, in company
with the Arch-Druid, day after day, for a whole month, until their
patience was nearly, and their provisions wholly, exhausted. They had
sport enough to satisfy Izaak Walton himself, for they were perpetually
catching fish. There was a little hut hard by, and in it the King and
the Arch-Druid alternately officiated as cook. Still, though he was
latterly on a fish diet, the King grew never the wiser. He got so tired
of that kind of food that historians have gone the length of asserting
that even a Hoboken turtle-feed would have had no charm for his palled
appetite. Amid the finest fish that Royalty ever feasted upon, he sighed
for the white and red of his own fine mutton from the green fields of
Munster.
To add to his misfortune, though he wanted only one salmon, fish of all
sorts _would_ hook themselves on to his line. There was perpetual
trouble in taking them off the hook. They determined to judge of the
salmon, as Lavater did of men, by their looks. Therefore the fat and
plump fish obtained the dangerous distinction of being broiled or
boiled, while the puny ones were thrown back, with the other fish, into
the water.
Thus it happened that, one evening at dusk, a lank, lean, spent salmon
having been caught, they did not think it worth cooking, and the King
took it up to throw it back into the water. He did not cast it far
enough, and the poor fish remained on the bank. It was quietly wriggling
itself back into its native element, when it was espied by a little boy
who had a special taste for broiled fish. He seized it, took it home,
made a fire, and set about cooking it.
This youth was the famous Finn Mac Coul:--but he was not famous _then_.
He had fled from the South, from some enemies of his family, and, being
hungry, the salmon, poor and lean as it seemed, was better to him than
nothing.
The fire being red, he put the salmon upon it. The poor fish, not quite
dead, writhed on the live coals, and the heat caused a great blister to
swell out upon its side. Finn Mac Coul noticed this, and, fearing that
the fish would be spoiled if the blister were to rise any more, pressed
his thumb upon it. The heat soon made him withdraw it. Naturally enough,
he put it into his mouth to draw out the pain. At that moment, he felt a
strange thrill throughout his whole frame. He was suddenly changed in
mind. The moment that thumb touched his lips he had increase of
knowledge. _That_ told him that he could do no better than devour the
salmon. That done, he was a changed Finn--a new and enlarged edition,
with additions; quite a tall paper copy.
That night, Finn Mac Coul quietly strayed down to the cavern, and found
the King and the Arch-Druid at high words. His majesty had dreamed, in
his afternoon nap, that the Salmon of Knowledge had been on his hook,
and that the Arch-Druid had coaxed it off, and privily cooked and eaten
it. Finn told him that the Arch-Druid knew that the salmon could be
caught only by a King's hand, but had intended, even before they left
Munster, to cook and eat it himself, and then to usurp the crown. The
Arch-Druid, who had a conscience, had not a word of explanation or
excuse. The King immediately ran him through the body, and engaged Finn
(who, by this time, had shot up to the height of twelve feet) to lead
his armies against the invading King of Leinster, and the result was
that, so far from conquering Munster, and appropriating the Golden Vale,
King Mac Murragh was obliged to pray for pardon, and to pay tribute to
King Mac Carthy, who thenceforward, with the aid of Finn Mac Coul's
strength of mind and body, was the most powerful of all the monarchs of
Ireland.
THE BREAKS OF BALLYNASCORNEY.
Contemporary with Finn Mac Coul, was the renowned giant, called Ossian.
There has been a question whether he were Scotch or Irish. But as Ossian
certainly came all the way from Scotland to compete with Finn Mac Coul,
it is not likely that they were countrymen.
That contest--it was of the description given by Ovid of what took place
between Ajax and Ulysses. Go to that wild and beautiful district near
Dublin, that patch of mountain scenery, so splendid and romantic, known
as the Breaks of Ballynascorney and learn, as I did, what tradition now
reports of the contest between Ossian and Finn Mac Coul.
A mountain road winds through these Breaks, like a huge snake. By the
road-side there stands a tremendous rock of granite--perfectly isolated.
Many such are to be seen scattered over the island, and the general
belief is, that each column-stone marks the spot where some noted
warrior had fallen in the old contests between the Irish and their
Danish invaders. A different legend belongs to _this_ rock.
The day had been beautiful--one of those brilliant days of softness and
balm so prevalent in Ireland. The noontide sun may have been a little
too sunny, but this could be remedied by reposing in the pleasant
shadow of some of the lofty cairns which abound in that place. The day
gently glided on, until, when a summer-shower made the heath glitter
with its diamond drops, we sought shelter in a rustic cabin by the
wayside.
No one was within, but an old woman, remarkably talkative. She paid us a
world of attention--insinuated a world of compliments on the beaming
beauty of the fair lady who accompanied me--would "engage that one so
pretty was not without a sweetheart," and, with a smile at myself,
"would not be long without a husband"--hoped that she "would be happy as
the day was long, and live to see her great-grand-children at her
feet,"--was certain she was an Irishwoman, "for she had the fair face,
and the small hand, and the dark blue eye, and the long black lash, and
the bounding step," and prophesied more good fortune than (to one of the
party, at least) has yet been fulfilled.
This old woman was a good specimen of a shrewd Irish peasant. Her
compliments were insinuated, rather than expressed; and, _malgré_ the
brogue, I question when more delicate flattery--pleasant, after all, to
one's _amour propre_--could be more dexterously conveyed in the circles
which we call brilliant. This tact in the matter of compliment appears
intuitive.
Allusion having been made to the granite column in the neighborhood, our
hostess asked whether we should like "to know all about it." The answer
was in the affirmative, and then--happy to hear the tones of her own
voice, proud of giving information to persons above her own station, and
in pleased anticipation of a _douceur_--she told us a legend which, as
she was rather prolix, I shall take leave to give you in my own words.
FINN MAC COUL'S FINGER-STONE.
Finn Mac Coul went hunting one day on the Curragh of Kildare. His sport
was indifferent, for he brought down only a leash of red deer, and a
couple of wolves. He came back to his house, on the hill of Allen, in
such bad spirits, that his wife asked him what was the matter, and said
that, no doubt, he would have better sport another time. Heaving a deep
sigh, he told her that it was not his bad sport that annoyed him, but
that news had that morning reached him that Ossian, the Scotch giant,
was coming over to challenge him to a trial of strength, and if he lost
the day--for he could not decline the contest--his credit, and the
credit of Ireland, would be gone forever.
At this news, Finn's wife became as low-spirited as himself. They sat by
the fire, like Witherington, "in doleful dumps," and their thoughts were
the reverse of happy.
Suddenly, the lady--for the life of me I cannot bring myself to
designate her as plain "Mrs. Mac Coul"--asked her disconsolate lord and
master at what time Ossian was expected to arrive? Finn told her that
the Scottish Hercules had intimated his intention of paying his visit at
noon on the following day. "Oh! then," said she, brightening up,
"there's no need to despair. Leave all to me, and I'll bring you through
it like a Trojan. A blot is no blot until 'tis entered." This remark,
showing at once her philosophy and her knowledge of backgammon, was very
consolatory to Finn Mac Coul, who, like men before and since, was rather
under what is called petticoat government. His mind was relieved when
his wife saw daylight.
After breakfast, the next day, Finn (by his wife's direction) went into
a huge child's-cradle, a feat which he had some difficulty in
accomplishing. There he lay, crumpled up uneasily, while she kept busy
in the kitchen, baking some cake or griddle-bread.
By-and-bye, up came Ossian, who knocked at the door, and civilly
inquired whether Finn Mac Coul lived there, and if he were at home?
"No," said his wife, "he's gone to the fair of Bartlemy; but I am his
wife, and, perhaps, I can answer for him."
"What!" said Ossian, "did not he hear that I, Ossian of Scotland, was
coming over for a trial of strength with him? I hope he does not mean to
skulk. Wherever he may be, I shall not return home until I _see_ him,
and until he _feel_ me."
When the wife found that Ossian was too far North to be put off by a
"not at home," she put the best face on it, welcomed him to Ireland,
hoped he had a pleasant passage, and that the tossing on the salt-water
did not disagree with him, invited him into the house, and said that
Finn would soon be back, and ready to indulge him in any way he pleased.
Ossian sat down by the fire, quite at his ease. He had a great conceit
of himself, and was, indeed, the strongest man in Europe at that time.
He noticed the large cakes that were baking in the oven, each of them
taking two stone weight of flour, and asked why she made them of such a
size. "They are for that little creature in the cradle, there," said
she, pointing over her shoulder to Finn. Then Ossian looked round, and
noticed the cradle, with Finn in it, and a night-cap on his head, and
tied under his chin, and he pretending to be fast asleep all the time.
Astonished at the immense bulk, Ossian called out, "Who's there? What
man is that in the cradle?" "Man!" said Finn's wife, with a pleasant
little laugh, "that's our youngest child. I am weaning him now, and I
sometimes think the fairies have overlooked him, he's so dwarfed and
small, and does not promise to be half the size of his father and his
brothers."
Ossian never said a word to that; but he could not take his eyes off the
cradle, thinking, no doubt, if the undergrown baby was such a bouncer,
what must the father be.
By-and-bye, Finn's wife told Ossian that, as he had a long journey, and
Finn was staying out longer than she expected, he might as well take
some refreshment, without waiting for him. The cakes were nice and brown
by this time, and she asked him to break his fast with one of them. He
took it, and when he made a bite in it, he roared again with pain, for
his two best front teeth were broken. "Oh!" he cried out, "it is as hard
as iron,"--and so it might be, for she had put an iron griddle into it,
and baked it with it in. "Hard?" said she. "Why, that child there would
not taste it if it were a bit softer."
Then she recommended Ossian to wash the pain away with a sup of the
finest whiskey in the province; and she fetched a wooden _piggin_, that
would hold about a gallon to a gallon and a half, and filled it to the
brim. Ossian took a long pull at it; as much as a quart or so. Then
Finn's wife laughed downright at him for taking so little. "Why," said
she, "the child there in the cradle thinks nothing of emptying that
_piggin_ in one draught." So, for shame's sake, and because he did not
like to be thought a milk-sop, Ossian took a little more, and a little
more yet, until, before long, the liquor got the better of him.
Now, this was the very pass that the good wife wished to bring him to.
"While his father is out," said she, "and I wonder why he is not home
before now, may-be you'd like to see the child there throw a stone, or
try a fall with you, or do any of the diverting little tricks that
his father teaches him." Ossian consented, and she went over to the
cradle and gave Finn a shake. "Wake up, dear," said she, "and amuse the
gentleman."
So Finn stretched himself, and Ossian wondered at his black beard, and
his great bulk. "'Pon my word," said he, "you're a fine child for your
age." Then, turning to Finn's wife, he asked, "Has he cut any of his
teeth yet?" She bade him feel his gums. Then Ossian put two of his
fingers into Finn's mouth, and the moment they were there Finn bit them
to the bone. Ossian jumped round the room with pain. "Ah!" said Finn's
wife, "you should see his father's teeth; he thinks nothing of biting
off the head of a two-shilling nail, when he uses it for a tooth-pick."
By this time, Ossian was far from comfortable. But he thought he must
put the best face on it; so he said to Finn, "Come, my lad, let us see
how your father teaches you to wrestle."
Finn did not say a word, but grappled Ossian round the waist, and laid
him sprawling on the ground before he could say "Jack Robinson." Ossian
picked himself up, very sulkily, and rubbed the place that had come in
contact with the hard floor of the kitchen.
"Now," said Finn's wife, "may-be you'd like to see the child throw a
stone." And then Finn went in front of the house, where there was a heap
of great rocks, and he took up the very identical stone which now
stands in the Breaks of Ballynascorey, and flung it all the way from the
hill of Allen. To this day it bears the marks of Finn's five fingers and
thumb--for his hand was not like an ordinary hand--when he grasped it;
and to this day, also, that stone bears Finn's name.
Ossian was greatly surprised, as well he might be, at such a cast. He
asked, "Could your father throw such a stone much farther?"--"Is it my
father?" said Finn: "faith, he'd cast it all the way to America, or
Scotland, or the Western Injes, and think nothing of it!"
This was enough for Ossian. He would not venture on a trial of strength
with the father, when the son could beat him. So he pretended to
recollect some sudden business that called him back, posthaste, to
Scotland, thinking he never could get away half quick enough. And the
stone remains where Finn threw it, and, if you only go that way, any one
on or near the Sigham mountain will show you FINN MAC COUL'S
FINGER-STONE.
IRISH STORIES.
THE PETRIFIED PIPER.
CHAPTER I.
WHO THE PIPER WAS.
Irish Legends almost invariably remind me of the Field of Waterloo. When
our tourists rushed _en masse_, to behold the plain on which the
destinies of Europe had been decided, they exhibited the usual
relic-hunting and relic-buying mania. Bullets and helmet ornaments,
rusty pistols and broken swords, buttons and spurs, and such
things--actually found on the battle-field--were soon disposed of, while
of the tourists it might be said, as of the host of Dunsinane, "The cry
is still 'they come!'" So, the demand exceeding the legitimate supply,
the Belgian peasantry began to dispose of fictitious relics, and a very
profitable trade it was for a long time. To this day, they are carefully
manufactured, "to order," by more than one of the hardware makers of
Birmingham.
In the same manner, Irish legends having become a marketable commodity
(Carleton and Crofton Croker, Banim and Griffin, Lover and Whitty,
having worked the vein deeply), people had recourse to invention instead
of tradition--like George Psalmanazar's History of Formosa, in which
fiction supplied the place of fact. Very amusing, no doubt; but not
quite fair. More ingenious than honest. Therefore, the Irish story I
shall relate, if it possesses none other, shall have the merit, at
least, of being "founded on facts."
Fermoy is one of the prettiest towns in Ireland. It is not very remote
from that very distinguished Southern metropolis--of pigs and
porter--known as "the beautiful city of Cork." Midway between city and
town lies Water-grass-hill, a pretty village, located on the highest
arable land in Ireland, and now immortal as having once been the
residence of the celebrated Father Prout. Some people prefer the
country-town to the crowded city: for, though its trade be small, its
society rather too fond of scandal, its church without a steeple, and
its politicians particularly intolerant, Fermoy is in the heart of a
fertile and picturesque tract, and there flows through it that noble
river, the Blackwater, honorably mentioned by Spenser, and honored in
later song as the scene where might be beheld
"The trout and the salmon
A-playing backgammon.
All on the banks of sweet Castle Hyde."
The scenery around Fermoy is indeed most beautiful, and _above_ all
(in more meanings than one) towers Corrig Thierna--the Lord's rock,
commonly spoken of as Corran--which, to such of the inhabitants as have
not seen greater elevations, appears a mountain entitled to vie with
what they have heard of the Alps, Appenines, or Andes.
Although Fermoy now contains fully seven hundred houses (exclusive of
stables and pigsties), and a population of nearly seven thousand souls,
men, women, and children--to say nothing of horses, oxen, sheep, mules,
donkies, cats, dogs, and such other creatures as have no souls--it was
not always so extensive and populous.
In every town a high traditional authority is constantly referred to as
"within the memory of the oldest inhabitant," and it may be stated, on
this antique authority, that, not much more than half a century since,
Fermoy was a very small and obscure hamlet, consisting of no more than
one little pothouse and half a dozen other mud-cabins, luxuriantly
located, with some ingenuity, so as to enjoy, front and rear, a
_maximum_ of the morning and afternoon sunshine. These domiciles were
ranged in a row, and hence arose the figurative saying, "All on one
side, like the town of Fermoy." The energy, ability, and capital of one
man (the late John Anderson, who introduced mail-coaches into Ireland),
raised the village of Fermoy into a populous and thriving town, which,
in 1809, was a merry place--partly owing to the mirth whose chief
minister was Remmy Carroll, son of old Carroll, the piper.
As Remmy is the hero of my tale, it is only proper that I should
describe him. Irish parlance emphatically distinguished him as "a mighty
clever boy," which did not mean a compliment to his capacity or
acquirements, but was simply a figure of speech to declare that this
Hibernian Orpheus stood about "six feet two in his stocking-vamps."
Remmy Carroll's personal appearance was not quite as _distingué_ as that
of his great contemporary, Beau Brummell. His coat, originally of blue
frieze, had worn down, by age and service, to a sort of bright gray,
tessellated, like mosaic-work, with emendations of the original
substance carefully annexed thereto by Remmy's own industrious fingers.
The garment, like the wearer, had known many a fray, and Remmy was wont
to observe, jocularly, when he sat down to repair these breaches, that
then, like a man of landed property, he was occupied in "taking his
rents."
Care is not very likely to kill a man who can jest upon his own poverty.
Accordingly, Remmy Carroll was as light-hearted a fellow as could be met
with in town or country. He was a gentleman accustomed to live how and
where he could, and he was welcomed everywhere. It was mentioned, as an
undoubted fact, that where men of substance--rich farmers and thriving
shopkeepers--had been very coldly received by bright-eyed angels in
petticoats, looks and even words of encouragement had been extended to
Remmy Carroll. The fair sex are proverbially of a kind nature,
especially towards young men, who, like Carroll, have handsome features
and jocund speech, lofty stature and winning smiles, that symmetry of
limb which pleases the eye, and that subduing conversation which pleases
the ear. What was more, Remmy Carroll knew very well--none better!--that
he was a favorite with the rose-cheeked Venuses of Fermoy and its
vicinity. It may be mentioned also--as _sotto voce_ as type can express
it--that he was also perfectly aware that he was a very personable
fellow, what Coleridge has described as "a noticeable man." Was there
ever any one, no matter of what age or sex, possessing personal
advantages, who was not fully aware of the fact?
It would be tedious to expatiate very particularly upon the extent and
variety of Remmy Carroll's accomplishments. He followed the hereditary
profession of his family, and was distinguished, far and near, for his
really splendid execution on the Irish pipes--an instrument which can be
made to "discourse most excellent music," and must never be confounded
with the odious drone of the Scottish bag-pipes. Remmy's performance
could almost excite the very chairs, tables, and three-legged stools to
dance. One set of pipes is worth a dozen fiddles, for it can "take the
shine out of them all" in point of loudness. But then, these same pipes
can do more than make a noise. The warrior, boldest in the field, is
gentlest at the feet of his ladye-love; and so, the Irish pipes, which
can sound a strain almost as loud as a trumpet-call, can also breathe
forth a tide of gushing melody--sweet, soft, and low as the first
whisper of mutual love. You have never felt the eloquent expression of
Irish music, if you have not heard it from the Irish pipes.[3] It is
quite marvellous that, amid all the novelties of instrumentation (if I
may coin a word) which are thrust upon the patient public, season after
season--including the Jews'-harping of Eulenstein, the chin-chopping of
Michael Boiai, and the rock-harmonicon of the Derbyshire mechanics--no
one has thought of exhibiting the melodious performance of an Irish
really were a first-rate performer, he could not fail to please, to
delight, to astonish. But, again I say, do not confound the sweet
harmony of the Irish with the drony buzz of the Scotch pipes.
[3] This praise of the Irish pipes is by no means exaggerated. The
last performer of any note, in Fermoy, was an apothecary, named
O'Donnell, who certainly could make them discourse "most eloquent
music." He died about fifteen years ago. It was almost impossible
to listen with dry eyes and unmoved heart to the exquisite manner
in which he played the Irish melodies--the _real_ ones, I mean--not
those which Tom Moore and Sir John Stevenson had "adopted" (and
emasculated) for polite and fashionable piano-forte players and
singers. There is now in New York a gentleman, named Charles
Ferguson, whose performance on the Irish pipes may be said to
equal--it could not surpass--that of O'Donnell.
Remmy Carroll's accomplishments were not limited to things musical. He
could out-walk, out-run, and out-leap any man in the barony of Condons
and Clongibbons; aye, or of any five other baronies in the county of
Cork, the Yorkshire of Ireland. He could back the most vicious horse
that ever dared to rear and kick against human supremacy. He had
accepted the challenge scornfully given to the whole world, by Big Brown
of Kilworth, to wrestle, and had given him four fair falls out of five,
a matter so much taken to heart by the said Big one, that he emigrated
to London, where, overcome with liquor and loyalty, he was tempted to
enlist in an infantry regiment, and was shot through the head at the
storming of Badajoz some short time after.
Remmy Carroll could do, and had done more than defeat Brown. He could
swim like a fish, was the only man ever known to dive under that
miniature Maëlstrom which eddies at the base of The Nailer's Rock
(nearly opposite Barnäan Well), and, before he was one-and-twenty, had
saved nine unfortunates from being drowned in the fatal Blackwater.[4]
[4] There really was a person named Carroll residing in Fermoy at
the date of this story. He was of gigantic stature and strength,
with the mildest temper ever possessed by mortal man. He was
noted for his excellence in swimming and his remarkable skill as a
diver. Whenever any person had been drowned in the Blackwater,
(which runs through Fermoy,) Carroll was sent for, and never
quitted the river until he had found the body. There is one part
considered particularly dangerous, opposite Barnäan Well, in which
a large projection, called the Nailer's Rock, shelves out into the
water, making an under-current of such peculiar strength and
danger, that even expert swimmers avoid it, from a fear of being
drawn within the vortex. Many lives have been lost in this fatal
eddy, into which Carroll was accustomed to dive, most fearlessly,
in search of the bodies. It was calculated that Carroll had
actually saved twenty-two persons from being drowned, and had
recovered over fifty corpses from the river. When he died, which
event happened at the commencement of the bathing season, a general
sorrow fell upon all classes in the town of Fermoy, and for several
weeks no one ventured into the river. It was as if their guardian
and safeguard had departed. In my youth, passed on the banks of the
Blackwater, there was a belief that whenever one person was drowned
in that river, two others were sure to follow, in the same season.
No man in the county could beat him at hurly, or foot-ball. He was a
crack hand at a faction-fight on a fair day--only, as a natural spirit
of generosity sometimes impelled him, with a reckless chivalry, to side
with the weaker party, he had, more than once, been found magnanimously
battling against his own friends.
Yet more.--Having had the advantage of three years' instruction at Tim
Daly's far-famed Academy, Remmy Carroll was master of what a farmer,
more alliterative than wise, called "the mystery of the three
R's:--Reading, 'Riting, and 'Rithmetic." He knew, by the simple taste,
when the Potheen was sufficiently "above proof." He had a ten-Irishman
power of love-making, and while the maidens (with blushes, smiles, and
softly-similated angers) would exclaim, "Ah, then, be done, Remmy!--for
a deluder as ye are!" there usually was such a sly intelligence beaming
from their bright eyes, as assured him that he was not unwelcome; and
then he felt it his duty to kiss them into perfect good-humor and
forgiveness.--But I am cataloguing his accomplishments at too much
length. Let it suffice to declare, that Remmy Carroll was confessedly
the Admirable Crichton of the district.
He was an independent citizen of the world--for he had no particular
settled habitation. He was a popular character--for every habitation was
open to him, from Tim Mulcahy's, who lived with his wife and pig, in a
windowless mud-cabin, at the foot of Corran, to Mr. Bartle Mahony's
two-story slated house, on a three hundred acre farm, at Carrigabrick,
on the banks of the Blackwater. At the latter abode of wealth, however,
Remmy Carroll had not lately called.
Mr. Bartholomew Mahony--familiarly called "Bartle"--was a man of
substance. Had he lived now, he might have sported a hunter for himself,
and set up a jaunting-car for his daughter. But the honest, well-to-do
farmer had at once too much pride and sagacity to sink into the
_Squireen_. He was satisfied with his station in life, and did not
aspire beyond it. He was passing rich in the world's eye. Many, even of
the worldlings, thought less of his wealth than of his daughter, Mary.
Of all who admired, none loved her half so well as poor Remmy Carroll,
who loved the more deeply, because very hopelessly, inasmuch as her
wealth and his own poverty shut him out from all reasonable prospect of
success. He admired--nay, that is by far too weak a word: he almost
adored her, scarcely daring to confess, even to his own heart, how
closely her image was blended with the very life of his being.
Mary Mahony was an Irish beauty; that most indescribable of all
breathing loveliness, with dark hair, fair skin, and violet eyes, a
combination to which the brilliant pencil of Maclise has often rendered
justice. She had a right to look high, in a matrimonial way, for she was
an heiress in her own right. She had £500 left her as a legacy by an old
maiden-aunt, near Mitchelstown, who had taken care of her from her
twelfth year, when she left the famous Academy of the renowned Tim Daly
(where she and Remmy used to write together at the same desk), until
some eight months previous to the date of this authentic narrative, when
the maiden-aunt died, bequeathing her property, as aforesaid, to Mary
Mahony, who then returned to her father.
With all her good fortune, including the actual of the legacy, and the
ideal of inheritance to her father's property--with beauty sufficient to
have turned the head of any other damsel of eighteen, Mary Mahony was
far from pride or conceit. She had the lithest form and the most
graceful figure in the world, but many maidens, with far less means,
wore much more showy and expensive apparel. Her dark hair was plainly
braided off her white brow, in bands, in the simplest and most graceful
manner; while, from beneath, gleamed orbs so beautiful, that one might
have said to her, in the words of John Ford, the dramatist,
"Once a young lark
Sat on thy hand, and gazing on thine eyes,
Mounted and sung, thinking them moving skies."
The purple stuff gown (it was prior to the invention of merinos and
muslins-de-laine), which, in its close fit, exhibited the exquisite
beauty of her form, and set off, by contrast, the purity of her
complexion, was also a within-doors article of attire: when she went
out, she donned a long cloak of fine blue cloth, with the sides and hood
neatly lined with pink sarsnet. Young and handsome Irish girls, in her
rank of life, were not usually satisfied, at that time, with a dress so
quiet and so much the reverse of gay.
But Mary Mahony's beauty required nothing to set it off. I do not
exaggerate when I say that it was literally dazzling. I saw her twenty
years after the date of this narrative, and was even then struck with
admiration of her matured loveliness;--how rich, then, must it have been
in the bud!
Mary, as Remmy Carroll said _before_ he knew that he loved her--for
_then_, he never breathed her name to mortal ear,--was "the moral of a
darling creature, only t'would be hard to say whether she was most good
or handsome." Her hair, as I have said, was dark (light tresses are
comparatively rare in Ireland), and her eyes were of so deep a blue that
nine out of ten on whom they glanced mistook them for black. Then, too,
the long lashes veiling them, and the lovely cheek ("oh, call it fair,
not pale"), on which their silky length reposed,--and the lips so red
and pouting, and the bust whose gentle heavings were just visible behind
the modest kerchief which covered it,--and the brow white as snow (but
neither too high nor too prominent),--and the fingers tapering and
round, and the form lithe and graceful,--and the feet small and
well-shaped, and the nameless air which gave dignity and grace to every
motion of this country-girl! Oh, beautiful was Mary Mahony, beautiful as
the bright image of a poet's dream, the memory of which shadows he forth
in the verse which challenges immortality in the minds of men.
The _contour_ of her face was neither Roman, nor Grecian, nor
Gothic;--it was essentially Irish, and I defy you to find a finer. The
only drawback (for I must be candid) was that her nose had
somewhat--just the slightest--of an upward inclination. This, which
sometimes lent a sort of piquancy to what would otherwise have been
quite a Madonna-like face, only made her not too handsome; at least, so
thought her admirers. Lastly, she had a voice as sweet as ear ever loved
to listen to. No doubt, it had the distinguishing accents of her
country, but with her, as with Scott's Ellen, they were
"Silvery sounds, so soft, so dear,
The listener held his breath to hear."
CHAPTER II.
WHAT THE PIPER DID.
It was in the summer of 1809, that, for the first time since both of
them were children and schoolmates, Remmy Carroll spoke to Mary Mahony.
Often had he seen her at the dance, which without his aid could not be,
but in which, alas, _he_ could not join--a dancing piper being almost as
anomalous as a hunting archbishop! Often had he admired the natural
grace of her movements. Often had he been struck by the bewitching
modesty of mien and motion which had the power of suddenly changing the
rakish, rollicking gallantry of her followers (for she was a reigning
toast) into a most respectful homage. Often had he noticed her at
chapel, whither she came to pray, while others flaunted and gazed as if
they had come only to see and to be seen. Often had he followed her very
footsteps, at a distance--for the very ground on which she trod was
hallowed to this humble lover--but never yet had he dared to hope.
The shortest way from Fermoy to Carrigabrick is by the banks of the
Blackwater, and this way, on Whitsunday, 1809, was taken by Mary Mahony
and a merry younger cousin of hers on their homeward route. There are
stiles to be crossed, and deep drains to be jumped over, and even a
pretty steep wall to be climbed.
Remmy Carroll, who knew that they would thus return home, had followed
the maidens afar off,--sighing to think, as they crossed the stiles,
with a world of gentle laughter, that he must not dare to think of
proffering them any assistance. With all his love--perhaps, indeed,
because of it--he had hitherto been careful to avoid the chance of even
a casual notice from the subject of his untold passion, _She_ was
wealthy, _he_ was poor; and, therefore, he shrunk from the object of his
unuttered passion. Her feelings towards him at this time were rather
kind than otherwise. She knew, what all the parish were unacquainted
with, that Remmy devoted the greater portion of his earnings, not only
to the support of a bed-ridden old aunt, who had neither kith nor
kin save himself in the wide world, but even to the procuring for her
what might be esteemed rather as luxuries than mere comforts. Whatever
might be the deficiencies in Remmy Carroll's wardrobe, his old aunt
never went without "the raking cup of tay" morning and evening. Was it
because she had noticed how carefully Remmy Carroll avoided her, that
the bright eyes of Mary Mahony rested upon him with some degree of
interest, and that she even liked to listen to and encourage her
father's praises of his conduct towards his aged relative, for whose
comfortable support he sacrificed dress--the natural vent for youthful
vanity in both sexes?
Mary and her merry cousin went on, through the fields, until they
reached the most difficult pass. This was a deep chasm separating two
meadows. A deep and rapid stream flowed through the abyss, whirlingly
pouring its strong current into the Blackwater. The maidens lightly and
laughingly tripped down the steps which were rudely cut on the side of
the chasm. It was but a quick, short jump across, Hark!--a sudden
shriek! He cleared the wall at a bound--he dashed across the meadow--in
one minute he was plunging down the abyss. He saw that Mary's cousin had
safely reached the other side, where she stood uselessly wringing her
hands, and screaming in an agony of despair, while Mary (precipitated
into the deep and swollen stream, her foot having slipped) was in the
act of being hurried into the eddies of the Blackwater. There was no
time for delay. He plunged into the stream, dived for the body, which
had just then sunk again, and, in less time than I have taken to tell
it, had placed his insensible but still lovely _treasure trove_ on the
bank which he just quitted. The other maiden no sooner saw that her
cousin had been rescued than--according to womanly custom in such cases,
I presume--_she_ immediately swooned away, leaving poor Remmy to take
care of Mary Mahony.
With the gentlest care he could employ, he exerted his best skill to
restore her, and, in a short time, had the inexpressible delight of
seeing her open her eyes. It was but for a moment; she glanced wildly
around, and again closed them. Soon the bloom returned to her cheek--and
now she felt, though she saw not, that she lay supported in the arms of
Remmy Carroll; for, as he leant over her, and her breathing came softly
and balmily upon his face, his lips involuntarily were pressed to hers,
and the maiden, through whose frame that stolen embrace thrilled, with a
new and bewildering sensation, might be forgiven, if, at that moment,
she intuitively knew who had thus brushed the dewy sweetness from her
lips; might be forgiven, if, from that epoch, there gushed into her
heart a feeling more kind, more deep, more pervading, than ordinary
gratitude.
By this time, the pretty cousin had thought proper to recover; nor has
it yet been accurately ascertained whether, indeed, she had or had not
beheld the oscular proceeding which I have mentioned. Now, however, she
hastened to pay the feminine attentions, more suitable to the situation
of a half-drowned young lady, than those which Remmy Carroll had
attempted to bestow. He had the satisfaction, however of carefully
taking Mary Mahony across the stream in his arms. Nay, before he
departed, she had softly whispered her gratitude; and in her tone and
manner, there was that which breathed hope to him, even against hope.
Though he quitted them, he loitered about while they remained in sight,
and just as Mary Mahony was vanishing through the stile which opened
into her father's lands, she turned round, saw her deliverer watching
her at a distance, and she kissed her hand to him as she withdrew.
From that hour the current of his life flowed on with a fresher
bound--the fountain of hope welled out its sparkling waters, for the
first time, from its depths. To the world--to no living soul, would he
have dared to avow his new-born feeling, that Mary Mahony might one day
be his own. Within his heart of hearts it lay, and with it was the
consciousness, that to win her he must merit her. _How_, he knew not;
but the resolve is much.
Three months glided on. Carroll continued to pursue his calling as a
music-maker, and not a wedding nor christening passed by, or,
indeed, could pass by, without the assistance of his "professional"
powers. But he now became what a young and gay Irishman seldom is--a
hoarder of his earnings. He laid aside much of the wild and reckless
mirth which had made him, despite his poverty, the king of good fellows.
Remmy was, in many respects, above the generality of his class; for he
had got a tolerably good education; he was quick at repartee, and not
without a certain manly grace of manner; his conversation was never
garnished with expletives; he had a good voice, and could sing with
considerable effect; he was an adept in fairy lore and romantic legends;
and he was accustomed to retail news from the newspapers to a wondering
auditory, so that the marvel was how he could be "such a janius
entirely." Hence his popularity with all classes. But now, as I have
said, he laid aside all mirth that might involve outlay. His manners
became sedate, almost grave,--nay, if we dared to apply such high words
to a man of such low degree as an Irish piper, it might be added, that a
certain degree of quiet dignity became blended with his speech and
actions. Like the wedding guest described by Coleridge, he seemed "a
sadder and a wiser man." Such a change could not pass unobserved, and
while one-half the circle of his acquaintance shook their heads, and
ominously whispered, "Sure the boy must be fairy-struck," the fairer
moiety suggested that the alteration must have been produced by
Love, though even their sagacity and observation failed to ascertain the
object of his passion.
Chapter III.
HOW THE PIPER GOT ON WITH MARY MAHONY.
The aim and the result of Remmy Carroll's newly-acquired habits of
economy and self-denial became evident, at length, when his appearance,
one Sunday, in the Chapel of Fermoy--it was the Old Chapel, with mud
walls and a thatched roof, which stood in that part of Cork Hill whence
now diverges the narrow passage called Waterloo Lane--caused a most
uncommon sensation. It was Remmy's first appearance, on any stage, in
the character of a country-beau. His ancient coat was put into Schedule
A (like certain pocket-boroughs in the Reform Bill), and was replaced by
a garment from the tasty hands of Dandy Cash, at that time the Stultz of
Fermoy and its vicinity. This was a broad-skirted coat of blue
broadcloth, delicately embellished with the brilliancy of shining gilt
buttons, each not much larger than a half-dollar. A vest of bright
yellow kerseymere, with a double-row of plump mother-of-pearl studs; a
new pair of closely-fitting unmentionables, with a liberal allowance of
drab ribbons pensile at the knees; gray worsted stockings, of the
rig-and-furrow sort, displaying the muscular calf and the arched instep;
neat pumps, with soles not quite half an inch thick, and the uppers made
"elegant" by the joint appliances of lampblack and grease (considered to
_nourish_ the leather much better than "Warren's jet blacking, the pride
of mankind");--a well-fitting shirt of fine bandle-linen, bleached to an
exquisite whiteness, and universally looked upon as a _noli me tangere_
of provincial buckism, with a silk _grinder_ "round his nate neck," and
a tall Carlisle hat, encircled with an inch-wide ribbon--such were the
component parts of Remmy Carroll's new costume. True it is, that he left
a little too much to the taste of Dandy Cash, the dogmatic and
singularly conceited Snip; but still, Nature had done so much for him
that he appeared quite a new man, the handsomest of the whole
congregation, gentle or simple, and many a bright glance fell upon him
admiringly, from eyes which had looked scorn at his chrysalis condition;
and not a few fair bosoms fluttered at the thought, "what a fine,
handsome, likely boy is Remmy Carroll, now that he is dressed dacent."
He was not the first man whose qualifications have remained
unacknowledged until such an accident as fine apparel has brought them
into notice.
Mary Mahony was at Chapel on that Sunday when Remmy Carroll shone out,
like the sun emerging from behind a rack of heavy clouds. A casual
looker-on might have fancied that she was one of the very few who did
_not_ mind Remmy Carroll. Indeed, she rather hung down her head, as she
passed him,--but that might have been to hide the blushes which suffused
her face when she met his eye. Her father, a kind-hearted man, who had a
cordial salute for every friend, insisted that they should not hurry
away without speaking to the piper. Accordingly, they loitered until
nearly all the congregation had left the chapel, and, among the last,
Remmy Carroll was quietly stealing away. Bartle Mahony accosted him,
with a hearty grasp of the hand, and warmly thanked him for having saved
Mary's life, adding, "It is not until now I'd be waiting to thank you,
man-alive, but Mary never let me know the danger she'd been in, until
this blessed morn, when her cousin, Nancy Doyle, made me sensible of the
ins and outs of the accident. But I _do_ thank you, Remmy, and 'twill go
hard with me if I don't find a better way of showing it than by words,
which are only breath, as one may say."
Then Bartle Mahony slapped Remmy on the back, in a familiar manner, and
insisted that he should walk home with them and take share of their
dinner. "Don't hang down your head like a girl, but tuck Mary under your
arm, and off to Carrigabrick, where I follow in less than no time, with
the heartiest of welcomes. Don't dawdle there, man-alive, like a goose,
but walk off like a man."
So through the town of Fermoy did Mary Mahony walk with Remmy
Carroll--down Cork Hill and King-street, and across the Square, and
along Artillery-quay, and by Skelhorne's paper-mill, and Reid's
flour-mill, and then, on the Inches, by the Blackwater. History has not
recorded whether Mary did actually take Remmy's arm--but it is
conjectured that he was too shy to offer it, deeming _that_ too great a
liberty--but it is said that it was she who took the field-route to
Carrigabrick, and, though she blushed deeply the while, she did not make
any very violent objection to his taking her in his arms across that
chasm, the passage of which, on a former day, had so nearly proved fatal
to her. If I said that, while performing this pleasant duty, Remmy
Carroll did _not_ press her to his heart, I am pretty sure that no one
would believe me. Well, then, there _was_ this gentle pressure, but of
course Mary Mahony believed he could not help it.--Do you think he
could?
They proceeded to Carrigabrick, but the short cut through the fields
proved the longest way round on this occasion. Bartle Mahony had reached
the house fully half an hour before they did, and yet he had gone by the
road, which, as every one knows, is nearly a mile round. They had
exchanged few words during their walk; it was not quite the lady's
place to make conversation, and Remmy's thoughts were all too deep for
utterance. In the earlier stage of love, passion is contemplative, and
silence often has an eloquence of its own.
Remmy Carroll had the good fortune to win the particular favor of Mr.
Bartle Mahony, who, as he was retiring to rest, kissed his fair child,
as usual, and emphatically declared that Remmy Carroll was "a real
decent fellow, and no humbug about him." He added, that as he had found
his way to their hearth, he must be a stranger no more. And it came to
pass, thenceforth, somehow or other, that Remmy paid a visit to
Carrigabrick twice or thrice a week. These visits were ostensibly to Mr.
Mahony, but it usually happened that Remmy had also a glimpse of Mary,
and sometimes a word or two with her. It came to pass that Bartle
Mahony, at length, fancied that a dull day in which he did not see his
friend Remmy. Finally, as by a great effort of ingenuity, and in order
to have a legitimate excuse for having his favorite frequently with him,
Bartle Mahony announced his sovereign will and pleasure that Mary should
learn music. Accordingly, when Remmy next came, he communicated this
intention to him in a very dignified manner, and appointed Remmy
forthwith to commence instructing her. But Remmy could play only upon
one instrument, and the pipes happen to be so unfeminine, that he
ventured to doubt whether the young lady would quite approve of the
proposition. Having hinted this difficulty to Bartle Mahony, that worthy
was impressed with its force, but, rather than relinquish his project,
declared that, all things considered, he thought it best that he himself
should be the musical tyro.
If the truth were known, it would have appeared that the poor man had no
desire to learn, and certainly no taste. But as Remmy Carroll, proud as
he was poor, had peremptorily refused the money offered as a substantial
mark of gratitude for having saved Mary Mahony's life, this was her
father's indirect and rather clumsy mode of rewarding him. Very
magnificent were the terms which he insisted on making with the piper:
he could have been taught flute, harp, violin, psaltery, sackbut, and
piano at less cost. Very little progress did the kind old man make, but
he laughed soonest and loudest at his own dulness and discords. However,
if the pupil did not make good use of his time, the teacher did. Before
the end of the first quarter, Mary Mahony had half confessed to her own
heart with what aptitude she had involuntarily taken lessons in the art
of love.
It would make a much longer story than I have the conscience to inflict
upon you, to tell how Mary Mahony came to fall in love with Remmy
Carroll--for fall in love she certainly did. Perhaps it was out of
gratitude. Perhaps it might have been his fine person and handsome
face. Perhaps, because she heard every girl of her acquaintance praise
him. Perhaps, because he was her father's favorite. Perhaps, because
they were so constantly thrown together, and he was the only young man
with whom she frequently associated. Perhaps she loved him, because she
could not help it. Why strive to find a reason for woman's love? It is
like a mighty river springing up one knows not where--augmented one
knows not how--ever sweeping onward, sometimes smoothly, sometimes in
awful rapids, and bearing on its deep and constant current, amid weeds
and flowers, rocks and sands, many a precious freight of hope and heart,
of life and love.
Fathers and husbands are so proverbially the very last to see the
progress which Love clandestinely makes under their roof, that it will
not be considered a special miracle, if Bartle Mahony noticed nothing of
the game which was in hand--hearts being trumps! Mary's merry cousin,
Nancy Doyle, quietly smiled at the flirtation, as "fine fun," but did
not seriously see why it should not end in a wedding, as Mary had
fortune enough for both.
Winter passed away, and Spring waved her flag of emerald over the
rejoicing world. Mary Mahony was walking in one of her father's meadows,
for Remmy Carroll was expected, and he was now--though she blushed with
a soft consciousness--the very pole-star of her constant thought. He
came up, and was welcomed with as sweet a smile as ever scattered
sunshine over the human heart. They walked side by side for a little
time, and then, when the continued silence became awkward, Remmy stated,
for the maiden's information, what she knew very well before, that it
was very fine weather.
"True for you, Remmy," answered she: "see how beautiful everything
looks. The sunbeams fall upon the meadow in a soft shower of light, and
make the very grass look glad."
"It _is_ beautiful," said Remmy, with a sigh, "but I have too heavy a
heart to look upon these things as you do."
"Surely," inquired Mary, "surely you've no real cause to say that? Have
you heard any bad news?"
"No cause!" and here the pent-up feelings of his heart found utterance:
"Is it no cause?--Oh, Mary dear--for you _are_ dear to me, and I may say
it now, for may be I may never be here to say it again--is it no cause
to have a heavy heart, when I have nobody in this wide world that I can
speak to about her that's the very life of my life, while I know that I
am nothing to her, but one that she sees to-day and will forget
to-morrow! Is it no cause, when I know that the little linnet that's now
singing on that bough, has as much chance of becoming an eagle, as I
have of being thought lovingly of by the one that I love? Haven't I
cause to be of a heavy heart, knowing that I would be regarded no more
than that little bird, if I were to try and fly beyond the state I'm in,
when I know that I am not many removes from a beggar, and have been for
months dreaming away as if I was your equal? You are kind and gentle,
and when I am far away, perhaps you may think that I would have tried to
deserve you if I could, and then think well of one who loves you better
than he loves himself. Oh, Mary Mahony! may God's blessing rest upon
you, and keep you from ever knowing what it is to love without hope."
Overcome by his emotion--aye, even to tears, which flowed down his
comely cheeks--poor Remmy suddenly stopped. Mary Mahony, surprised at
the unexpected but not quite unpleasing matter of his address, knew not,
for a brief space, what answer to make. But she was a woman--a young and
loving one--so she let her heart speak from its fulness.
"May-be," said she, with a blush, which made her look more beautiful
than ever,--"may-be, tis a foolish thing, Remmy, to love without
hoping;" and she looked at him with an expressive smile, which,
unfortunately, he was unable to distinguish through the tears which were
now chasing each other down his face, as round and nearly as large as
rosary-beads.
"It's of no use," he said, not perceiving the nature of her words; "it's
of no use trying to banish you from my mind. I've put a penance on
myself for daring to think of you, and it's all of no use. The more I
try not to think, the more I find my thoughts upon you. I try to forget
you, and as I walk in the fields, by day, you come into my mind, and
when I sleep at night you come into my dreams. Wherever I am, or
whatever I do, you are beside me, with a kind, sweet smile. Every
morning of my life, I make a promise to my heart that I will never again
come here to look upon that smile, far too sweet and too kind for such
as me, and yet my steps turn towards you before the day is done. But
it's all of no use. I must quit the place altogether. I will go for a
soldier, and if I am killed in battle, as I hope I may be, they will
find your name, Mary, written on my heart."
To a maid who loved as well as Mary Mahony did, there was a touching
pathos in the simple earnestness of this confession;--aye, and
eloquence, too, for surely truth is the living spirit of eloquence. How
long she might have been inclined to play the coquette I cannot resolve,
but the idea of her lover's leaving her put all _finesse_ to flight, and
she said, in a low tone, which yet found an echo, and made a memory in
his heart: "Remmy! dear Remmy, you must not leave me. If you go, my
heart goes with you, for I like you, poor as you are, better than the
richest lord in the land, with his own weight of gold and jewels on his
back."
What more she might have said puzzles conjecture--for these welcome
words were scarcely spoken, when all further speech was arrested by an
ardent kiss from Remmy. Oh! the first, fond kiss of mutual love! what is
there of earth with so much of the soft and gentle balm of heaven?
There they stood, by the ruins of that old castle, the world all forgot.
There they whispered, each to each, that deep passion with which they
had so long been heart-full. The maiden had gentle sighs and pleasant
tears--but these last, Remmy gallantly kissed away. Very wrong, no
doubt, for her to have permitted him to do so, and, in truth, she
sometimes exhibited a shadow of resistance. There was, in sooth,
"A world of whispers, mixed with low response,
Sweet, short, and broken, as divided strains
Of nightingales."
"And you won't think the worse of me, Remmy, for being so foolish as to
confess how I love you?"
"Is it me, life of my heart? not unless you say that it was foolish to
love _me_. Sure, they were the happiest words I ever heard."
"And you will love me always, even as now?"
"Ah, Mary, I see that you are joking now."
"And you won't go as a soldier?"
"Not I, darling; let those who have heavy hearts, and no hope, do that
same."
Much more, was spoken, no doubt. Very tender confessions and
confidences, in truth, which I care not to repeat, for such are of the
bright holidays of youth and love, and scarcely bear to be reported as
closely as an oration in the Senate, or a lawyer's harangue at Nisi
Prius, in a case of Breach of Promise. Such tender confessions and
confidences resemble those eastern flowers which have a sweet perfume on
the soil to which they are native, but lose the fragrance if you remove
them to another clime.
At last, with many a lingering "one word more," many a gentle pressure
of the hands, and several very decided symptoms, belonging to the genus
"kiss," in the sweet botany of love, Mary and Remmy parted. Happy,
sweetly and sadly happy (for deep love is meditative, rather than
joyful), Mary Mahony returned home. She hastened to that apartment
peculiarly called her own, threw herself on the bed, and indulged in the
luxury of tears, for it is not Sorrow alone that seeks relief in
tears,--they fall for hope fulfilled as truly, though less often, as for
hope deferred. Weep on, gentle girl, weep in joy, while you can. Close
at hand is the hour in which, ere you have done more than taste it, the
sparkling draught of happiness may be snatched from your lips.
CHAPTER IV.
HOW THE PIPER BECAME A PETRIFACTION.
Alike delighted and surprised at thus finding Mary Mahony a sharer in
the emotions which so wildly filled his own heart, Remmy Carroll
returned to Fermoy, in that particular mood which is best denoted by the
topsy-turvy description--"he did not know whether he stood upon his head
or his heels." He rested until evening at a friend's, and was not
unwilling to have some hours of quiet thought before he again committed
himself to commerce with the busy world. About dusk, he started with his
friend for a farmer's, on the Rathcormac side of Corran Thierna, where
there was to be a wedding that night, at which Remmy and his pipes would
be almost as indispensable as the priest and the bridegroom.
As they were passing on the mountain's base, taking the soft path on the
turf, as more pleasant than the dusty highway, a little lower down,
Remmy suddenly stopped.
"There's music somewhere about here," said he, listening.
"May-be it's only a singing in your head," observed Pat Minahan. I've
known such things, 'specially if one had been taking a drop extra
overnight."
"Hush!" said Remmy, "I hear it again as distinctly as ever I heard the
sound of my own pipes. There 'tis again: how it sinks and swells on the
evening breeze!"
Minahan paused and listened. "Sure enough, then, there is music in the
air. Oh, Remmy Carroll, 'tis you and the lucky boy, for this must be
fairy music, and 'tis said that whoever hears it first, as you did, is
surely born to good luck."
"Never mind the luck," said Remmy, with a laugh. "There's the fairy ring
above there, and I'll be bound that's the place it comes from. There's
fox-glove, you see, that makes night-caps for them; and there's
heath-bells that they have for drinking-cups; and there's sorrell that
they have for tables, when the mushrooms aren't in; and there's the
green grass within the ring, as smooth as your hand, and as soft as
velvet, for 'tis worn down by their little feet when they dance in the
clear light of the full moon. I am sure the music came from that
fairy-ring."
"May-be it does," replied Minahan, "and may-be it doesn't. If you
please, I'd rather move on, than stand here like a pillar of salt, for
'tis getting dark, and fairies aren't exactly the sort of people I'd
like to meet in a lonely place. 'Twas somewhere about here, if I
remember right, that Phil Connor, the piper, had a trial of skill with
the fairies, as to who'd play best, and they turned him into stone,
pipes and all. It happened, Remmy, before your father came to these
parts,--but, surely you heard of it before now?"
"Not I," said Remmy; "and if I did, I wouldn't heed it."
"Oh, then," said his companion, with an ominous shake of the head at
Remmy's incredulity, "it's all as true as that you're alive and kicking
at this blessed moment. I heard my mother tell it when I was a boy, and
she had the whole of it from her aunt's cousin's son, who learned the
ins and outs of the story from a faymale friend of his, who had it on
the very best authority. Phil Connor was a piper, and a mighty fine
player entirely. As he was coming home from a wedding at Rathcormac, one
fine moonshiny night, who should come right forenenst him, on this very
same mountain, but a whole bundle of the fairies, singing, and skipping,
and discoursing like any other Christians. So, they up and axed him, in
the civilest way they could, if he'd favor them with a planxty on his
pipes. Now, letting alone that Phil was as brave as a lion, and would
not mind facing even an angry woman, let alone a batch of
hop-o'-my-thumb fairies, he never had the heart to say no when he was
civilly axed to do anything.
"So Phil said he'd oblige them, with all the veins of his heart. With
that, he struck up that fine, ancient ould tune, 'The Fox-hunter's
Jig.' And, to be sure and sartain, Phil was the lad that could play:--no
offence to you, Remmy, who are to the fore. The moment the fairies heard
it, they all began to caper, and danced here and there, backward and
forward, to and fro, just like the motes you see dancing in the
sunbeams, between you and the light. At last, Phil stopped, all of a
sudden, and they gathered round him, the craturs, and asked him why he
did not go on? And he told them that 'twas dying with the drought he
was, and that he must have something to wet his whistle:--which same is
only fair, particularly as far as pipers is concerned.
"'To be sure,' said a knowledgeable ould fairy, that seemed king of them
all, 'it's but reasonable the boy is; get a cup to comfort him, the
dacent gossoon.' So they handed Phil one of the fairy's fingers full of
something that had a mighty pleasant smell, and they filled a hare-bell
cup of the same for the king. 'Take it, me man,' said the ould fairy,
'there isn't a headache in a hogshead of it. I warrant that a guager's
rod has never come near it. 'Twas made in Araglyn, out of mountain
barley,--none of your taxed Parliament stuff, but real Queen's 'lixir.'
Well, with that he drank to Phil, and Phil raised the little dawny
measure to his lips, and, though it was not the size of a thimble, he
drank at laste a pint of spirits from it, and when he took it away from
his lips, that I mightn't, if 'twasn't as full as 'twas at first.
Faith, it gave Phil the boldness of a lion, that it did, and made him so
that he'd do anything. And what was it the _omadhaun_ did, but challenge
the whole box and dice of the fairies to beat him at playing the pipes.
Some of them, which had tender hearts, advised him not to try. But the
more they tried to persuade him, the more he would not be persuaded. So,
as a wilful man must have his way, the fairies' piper came forward, and
took up the challenge. Phil and he played against each other until the
cock crew, when the lot all vanished into a cave, and whipped Phil away
with them. And, because they were downright mad, at last, that Phil
should play so much better than their own musicianer, they changed poor
Phil, out of spite, into a stone statute, which remains in the cave to
this very day. And that's what happened to Phil Connor and the fairies."
"You've made a pretty story of it," said Remmy; "it's only a pity it
isn't true."
"True!" responded Minahan, with tone and action of indignation. "What
have you to say again it? It's as true as Romilus and Ramus, or the
Irish Rogues and Rapparees, or the History of Reynard, the Fox, and
Reynardine, his son, or any other of the curious little books that
people do be reading--that is, them that _can_ read, for diversion's
sake, when they've got nothing else to do. I suppose you'll be saying
next, that fairies themselves ain't true? That I mightn't, Remmy, but
'twouldn't much surprise me in the laste, to hear you say, as Paddy
Sheehy, the schoolmaster, says, that the earth is round, like an orange,
and that people do be walking on the other side of it, with their heads
downwards, and their feet opposite to our feet!"
"And if I did say so?" inquired Remmy, who--thanks to his schooling from
the redoubtable Tim Daly--happened to know more of the Antipodes than
his companion.
"Faith, Remmy, if you did say so, I know one that would misbelieve you,
and that's my own self. For it stands to reason, all the world to a
Chany orange, that if people was walking on the other side of the world,
with their feet upwards and their heads down, they'd be sure to fall off
before one could say 'Jack Robinson.'"
To such admirable reasoning as this, Remmy Carroll saw it would be quite
useless to reply, so he allowed Minahan to rejoice in the advantage,
usually claimed by a female disputant, of having "the last word."
They proceeded to the farmer's, Minahan, as they went along,
volunteering a variety of particulars relative to the Petrified
Piper--indulging, indeed, in such minuteness of detail, that it might
have been taken for granted that he had, personally, seen and heard the
matters he described.
It is to be feared that Remmy Carroll was but a so-so listener. He had
no great faith in fairies, and his mind was just then preoccupied with
thoughts of his own darling Mary Mahony. At last, Minahan's conversation
ended, for they had reached the farmer's house, where Remmy and his
pipes received the very warmest of welcomes.
You need not fear that I have any intention of inflicting a description
of the marriage upon you. It is enough to say that the evening was one
of thorough enjoyment--Irish enjoyment, which is akin to a sort of
mirthful madness. Perhaps Remmy was the only person who did not
thoroughly enter into the _estro_ of the hour, for though successful
love may intoxicate the mind, it subdues even the highest spirits, and
embarrasses while it delights. There is the joy at the success--the
greater if it has been unexpected--but this is a joy more concentrated
than impulsive. Its seat is deep within the heart, and there it
luxuriates, but it does not breathe its secret to the world,--it keeps
its treasure all to itself, at first, a thing to be thought of and
exulted over privily. Love, when successful, has a compelling power
which subdues all other feelings. The causes which commonly move a man,
have little power when this master-passion fills the breast.
In compliance with the custom at all wedding-feasts in Ireland, the
company freely partook of the national nectar (by mortals called
whiskey-punch), which was as plenty as tea at an ancient maiden's
evening entertainment, where sally-lun and scandal are discussed
together, and a verdict is given, at one and the same time, upon
character and Souchong. Remmy, of course, imbibed a fair allowance of
that resistless and potent mixture, the boast of which is, that "there
is not a headache in a hogshead of it." Blame him not. The apostle of
Temperance had not then commenced his charitable crusade. How could
mortal man refuse the draught, brewed as it specially had been for him
by the blushing bride herself, who, taking a dainty sup out of the horn
which did duty for a tumbler, had the tempting gallantry to leave a kiss
behind--even as "rare Ben Jonson" recommends. What marvel, if, when so
many around him were rapidly passing the Rubicon of the cup, Remmy
should have taken his allowance like "a man and a brother"--no, like a
man and a piper,--particularly, when it is remembered that Love, as well
as Grief, is proverbially thirsty. Still, Remmy Carroll had not exceeded
the limits of sobriety. He had drank, but not to excess--for his failing
was not in that wise. And even if he had partaken too freely of the
charmed cup, it is doubtful whether, with strong passion and excited
feeling making a secret under-current in his mind on that evening, any
quantity of liquor could have sensibly affected him. There are occasions
when the emotions of the heart are so powerful as to render it almost
impossible for a man, even if he desired it, thus to steep his senses in
forgetfulness.
Remmy, therefore, was not "the worse for liquor"--although he certainly
had not refrained from it. Minahan, on the other hand, who was quite a
seasoned vessel, most buoyant in the ocean of free-drinking, and to whom
a skinful of strong liquor was quite a god-send, had speedily and easily
contrived to get into that pleasant state commonly called
"half-seas-over,"--that is, he was not actually tipsy, but merry and
agreeable; and as he insisted on returning to Fermoy, though he was
offered a bed in the barn, the trouble of escorting him devolved on
Remmy.
They left the house together, lovingly linked arm-in-arm, for Minahan
then had a tendency to zig-zag movements. The next day, Minahan was
found lying fast asleep, with a huge stone for his pillow, near the
footpath, at the base of Corran Thierna. It was noticed by one of those
who discovered him, that his feet were within the fairy-ring which Remmy
had observed on the preceding evening. But of Remmy himself there was no
trace. If the earth had swallowed him up, he could not have vanished
more completely. His pipes were found on the ground, near Minahan, and
this was all that remained of one who, so often and well, had waked
their soul of song.
The whole district became alarmed; for, independent of regret and
wonder, on account of Remmy's personal popularity, a serious thing in a
country district is the loss of its only Piper. At length, Father Tom
Barry, the parish priest of Fermoy, thought it only his duty to pay a
domiciliary visit to Minahan, to come at the real facts of the case, and
solve what was felt to be "a most mysterious mystery."
Minahan was found in bed. Grief for the sudden loss of his friend had
preyed so heavily upon his sensitive mind, that, ever since that fatal
night, he had been drowning sorrow--in whiskey. It was now the third day
since Remmy Carroll's disappearance; and when Father Tom entered the
house, he found Minahan sleeping off the combined effects of affliction
and _potheen_. He was awakened as soon as could be, and his first
exclamation was, "Oh, them fairies! them thieves of fairies!" It was
some time before he could comprehend the cause of Father Tom's visit,
but even when he did, his words still were, "Oh, them fairies! them
thieves of fairies! they beat Bannagher, and Bannagher beats the world!"
A growl from the priest, which, from lay lips, might have been mistaken
for an execration, awoke Minahan to his senses--not that he was ever
troubled with a superfluity of them. He testily declared his inability
to tell his story, except upon conditions. "My memory," said he, "is
just like an eel-skin, your Reverence. It don't stretch or become
properly limber until 'tis wetted." On this hint, Father Tom sent for a
supply of Tommy Walker;[5] and after summarily dispatching a noggin of
it, Minahan thus spoke:--
"'Twas Remmy and myself, your Reverence, that was meandering home
together, when, as bad luck would have it, nothing would do me, being
pretty-well-I-thank-you at that same time, but I must make a
commencement of discourse with Remmy about the fairy people: for, your
worship, I'd been telling him before, as we went to the wedding of Phil
Connor, who was transmographied into a stone statute. Well and good,
just as Remmy came right forenent the fairy-ring, says he, ''Faith, I
would not object myself to have a lilt with them!' No sooner had he said
the words, your honor, than up came the sweet music that we heard the
night before, and with that a thousand lights suddenly glanced up from
the fairy-ring, just as if 'twas an illumination for some great
victory. Then, the music playing all the while, myself and Remmy set our
good-looking ears to listen, and, quick as I'd swallow this glass of
whiskey--here's a good health to your Reverence!--a thousand dawny
creatures started up and began dancing jigs, as if there was quicksilver
in their heels. There they went, hither and thither, to and fro, far and
near, coursing about in all manner of ways, and making the earth tremble
beneath 'em, with the dint of their quickness. At last, your Reverence,
one of them came out of the ring, making a leg and a bow as genteel as
ould Lynch, the dancing-master, and said, 'Mister Carroll,' says he, 'if
you'd please to be agreeable, 'tis we'd like to foot it to your pipes
(and you should have seen the soothering wink the villain gave as he
said the words), 'for,' says he, ''tis ourselves have often heard tell
of your beautiful playing.' Then the weeny little mite of a fairy fixed
his little eyes upon Remmy, and, that I mightn't, if they did not shine
in his head like two coals of red fire, or a cat's eye under a blanket!
[5] At that time, the two great whiskey-distillers in Cork were
Thomas Walker and Thomas Wise,--respectively carrying on their
business in the South and North suburbs of the city. Both are
alluded to in Maginn's celebrated song, "Cork is the Aiden for you,
love, and me." The verse runs thus:--
"Take the road to Glanmire, the road to Blackrock, or The sweet
Boreemannah, to charm your eyes; If you doubt what is _Wise_, take
a dram of Tom Walker, And if you're a _Walker_, top off Tommy
Wise."
"'I'm no player for the likes of ye,' says Remmy, modest-like. But
they'd take no excuse, and they all gathered around him, and what with
sootherin' words, and bright looks, and little pushes, they complately
put their _comehether_ upon him, and coaxed him to play for them, and
then, the cajoling creatures! they fixed a big stone for a sate, and he
struck up _Garryowen_, sharp and quick, like shot through a holly-bush.
Then they all set to at the dancing, like the blessed Saint Vitus and
his cousins, and surely it was a beautiful sight to look at. The dawny
creatures worn't much bigger than your middle finger, and all nately
dressed in green clothes; with silk stockings and pumps, and
three-cocked hats upon their heads, and powdered wigs, and silk sashes
across their breasts, and swords by their sides about the size of a
broken needle. 'Faith, 'twas beautiful they footed it away, and
remarkable they looked.
"Well, your honor, _he_ was playing away like mad, and they were all
capering about, male and faymale, young and old, just like the French
who eat so many frogs that they do ever and always be dancing, when one
of the faymale fairies come up to Remmy's elbow, and said, in a voice
that was sweeter than any music, 'May-be, Mister Carroll, you'd be dry?'
Then Remmy looked at her a moment, till the faymale fairy hung down her
head, quite modest. 'Well,' says Remmy, 'you _are_ a nice little
creature, and no words about it!' She looked up at him, and her cheeks
got as red as a field-poppy, with delight at Remmy's praising her;--for
faymales, your Reverence, is faymales all the world over, and a little
blarney goes a great way with them, and makes them go on as smoothly as
a hall-door upon well-oiled hinges. Then, she asked him again if he did
not feel dry, and Remmy said he'd been to a wedding, and wasn't dry in
particular, but he'd just like to drink a good husband to her, and soon,
and many of them. So, she laughed, and blushed again, and handed him a
little morsel of a glass full of something that, I'll be bound for it,
was stronger, any how, than holy water. She kissed the little glass as
he took it, and he drank away, and when he was handing her back the
glass, his eyes danced in his head again, there was so much fire in
them. So, thinking that some of the same cordial would be good for my
own complaint, I calls out to Remmy to leave a drop for me. But, whoop!
no sooner had I said the words, than, all of a sudden, the whole tote of
them vanished away, Remmy throwing me his pipes, by way of keepsake, as
he dashed down through the earth with the rest of them. I dare say he
did not want to be bothered with the pipes, knowing that in the place he
was going to be could use those that Phil Connor had taken down before.
And that's all that I know of it."
Here Minahan, overpowered with grief and the fatigue of speaking,
perpetrated a deep sigh and a deeper draught, which exhausted the
remnant of the whiskey.
"But, Minahan," said Father Barry, "you certainly don't mean to pass off
this wild story for fact."
"But I _do_, your Reverence," said Minahan, rather testily. "Sure none
but myself was to the fore, and it only stands to reason that as one
piper wasn't enough for the fairies, they seduced Remmy Carroll away,
bad cess to 'em for that same. And, indeed, your worship, I dreamed that
I saw him last night, made up into a stone statute, like poor Phil
Connor; and sure there's great truth in dreams, entirely."
Father Barry, of course, did not believe one word of this extraordinary
story, but his parishioners did, and therefore he eschewed the heresy of
publicly doubting it. He contented himself with shaking his head,
somewhat after the grave fashion of a Chinese Mandarin in a grocer's
window, whenever this subject was alluded to, and this Burleigh
indication, as well as his silence, obtained for him an immense
reputation for wisdom.
There was one of his congregation who shared, to the full, the good
priest's disbelief of Minahan's "tough yarn" about the fairies. This was
Mary Mahony, who was convinced, whatever had befallen Remmy,--and her
fears anticipated even the worst,--that he had not fallen into the hands
of the fairies. Indeed, she was bold enough to doubt whether there were
such beings as fairies. These doubts, however, she kept to herself. Poor
thing! silently but sadly did she miss her lover. She said not one word
to any one of what had passed between them on the memorable day of his
disappearance. But that her cheek grew pale, and that melancholy gently
brooded in the deep quiet of her eyes, and that her voice, always low,
was now sad and soft as the mournful murmur of the widowed cushat-dove,
even vigilant observation could notice little difference in her. Not a
day passed without her father lamenting Remmy's absence, and when he
spoke approvingly of our vanished hero, tears would slowly gather in her
eyes, and her heart would swell with a sorrow all the deeper for
suppression. It was great consolation for her to find, now that he was
gone, how all lips praised the good qualities of Remmy Carroll. It is
pleasant to feel that one's love is not unworthily bestowed.
Meantime, the deportation of Remmy, by the fairies, became duly
accredited in Fermoy and its vicinity. If he had solely and wholly
vanished, it might have been attributed to what Horatio calls "a truant
disposition;" but his pipes were left behind him, circumstantial
evidence of Minahan's narrative. Mightily was this corroborated, a few
months after, when Gerald Barry, the priest's nephew, being out one day,
coursing on Corran Thierna, discovered a sort of cave, the entrance to
which had been concealed by the huge rock which lay close to the magic
circle of the fairies! His terrier had run into it, after a refractory
rabbit, who would not wait to be caught, and, from the length of his
stay, it was conjectured that the cave must be of immense extent. True
it is, that no one harbored the audacious thought of examining it; for
what mortal _could_ be so reckless as to venture into the stronghold of
the "good people,"--but the very fact of there being such a cavity under
the rock, dignified with the brevet-rank of a cavern, satisfied the
Fermoy folks that Remmy Carroll was within it, changed into a PETRIFIED
PIPER!
Some weeks later, Gerald Barry's dog again ran into the cave, and
remained there until the young man, unwilling to lose a capital terrier,
dug him out with his own hands; for neither love nor money could tempt
any one else to do such a fool-hardy exploit. He declared that the
mysterious cave was no cave, but only an old rabbit-burrow! All the old
women, in and out of petticoats, unanimously announced that it was clear
("as mud in a wineglass," no doubt), that the cave _had_ been there,
but that the fairies had changed the whole aspect of the place, to
prevent the discovery of their petrified victims; for, argued they, if
they could make men into marble statues, they certainly must possess the
minor power of making a cave look as insignificant as a rabbit-burrrow.
Logic, such as this, was sufficient to settle the mooted point, and then
it became a moral and physical certainty, in the Fermoy world, that Phil
Connor and Remmy Carroll were petrified inmates of the mountain cavern!
When, some eighteen months after this, it was Gerald Barry's ill-fortune
to break his collar-bone by a fall from his horse, in a steeple-chase,
there arose a general conviction, in the minds of all the Fermoy
believers in fairy-lore, that _this_ was a punishment inflicted upon him
by "the good people," for his impertinent intrusion into their peculiar
haunts.
CHAPTER V.
HOW IT ALL ENDED.
Slowly, but surely, does the tide of Time carry year after year into the
eternity of the Past. As wave chases wave to the shore, on which it
breaks--sometimes in a gentle and diffusing ripple, sometimes into
feathery foam, if it strike against a rock--so does year chase year away
into the memory of what has been. It is the same with empires and
villages, with the crowded haunts of men, and the humble huts wherein
the poor do vegetate. For each and for all, Time sweeps on; carrying on
its tide, amid many things of little value, some with which are linked
sweet and tender associations. To look back, even for a single year, and
contrast what _has been_ with what _is_! How mournful the retrospect, in
the generality of cases! Hopes fondly cherished, alleviating the actual
pains of life by the promise of an ideal improvement; day-dreams
indulged in, until they become fixed upon the mind, as if they were
realities; resolutions made, which the heart found it impossible to
carry into practice; sunny friendships in full luxuriance, which a few
hasty words, too quickly taken up, were to throw into shade, at once and
forever; love itself, which promised so much in its glorious spring,
grown cold and careless. Talk of the changes of a year!--look back, and
recollect what even a single day has given birth to; but, think not that
there is always change, or that all changes are for the worst. Sometimes
the bright hopes will have the glad fulfilment; the day-dreams, after
passing through the ordeal of expectation, which, when deferred, maketh
the heart sick, will be happily realized; the friendship on which we
relied will have gone through the trial, and have stood the test; the
love will have proved itself all that the heart had ventured to
anticipate, and have thrown upon the realities of life, an enduring
charm, mingling strength and softness, including in its magic circle,
endurance as strong as adamant, and tenderness which subdues even while
it sustains. Aye, life has its lights and shadows; and, in the circling
course of time and circumstance, the shadow of to-day glides gently on,
until it be lost in the sunshine of the morrow.
Let us return to our story. Imagine, if you please, that six years have
passed by since the mysterious and unforgotten disappearance of Remmy
Carroll, our very humble hero. Many changes have taken place, locally
and generally. Fermoy, rapidly rising into opulence, as the greatest
military depôt in Ireland, still kept a memory of Remmy Carroll. Death
had laid his icy hand upon Mr. Bartle Mahony, whose fair daughter, Mary,
had succeeded to his well-stocked farm and his prudent accumulations,
which, joined with her own possessions, made her comparatively wealthy.
But, in her, and in such as her, who derive their nobility from God,
fortune could make no change--except by enlarging the sphere of her
active virtues. In a very humble and unostentatious way, Mary Mahony was
the Lady Bountiful of the place. The blessings of the poor were hers.
Wherever distress was to be relieved--and Heaven knows that the mournful
instances were not a few--there did the quiet bounty of Mary Mahony
flow, scattering blessings around by that gentle personal expression of
feeling and sympathy, which the highly imaginative and excitable Irish
prize far more than the most liberal dole which mere Wealth can
haughtily bestow. Oh, that those who give, could know, or would pause to
think, how much rests on the manner of giving! Any hand can dispense the
mere _largesse_, which is called "Charity," but the voice, the glance,
the touch of hearted kindness soothes the mental pangs of the afflicted.
In Ireland, where there are countless calls upon benevolence, casual
relief has been demanded as a sort of _right_; but a kind word, a gentle
tone, a sympathizing look, makes the gift of double value. And where was
there ever kindness and gentleness to equal those exercised by Mary
Mahony? She had had her own experiences in sorrow, and was, therefore,
well qualified to yield to others that touching sympathy which most
forcibly awakens gratitude. She had suffered, and, therefore, she
sympathized.
Her beauty remained undimmed, but its character was somewhat changed. If
there was less of the fire of earlier days, there was more of
intellectual expression, the growth at once of her mind's development
into maturity, and of the sorrows which had chastened her, as well as of
the circumstances which had thrown her thoughts into contemplation. At
her age--she was barely three-and-twenty--it appears absurd to talk of
her loveliness having had its peach-like bloom impaired. As Wordsworth
says,
"She seemed a thing that could not feel
The touch of earthly years."
What the same true poet has said of that fair Lucy, who yet lives in his
exquisite lyric, might have been said, without any breach of truth, of
our own Mary Mahony:
"Then Nature said, 'A lovelier flower
On earth was never sown;
This child I to myself will take;
She shall be mine, and I will make
A lady of my own.'"
At first, after her father's death, when it was known in what a
prosperous state she had been left (and rumor, as usual, greatly
exaggerated the fact), she had been pestered with the addresses of
various persons who would have been happy to obtain a fair bride with
her goodly heritage, but it was soon found that she was not
matrimonially inclined, so, by degrees, they left her "maiden meditation
fancy-free." Among her suitors were a few who really were not influenced
by interested motives, and sought to win her, out of their admiration
for herself. Gently, but decidedly, they were repulsed, and many of
them, who were much above her in wealth and station, were proud to be
reckoned among her warm friends at a later period. It seemed as if she
could not have made an enemy--as if she could not awaken unkind feelings
in any mind. Even scandal never once thought of inventing stories about
her,--goodness and innocence were around her, like a panoply.
Mary Mahony remained true to the cherished passion of her youth. It
flowed on, a silent and deep stream. None knew what she felt. None were
aware of the arrow in her heart, and her pain was the intenser for its
concealment. So wholly unsuspected was her secret, that when,
immediately after her father's death, she received Remmy Carroll's
bed-ridden relative as an inmate at her own residence; people only
admired the charity which had led her to succour the helpless. No one
appeared to think, for they did not know, that Remmy could ever have
awakened an interest in her heart.
The destinies of Europe had been adjusted. The Imperial Eagle of France
had been struck down at Waterloo, when Napoleon and Wellington had met
and battled. After peace bad been proclaimed, the Ministry of the day
proceeded to reduce the war establishment, by disbanding the second
battalions of many regiments. The result was that some thousands of
ex-soldiers wended home. Very many of them were from Ireland, and came
back mere wrecks of manhood--for the casualties of battle, and the
certainties of sharp hospital practice, are only too successful in
removing such superfluities as arms and legs.
In the spring of 1816, two or three persons might have been seen walking
down the main street of Fermoy. If there could have existed any doubt as
to what they _had_ been, their measured walk and martial bearing would
have promptly removed it. They, indeed, were disabled soldiers. The
youngest might have numbered some eight-and-twenty years, and, though he
was _minus_ his left arm, few men could be found whose personal
appearance was superior to his own.
They passed on, unnoticed, as any other strangers might have passed on,
and found "choicest welcome" in a hostelrie, "for the accommodation of
man and beast," at the lower end of the town. What creature-comforts
they there partook of I am unable to enumerate, for the bill of fare, if
such a document ever existed in that neat but humble inn, has not been
preserved. The sun had nearly gone down, however, before any of the
peripatetic trio manifested any inclination towards locomotion. At last,
he, to whom I have more particularly drawn attention, told his
companions that he had some business in the town--some inquiries to
make--and would rejoin them in an hour or two at the latest. He might as
well have spoken to the wind, for they had walked that day from Cork (a
trifle of some eighteen Irish miles), and were already fast asleep on
the benches. Their companion wrapped himself up in a large military
cloak, lined with fur--whilom, in Russia, it had covered the iron-bound
shoulders of a captain in Napoleon's Old Guard. This completely
concealed his figure, and drawing his hat over his face, so as to shade
his features, he sallied forth, like Don Quixote, in search of
adventures.
When he reached the Sessions House, at the extremity of the town,
instead of pursuing the high road which leads to Lismore, he deviated to
the extreme left, crossed the meadow-bound by the papermill, and found
himself on the Inch, by that rapid branch of the Blackwater which has
been diverted from the main current for the use of the two
mills--illegally diverted, I think, for it renders the natural course of
the river a mere shallow, and prevents a navigation which might be
carried on with success and profit, from Fermoy, by Lismore, down to the
sea at Youghall.
Rapidly pressing forward, the Stranger soon came to the chasm which has
already been mentioned as that from which, some years since, Remmy
Carroll, the piper, had rescued Mary Mahony from drowning. He threw
himself, at listless length, on the sward by the gurgling stream, and
gazed, in silence, on the fair scene before him.
It was, indeed, a scene to delight the eye and charm the mind of any
beholder. Across the broad river were the rocks of Rathhely, clothed
here and there with larches and pines, those pleasant
evergreens--before him swept the deep and rapid waters--and, a little
lower down, like a stately sentinel over the fine country around, rose
the tall and precipitous rock, on which stood the ruins, proud in their
very decay, of the ancient castle of Carrigabrick,--one of the round,
lofty, lonely towers, whose origin and use have puzzled so many
antiquaries, from Ledwich and Vallancey, to Henry O'Brien and Thomas
Moore, George Petrie and Sir William Betham.
With an eager and yet a saddened spirit, the stranger gazed intently and
anxiously upon the scene, varied as it is picturesque, his mind drinking
in its quiet beauty--a scene upon which, in years long since departed,
my own boyhood loved to look. And now, in the softened effulgence of the
setting sun, and the silence of the hour, the place looked more like the
embodiment of a poet's dream, or a painter's glorious imagining, than
anything belonging to this every-day world of hard and cold reality.
The Stranger gazed upon the scene silently for a time, but his feelings
might thus be embod ed in words:--"It _is_ beautiful, and it is the
same; only, until I saw other places, praised for their beauty, I did
not know how beautiful were the dark river, and the quiet meadows, and
the ivy-covered rock, and the gray ruin. Change has heavily passed over
myself, but has lightly touched the fair Nature around me. Heaven knows
whether _she_ may not be changed also. I would rather be dead than hear
she was another's. The lips that my lips have kissed--the eyes that my
eyes have looked into--the hand that my hand has pressed--the form that
my arms have folded; that another should call them his--the very thought
of it almost maddens me. Or, she may be dead? I have not had the heart
to inquire. This suspense is the worst of all,--let me end it."
Thus he thought--perhaps the thoughts may have unconsciously shaped
themselves into words: but soliloquies may be thought as well as uttered
audibly. He rose from the damp sward, sprang across the chasm, proceeded
rapidly on, and in ten minutes was sitting on the stile, by which, in
other days, he had often parted from Mary Mahony--for, by this time, my
readers must have recognized Remmy Carroll in the Stranger.
How long he rested here, or with what anxious feelings he gazed upon the
house, just visible through the trees, I am not able to state,--but I
can easily imagine what a contention of hope and fear there must have
been in his heart. The apprehension of evil, however, was in the
ascendant, for, though two or three half-familiar faces passed him, he
could not summon courage to ask after Mary and her father. At last, he
determined to make full inquiries from the next person he saw.
The opportunity was speedily afforded. A female appeared, slowly
advancing up the path. Could it indeed be herself? She came nearer. One
glance, and he recognized her, the star of his spirit--bright, beaming,
and as beautiful as Memory and Fancy (the dove-winged ministers of Love)
had delighted to paint her, amid the darkness and perils of the Past.
He sprang forward to meet her. There was no recognition upon her part.
Nor was this very wonderful--though the lover of romance might expect,
as a matter of course, that, from pure sympathy, the maiden should have
instantly known who was before her. Years, which had passed so gently
over her, softening and mellowing her beauty, had bronzed his face, and
almost changed its very expression. The dark moustache and thick
whiskers, which he now wore, his altered appearance, his military
bearing,--all combined to make him very different from the rustic,
however comely, whom she had last seen six years before.
Seeing a stranger advance towards her, Mary paused. He accosted her,
with an inquiry whether Mr. Bartle Mahony was to be seen?
"He is dead," said she. "He has been dead nearly six years."
Carroll started back, for the unwelcome news chilled him, and the
well-remembered tones struck some of the most responsive chords of his
heart.
"I am grieved to hear of his death. I knew him once. He was kind to me
in former days, when kindness was of value, and I came to thank him now.
God's blessing on his soul! He was a good man." There was a slight
pause, and he resumed, "Perhaps you can tell me, young lady, whether his
daughter is alive, and where she may be seen? The trifles which I have
brought from foreign countries, to mark my recollection of his goodness
to me, perhaps she may accept?"
"You are speaking to her," said Mary.
"My little presents are in this parcel," said Remmy. "They are relics
from the field of battle. These silver-mounted pistols were given to me
by a French officer, whose life I saved,--this Cross of the Legion of
Honor was hastily plucked from the bosom of one of his dead comrades,
after a fierce charge at Waterloo. Take them:--I destined them for your
father from the moment they became mine."
He placed the parcel in her hand.--One question would bring hope or
despair. He feared to ask it. He drew closer, and, as composedly as he
could, whispered into her ear, "Are you married?"
The blood flushed up into Mary's face. She drew back, for his
questioning vexed her, and she wished to get rid of the inquisitive
stranger. She handed him back the parcel, and said, "I hope, sir, that
you do not mean to annoy or insult me? If you do, there are those within
call who can soon release me from your intrusion. I cannot retain the
presents which a mere stranger tells me were intended for my poor
father.--And, if I must answer your last question, I am _not_ married."
"Thank God!" was Carroll's earnest and involuntary exclamation.
People may talk as they please of the quick-sightedness of love. Mary
certainly had little of it, for she did _not_ recognize her lover, and,
turning round, prepared to return home. Carroll gently detained her, by
placing his hand upon her arm.
"I pray your pardon," said he, "but I may not have an opportunity of
again speaking to you, and I have a word to say about a person whom you
once knew, but have probably forgotten. There was a poor, worthless
young man, named Carroll, in this neighborhood a few years ago. He was a
weak creature, fool enough to love the very ground on which you trod,
and vain enough to think that you were not quite indifferent to him."
"I do not know," said Mary, with a flushed cheek, and flashing eyes,
"why you should continue to intrude your presence and your conversation
when you see that both are unpleasant to me. I do not know why you
should ask me questions which a sense of common decency would have
avoided. If I answer you now, it is that my silence may not appear to
sanction imputations upon one over whom, I fear, the grave has
closed--whom, be he alive or dead, it was no dishonor to have known and
have regarded. I did know this Carroll whom you name, but cannot imagine
how you, a stranger, can have learnt that I did. It was his misfortune
to have been poor, but he never was worthless, nor could have been."
"One word more," exclaimed Remmy, "but one more word. Remmy Carroll, so
long believed to have been dead, is alive and in health--after many
sufferings he returns home, poor as when he left it, rich in nothing but
an honest name. He comes back, a disabled soldier, and he dare not ask
whether, beautiful and wealthy as you are, you are the Mary Mahony of
other years, and love him still?"
Mary looked at him with intent anxiety. The color which emotion had sent
into her face paled, and then rushed back in a quickened life-tide,
mantling her very forehead. Even then she had not recognized her lover!
"If he be indeed returned," said she, in a voice so low that Remmy did
not know whether the words were addressed to him, or were the mere
impulse of her thought, involuntarily framed into utterance, "and if he
be the same in heart--the same frank and honest mind--the same true and
loving spirit--the same in his contempt of all that is bad, and his
reverence for whatever is good--his poverty is nothing, for _I_ have
wealth; and if his health be broken, I yet may soothe the pain I may not
cure. Tell me," said she, and the words came forth, this time, freely
spoken, as if she had determined to be satisfied and to act, "tell me,
you who seem to know him, though your description wrongs him, where has
Remmy Carroll been during all these long years? Why did he leave us? Why
did he not write to relieve the anxiety of those who cared for him?
Where is he now?"
What was the response? Softly and suddenly an arm wound itself around
that graceful form, warmly and lovingly fell a shower of kisses on the
coral beauty of those luxuriant lips.
Was she not angry--fiercely indignant? Did not her outraged feelings
manifest their anger? Was not her maidenly modesty in arms at the
liberty thus taken, and by a stranger? _This_ was the crowning
misconduct--did she not reprove it?
No! for, in tones which thrilled through her loving heart, Remmy Carroll
whispered "Mary!--my own, true, dear Mary!" In the struggle (for Mary
_did_ struggle at first) which immediately preceded these words, the
large cloak and the hat fell off, and then she recognized the forehead
and the eyes--then she knew him whom she had loved so well, and
mourned so long--then she threw her arms around his neck, in the very
abandonment of affection and delight--then she clung close and yet
closer to him, as if they never more must part--then, remembering how
she was yielding to the warm impulses of her nature, she hid her burning
face in his bosom, and then, when he embraced her again and again, she
could not find words to protest against the gentle deed.
Then, arm in arm, they walked into the house, and there Remmy's aged
relative, whose condition and sufferings had been so much improved and
alleviated by the kindness and bounty of Mary Mahony--simply because she
was Remmy's relative--was made happy by the presence of him over whom
she had shed so many bitter tears. Perhaps her happiness was augmented
by perceiving on what excellent terms the heiress and he were--perhaps
her eyes filled with pleasant tears, when Mary Mahony whispered into her
ear "Minny, he will stay with us now, forever, and will never leave us."
Perhaps, too, the whisper was not unheard by Remmy--and it would be a
difficult point to decide whether or not it were intended to reach _his_
ear, as well as Minny's. And then, all that both had to learn. There was
so much to be told on both sides. All that Carroll cared to know was
this--that he loved, and that his love was warmly returned. A thousand
times, that evening, and forever, did Mary exclaim against herself for
not having recognized him immediately, and a thousand times smilingly
aver, that, from his changed appearance and studied efforts at
concealment, the recognition was all but impossible. And then they sat
together, hand clasped in hand, eyes looking into eyes, until an hour
far into the night, talking of old times and present happiness, and
future hopes. And they spoke, too, of the good old man who had passed
away, in the fulness of years, into the far and better land. Old
memories were revived, brightened by new hopes. Oh, how happy they were!
it was the very luxury of love--the concentrated spirit of passion,
purified by suffering, and tried by absence--the repayment, in one brief
hour, for years of doubt, pain, and sorrow.
At last came the time to part; but with it came the certainty of a
speedy meeting. The next day, and day after day, until that arrived when
holiest rites made them man and wife, Remmy Carroll was to be found by
the side of his beloved Mary Mahony; and soon, when the news of his
return were noised about, crowds came to see him, and far and near was
spread the announcement that a wedding was on the _tapis_. General was
the surprise--general, too, the satisfaction, for the young people were
universal favorites, and time and circumstances had removed the
principal objections which even the worldly-minded might have raised to
the union of Mr. Bartle Mahony's daughter and heiress to one who, a few
years before, had occupied a position in society so much beneath her. It
was universally conceded that, in every sense, the match was extremely
suitable and proper; but Remmy and Mary did not require popular opinion
to sanctify their attachment. They were all in all to each other.
It is not to be supposed that Mary Mahony was allowed to continue
ignorant of the vicissitudes through which Remmy Carroll had passed. He
told his story, and
"She gave him for his tale a world of sighs."
It may be expected that of this tale some notice be here given. But, in
very truth, those who look for a romantic elucidation of the mysterious
disappearance, and prolonged absence, and unexpected return of Remmy
Carroll, will be greatly disappointed. The main incidents were simple
enough, and here they are.
It may be remembered that Remmy had acted as escort to Minahan, on their
return from that wedding at which the Piper had made his last
professional appearance. He had found some difficulty in piloting his
companion along the high road from Rathcormac to Fermoy; and, indeed,
when they reached the mountain, Minahan, in a fit of drunken obstinacy,
_would_ throw himself upon the heathy sward, where, in a few minutes,
he was fast in the gentle bonds of sleep. Remmy Carroll, having
accompanied him so far, did not like to leave him, and sat down beside
him to watch for his awakening, with the purpose, also, of seeing that
he fell into no mischief. But, after a time, from the combined
influences of the fresh air, want of rest, and what he had partaken at
the wedding, Remmy found himself quite unable to keep his eyes open. He
was conscious that sleep was creeping over him, and so, taking off his
pipes, for fear that he might injure them by lying upon them, he
carefully placed them upon the grass, beside him, and resigned himself
to slumber.
On awaking, he found--to his excessive amazement--that he was lying "on
the sunny side of a baggage-cart," with his head reposing on the lap of
a soldier's wife. In reply to his inquiries, he was recommended to take
it coolly, and, at any rate, not to make any noise until they reached
Glanmire, about four miles from Cork, to which city he was informed that
he was bound. "When the cavalcade of baggage-carts and soldiers reached
Glanmire, he was summarily acquainted with the novel information that he
had been duly enlisted as a recruit, and his informant--a
fierce-looking, hook-nosed, loud-voiced martinet of a Sergeant--asked
him to put his hand into his pocket, and _that_ would satisfy him that
he had regularly and irrevocably become attached to the military
service of "his Most Gracious Majesty King George the Third."
Accordingly, Remmy did as he was desired, and in the pocket as aforesaid
found a bright shilling, which certainly had not been there on the
previous night--more particularly, as tenpenny pieces were the current
coin in Ireland at the period. To Remmy's possession of the solitary
shilling, among a little handful of tenpenny and fivepenny pieces (the
sum-total realized by his performance at the wedding), the modern
Sergeant Kite triumphantly appealed in proof that he had been regularly
enlisted. It is needless to observe that, of this transaction, Remmy
Carroll--albeit the person chiefly concerned--had not the slightest
recollection. He appealed to one of the officers, and was told that, if
the Sergeant said he was enlisted, there could be no doubt of the fact,
and that his Majesty was fortunate in having obtained such a promising
recruit, as the regiment was on the eve of embarkation. His
remonstrances, and denials, and appeals, were in vain. The significant
hint was added, that death was the punishment usually awarded for
desertion. So, making a virtue of necessity--the more so, as he
perceived that he was so strongly and suspiciously watched that flight
would have been useless--he had no alternative but to proceed to Cork
with the regiment, as cheerfully as he could, and, in despite of
himself, as it were, was duly attested, magistrates not being very
particular in those days. To all his assertions, that he had not the
slightest recollection of having been enlisted, the reply was that, if
he could procure a substitute, they did not require his company--but to
do this was impossible.
In a few days, the regiment embarked for the Peninsula, and his friend,
the Sergeant, told him on the voyage, as an excellent joke, in what
manner they had trepanned him--namely, that, as the regiment was passing
by the mountain, early in the morning, en route for embarkation, one of
the officers who rode above the highway (for the road is literally cut
out of and into the hill) had noticed Remmy and Minahan asleep, and had
remarked what an admirable soldier the former would make; Minahan, it
seems, was thought nothing of, being, like Othello, "declined into the
vale of years." The remark was taken as a hint, and Remmy was removed,
even as he was, fast asleep, to one of the baggage-carts, with the least
possible delay. The details of the transaction had been executed by the
Sergeant, who chuckled over this narrative, piquing himself not a little
on the dexterity of the trick.
Carroll was unable to write to Mary Mahony, on account of what had
befallen him, being afraid of his letter falling into other hands than
her own. He did write to Minahan, in the hope that, in that circuitous
way, Mary might obtain a knowledge of his misadventure. The letter, if
ever posted, never came to hand, and thus, for more than six weary
years, Mary Mahony in particular, with the inhabitants of Fermoy in
general, was profoundly ignorant of Remmy's fate.
It was fortunate that Remmy was of that easy temperament which takes the
world as it finds it, readily accommodates itself to circumstances, and
wisely acts on the sensible aphorism, "what can't be cured must be
endured." While he bitterly lamented his enforced absence from the girl
of his heart--just at the crisis, too, when he learned that he occupied
an enviable position in her affections--he knew that all the regrets in
the world would not bring him one furlong nearer to her. He determined
to make the best of his situation. In a short time he even came to like
it. Good conduct, good temper, and his ability to read and write, soon
recommended him to his superiors, and obtained his promotion to the rank
of Sergeant. In this capacity, he contrived to save a sum of money,
which, in former years, he would have considered quite a treasure, and
which, at any rate, was sufficiently large as to warrant its possessor
against the imputation of fortune-hunting, should he return to Ireland,
find Mary Mahony unmarried, and pay his addresses to her.
When the short peace of 1814 was made, the regiment in which Remmy
served returned to England, and Remmy made application for his
discharge, and would have purchased it if he could not procure it by
other means. But immediately came the renewal of war, by the return of
Napoleon from Elba, and Remmy's regiment was one of the first to return
to the Continent. In the battle of Waterloo, Remmy received a severe
wound in the left arm, which rendered amputation necessary, after
prolonged and painful sufferings. At length, he was able to return to
England, with a handsome gratuity for his wound, and a respectable
pension, which, with what he had already picked up "in the wars," really
made him quite a man of independent means. His plea of poverty had been
only a _ruse_ to try the strength of the maiden's affection. But, in her
eyes, of much greater value than his hoard or his pension was a
testimonial of courage and character given him by his Colonel, and
especially countersigned by the Duke of Wellington, who had personally
noticed his conduct during the six years he had been in the service.
Great pride, be sure, had Carroll in handing over this precious document
to Mary Mahony. Many tears did she shed over the vicissitudes which had
earned it--but tears _will_ flow from bright eyes, when there is a
handsome lover at hand to kiss them off.
The wedding followed, in due course. _Such_ a wedding! that of Camacho
was a fool to it. Mr. and Mrs. Carroll, it is true, violated the usage
of Irish society (of their rank of life) by quitting the farm, on a
honeymoon excursion, shortly after Father Barry had united them "for
better, for worse," as it was fully expected that, according to the
immemorial custom among the extensive class which embraces all ranks
from the wealthy farmer to the poor peasant, the bride and bridegroom
should have presided at the nuptial feast, opened the post-prandial
festivities by leading off the dance, and finally gone through the
loosening the bride's garters, and be followed by the ceremonial of her
"throwing the stocking." But, except during the performance of the
nuptial service, the company at Carrigabrick farm saw little, on that
day of days, of either Remmy Carroll or his fair and faithful
helpmate. Enough, however, for the gay bachelors to admire the beauty
(now bright with happiness) of the bride, while the Waterloo medal and
the Waterloo wound of our hero won him favor in the eyes and from the
lips of all the womankind who were "on their promotion." Despite the
speedy flight of "the happy couple," the rites of hospitality were duly
celebrated in their homestead, and, indeed, a general holiday was kept
in the neighborhood. The warmth of Irish hearts had its effervescence on
that occasion, and it wished an infinity of joy to Remmy Carroll and his
bride.
About this time, Minahan's character for veracity fell into disrepute,
it being pretty clear that Remmy Carroll was anything but a
petrifaction--at least Mary Mahony's testimony would go a great way to
disprove _that_ imputation. But there ever are people who will
manfully maintain the superiority of the ideal over the real, and a few
of these, vegetating at Fermoy, used to shake their heads when Remmy
Carroll walked by, and, having said, all along, that, beyond all doubt,
some supernatural agency had removed our hero, think themselves somewhat
aggrieved in the unromantic commonplace explanation of his enforced
absence. To the hour of his death, Minahan was ready to say or swear
that _he_ had told no more than the truth--or an equivalent for the
truth--and was wont to appeal, when in his cups (which was whenever he
had anything to put into them), to Carroll's good fortune in proof of
the advantageous influence of fairy favor. He had a few
semi-converts--who believed that Remmy Carroll was as much petrified as
Phil Connor. Indeed, without any very remarkable development of the
organ of marvellousness, I think so too.
It but remains to add that, in due season, Mr. and Mrs. Carroll returned
to their farm. Remmy never more played the pipes save for his own
amusement (as the Marquis of Carrabas' cat caught mice), and he and his
wife lived happily together, after their many trials. One of their
family is settled in the State of New York, and doing well.
THE GERALDINE.
I.
A mournful wail, all sad and low, like the murmur which the breeze
On an Autumnal eve might make among the sere-leaved trees,--
Then a rapt silence, soul subdued; a listening silence there,
With earnest supplicating eyes, and hand-clasped hush of prayer.
Talk not of grief, till thou hast seen the tears which warriors shed,
Where the chief who led them on to fame lies almost of the Dead;
Where the eagle eye is dim and dull, and the eagle spirit cold;
Where fitfully and feebly throbs the heart which was so bold,--
Thou might'st have fancied grief like this, if ever it were thine,
To hear a minstrel sing the deeds of the valiant Geraldine.
II.
Where is that gallant name unknown? wherever Valour shone,
Wherever mightiest chiefs were named, the Geraldine was one;
Wherever Erin's banner waved, the Geraldine was there,
Winning honour from his prince's praise, and favor from the fair,--
But now his course is closing, for his final hour has come,
And, like a peaceful peasant, 'tis his hap to die at home.
The priest hath been to shrive him, and the leech hath been to tend,
And the old man, with a Christian heart, prepared to meet his end:
"It is God's will, the Abbot says, that, unlike to all my line,
I should die, not on the battle-field," said the gallant Geraldine.
III.
Within his tent the warrior lay, by his side his children three;
There was Thomas, with the haughty brow, the Lord of Offaley;
There was gentle Ina, wedded to proud Desmond's gallant son;
There was Richard, he the youngest born and best belovéd one.
Lord Thomas near his father stood, fair Ina wept apace,
Young Richard by the couch knelt down and hid his pale, sad face;
He would not that the common eye should gaze upon his woe,
Nor that how very much he mourned, his dying sire should know;--
But the old man said, "My youngest born, the deepest grief is thine,"
And then the pent-up tears rained fast on the face of Geraldine.
IV.
"Lead out my steed--the Arab barb, which lately, in Almaine,
I won in single combat, from a Moorish lord of Spain,--
And bring my faulchion hither, with its waved Damascene blade,
In temper true, and sharpness keen as ever armourer made.
Thou seest, my son, this faulchion keen, that war-horse from the plain,
Thou hearest thy father's voice, which none may ever hear again;
Thou art destined for the altar, for the service of the Lord,
But if thy spirit earthward tend, take thou the steed and sword.
Ill doth it hap, when human thoughts jostle with thoughts divine,
Steel armour, better than the stole, befits a Geraldine!"
V.
"My father, thou hast truly said:--this soaring spirit swells
Beyond those dreary living tombs--yon dark monastic cells.
The cold in heart and weak in hand may seek their pious gloom,
And mourn, too late, the hapless vow which cast them such a doom:
Give me the flashing faulchion and the fiery steed of war--
The shout--the blow--the onset quick where serried thousands are.
Thine eldest-born may claim and take thy lordships and thy land,
I ask no more than that bold steed, this good sword in my hand,
To win the fame that warriors win, and haply to entwine,
In other lands, some honours new round the name of Geraldine."
VI.
Flashed then into the Chieftain's eyes the light of other days,
And the pressure of the old man's hand spoke more than words of praise:
"So let it be, my youngest-born! thine be a warrior's life,
And may God safely speed thee through thy coming deeds of strife.
Take knighthood from thy father's sword, before his course be run,--
Be valiant, fortunate, and true; acquit thee as my son!
My harper here?--ere life depart, strike me some warlike strain;
Some song of my own battle-field I would hear once more again:
Unfurl the silken Sunburst[6] in the noontide's golden shine,
In death, even as in pride of life, let it wave o'er Geraldine!"
[6] "The Sunburst," says Moore, "was the fanciful name given by the
ancient Irish to the royal banner."
VII.
The banner fluttered in the breeze, the harper's strain went on,
A song it was of mighty deeds by the dying Chieftain done.
At first he listened calmly,--the strain grew bold and strong,--
Like things of life within his heart did Memory's quick thoughts throng:
Louder and stronger swelled the strain, like a river in its course;
From his couch the Chieftain started,--"To horse!" he cried, "to horse!"
And proudly, like a warrior, waved his sword above his head:
One onward step--one gurgling gasp--and the Chief is of the Dead!
The harper changed his strain to grief: the Coronach was thine,
Who died, as thou hadst lived, a Man, oh mighty Geraldine!
CAPTAIN ROCK.
CHAPTER I.
THE WAKE.
The year 1822 was remarkable for being what in Ireland was called "A
Whiteboy Year." Rents were only paid by compulsion. Tithes were not paid
at all. Wages were low. The price of food was high. The middleman system
had been on the increase, year after year, until the land and people
were crushed under it. The priests from the altar, and O'Connell, from
the tribune and through the press, earnestly argued the masses _not_ to
rebel, no matter how great the aggravation, how intense the despair, and
the advice had great weight in most instances. Many causes combined to
render the peasantry ripe for revolt.--As, on one side, there were not
wanting men able and willing to act as leaders in any popular movement;
so, on the other, there was no lack of Government spies to fan the
flame, to cajole the peasantry into breaches of the law, and to betray
those whom they thus had duped.
The discontented and disaffected were principally concentrated in my
native county of Limerick. From time to time, the military force in that
county had been augmented, until, at the particular period in question
(1822), there were several regiments of infantry, and at least one of
cavalry, on harassing duty. What between still-hunting (for the
manufacture of mountain-dew was then in full operation) and man-hunting,
the military had full occupation day and night. Various pretexts were
used, also, to weary the military, by putting them upon a false scent,
every now and then, so that the service was particularly severe and
fatiguing. Added to the military array was the Constabulary force,
introduced by the late Sir Robert (then Mr.) Peel, while Secretary for
Ireland, the members of which, after his name, have obtained the
_sobriquet_ of "Peelers." An active and efficient body of men these
Peelers were, and are, although the force, from its original
establishment, has been unpopular in Ireland--probably owing to its very
activity and efficiency. Be this as it may, it is undeniable that while
the bulk of the Irish people, of all classes, cordially have fraternized
with the soldiery, they have ever manifested a strong dislike to the
police. This unfriendly feeling, too, has sometimes been fostered by
many who, from their station, might be expected to entertain gratitude,
and exercise courtesy, towards these protectors of their lives and
property.
Whiteboyism continued to increase, notwithstanding the strong military
and police force poured into the district. Detachments of infantry were
quartered in almost every hamlet--the cavalry, called "here, there, and
everywhere," upon true and false alarms, were dreadfully overworked. At
last, as a necessary matter of protection, two or three Peelers were
quartered in almost every respectable country house in certain disturbed
baronies. The whole county was in a dreadful state of alarm, excitement,
and activity. The newspapers, of course, were filled with reports and
rumors of all kinds, and the Whiteboy doings in the South of Ireland had
even the honor of being spoken of, in no very complimentary terms, in
both Houses of Parliament.
These Whiteboy movements, although not confined to one part of the
county Limerick, were remarked as chiefly occurring on that side which
is bordered by the county Cork. In a little time, they might be said to
radiate from a particular district, spreading into what, from its
extent, has been called "The Yorkshire of Ireland." As they increased,
more troops were called in, to subdue insurrection and enforce order.
All this was in vain. A regular guerilla warfare began to prevail,
chiefly for the purpose of obtaining the arms of the military and
police.
It became no uncommon event for a sentry, at a country station, to be
quietly picked out by the steady hand and sure aim of a Whiteboy--the
shot which gave his death being at once the sole announcement and fatal
evidence of the tragic deed. The service thus became so desperate that
there arose an evident reluctance, on the part of the military, to
continue on such alarming and perilous duty. Desertions became frequent.
On the other hand, the police doggedly did their duty. Of a much higher
grade than the ordinary rank and file of the army--for no man was
allowed to enter or remain in the force without an excellent character
and a certain degree of education--they had a high estimate of their
duty, and a stubborn determination to perform it. They knew, also, that
the peasantry hated them, and that even the thankless gentry, whom they
protected, did not bear any affectionate regard for them.
The Rifle Brigade was on duty, in the disturbed district, at the time
which I have mentioned. The officer in command was Major Eeles, an
English port-drinking officer of the old school, who had fixed his own
quarters at The Grove (near Ballingarry,) formerly the seat of Colonel
Odell, the member for the county, and remarkable as being the father of
about twenty sons, by one wife. The most fatiguing and unpleasant office
which the soldiers had to perform was that of night-patrolling. The laws
of that time were harsh--indeed, like all other Coercion Acts, they had
been expressly framed to put down the disturbances--and provided that
the mere fact of a man's being found out of his house, between sunrise
and sunset, should be punishable with seven years' transportation. This
severe enactment put a great check, of course, upon nocturnal predatory
gatherings, but many an innocent man suffered from the harshness of the
law. A strong feeling of hostility arose against the Rifle corps, for
their activity in apprehending the suspected. This was greatly augmented
by what, under any circumstances, might be considered an "untoward
event." One of the peasantry had been met on the high road after dark,
and challenged by the patrol. Not giving a satisfactory answer, his
instant apprehension was ordered by the officer in command. Attempting
to escape, he was in the act of jumping across a deep drain which
divided the high-road from the bog, when a sergeant drew a pistol from
his belt and shot him on the spot.
The unfortunate man was _not_ a Whiteboy. On the contrary, he had
steadily resisted the solicitations of many neighbours who were. He had
seen better days, and had received rather a good education. Knowing the
peril of joining the illegal combinations, and daring the danger of
being considered lukewarm in what was called "the cause of his country,"
he had kept himself aloof from proceedings, which he did not approve of,
but scorned to betray. His family had been subjected, for months past,
to the severe privations which poverty causes everywhere, but
particularly in Ireland. His wife had been extremely ill, and on her
sudden change for the worse, his affection had naturally got the worse
of his personal fear, and he had ventured out, after dusk, to solicit
the aid of the nearest dispensary doctor, when, challenged by the
military, he sought safety in flight, and had met with his untimely fate
as I have described.
Those who know anything of the peculiar customs of the South of Ireland,
must be aware that the peasantry have especial delight in doing honor to
the dead. To celebrate a "wake" is, with them, a social duty. They
usually take that mode of testifying, in a merry mood, their grief for
the departed. The unfortunate victim of military impetuosity was carried
to the nearest public-house on the way-side, and when it was related how
he had lost his life, "curses not loud, but deep," most unequivocally
indicated the popular feeling that he was a murdered man. Nor was this
feeling mitigated by the "justifiable homicide" verdict of the Coroner's
jury.
Entertaining such opinions, it was not likely that his relatives and
friends would solicit as a favor, at the hands of his slayers, "leave to
keep the wake." They did not ask it. Perhaps they had little fear that,
in the present instance, their ancient and time-honoured custom would be
interfered with. Accordingly, they _took_ leave, and a numerous
concourse of the people assembled, after dusk, on the day of the
inquest, in the cabin of the deceased.
To one who loved the picturesque, the scene would have been interesting,
for it contained all variety of countenance, costume, and manner. But it
possessed an intenser and far deeper interest for him who had studied
the human heart, its passionate throes, its indignant feelings, its wild
energies, its strong convulsions, its lacerated affections. There lay
the corpse, a crucifix at its head and twelve mould candles on a table
at its feet. By the bedside knelt the widow--actually, by an unnatural
excitement, rendered temporarily convalescent by the sharp fact that she
had lost the husband of her heart. By the corpse, on the opposite side,
sat their only child, a lad of few years, apparently unconscious of the
extent of the calamity which thus early had orphaned him. A professional
Keener (like the "hired wailing women" of Scripture) was ranged on
either side of the deceased, awaiting a full audience for the similated
grief, and now and then muttering fragments of their intended Lament.
Around the humble apartment--for the peasant's cabin consisted of only a
single room--were ranges of stools, three deep, and here and there were
deal tables, on which were placed tobacco-pipes, and "the materials" for
the refreshment and enjoyment which, by a strange contrast with the
awful occasion which called them together, were considered
indispensable. Such a thing as a _dry_ Wake would indeed have been an
anomaly, there and then.
The friends of the dead man dropped in stealthily, and at intervals--for
there was some uncertainty whether the military would permit such an
assemblage. Before long the room was crowded, all fear of being
interfered with gradually vanished, and the party, albeit assembled on a
melancholy occasion, soon glided into conversation, smoking, and drink.
There was no merriment, however, for the circumstances under which they
met forbade it--so early in the night. Their conversation was in a
hushed tone. The comparative stillness every now and then became
positive when they noticed the voiceless sorrow of the poor widow, as,
pale and emaciated by suffering of mind and body, she knelt by the dead,
holding his clay-cold hand, and, her eyes fixed upon his comely face,
now pallid with the hue of mortality, and placid in repose as that of a
sleeping infant. At intervals, there rose the melancholy and eloquent
wail of the Keeners' wild poetry, in the native language of the
auditors, deeply impassioned, and full of the breathing indignation
which stirs men's minds to such a pitch of excitement that they come
forth from the listening fitted for almost any deed of daring.
The Keen told how the dead man had won the hearts of all who knew
him--how he had excelled his companions in the sports of youth and the
athletic exercises of manhood--how, at pattern, fair, or dance, he
still maintained his superiority--how his was the open heart and liberal
hand--how he had won his first love, the pride of their native village,
and married her--how, when a shadow fell upon their fortunes, that loved
one lightened, by sharing, the burthen, the struggle, and the
grief--how, amid the desolation, her gentle smile ever made a soft
sunshine in their home--how, a victim without a crime, he had fallen in
the noon of life--how there remained his young boy to remember, and, it
might be, one day to avenge his murder--how every man who was present
would protect and sustain the widow and the orphan of him whom they had
loved so well--and how, come it soon or late, a day would arrive when
expiation must be made for the foul deed which had sent an innocent man
to an untimely grave.
As the chief Keener chanted this Lament, in the expressive and
figurative language of their native Ireland, the hearts of her auditory
throbbed with deep and varying emotions--sorrow swelled into the deeper
sense of injury--wild indignation flushed the cheek of manhood--and hand
was clasped in hand with a fierce pressure, in well-understood pledge of
sorrow for the dead, hatred for his slayers, and stern resolve of
vengeance.
About ten o'clock, the door slowly opened, and a tall man, apparelled in
the loose great-coat, or _coat-ca-more_, which forms the principal dress
of the peasantry in that district, stood for some minutes on the
threshold, an interested but unobserved spectator. When he was
perceived, many rose to offer him a seat, which he declined, and soon
all voices joined in a common cry of "Welcome, Captain! A thousand and a
hundred thousand welcomes!"
The stranger returned the salutation cordially and briefly, and advanced
gravely and slowly to where the dead man lay. He gazed upon the face for
some time, and then, laying his hand on that cold, pallid brow, said, in
a tone of deep, concentrated feeling,--"Farewell, John Sheehan! Yours
has been a hard fate, but better than remains for us--to be hunted down,
like wild beasts, and sent, after the mockery of a trial, from the homes
of our fathers, to a far-off land, where even the slavery they doom us
to is better than the troubled life we linger in, from which caprice or
cruelty may hurry us in a moment. Farewell, then; but, by the bright
Heaven above us, and the green fields around, I swear to know no rest
until bitter vengeance be taken for this most wanton and barbarous
murther."
His cheek flushed--his eyes flashed--his frame trembled with strong
emotion as he sternly made this vow, and, when he ceased to speak, a
deep "Amen" was murmured all around by the eager-eyed men, who hung upon
his slightest word with as trusting and entire a faith as ever did the
followers of the Veiled Prophet upon the mystic revelations which
promised them glory upon earth, and eternal happiness in heaven! The
widow, roused from the abstraction of grief by this solemn and striking
incident, looked the thanks which she then had not voice to utter. When
the Stranger laid his hand on the orphan's head, and said: "He shall be
my care, and as I deal by him may God deal by me!" her long-repressed
tears gushed forth, in a strong hysteric agony, which was not subdued
until her child was placed within her earnest embrace, and kissed again
and again--with the widowed mother's solacing thought, there yet
remained one for whom to live.
Turning from the corpse, the Stranger took his seat among the humble but
loving people in that lowly cabin. He was of large mould, with a bold,
quick glance, and an air of intelligence superior to his apparent
station. It was singular that his appearance among them, while it
ardently awakened their respectful attention, had chilled and checked
the company. After a pause, one of them ventured to hint that the first
allowance of liquor had been drank out, so that "there did not remain an
eggshellful to drink the health of the Captain." There was a murmur of
applause at the remark. Thus encouraged, another ventured to suggest
that a fresh supply be provided, at the general expense of the
company--the gallantry of the men excepting the fair sex from any share
in the payment. The necessary amount was speedily collected, and a
supply of whiskey (which had not condescended to acknowledge the
reigning dynasty by any contribution to the excise duties) was procured
from the next _shebeen_--an unlicensed dépôt for the sale of "mountain
dew,"--and placed upon the table.
The stranger, who had appeared quite unobservant of this proceeding, and
who--on the principle that "silence gives consent"--had even been
supposed rather to sanction than condemn it, suddenly interrupted the
hilarious arrangements thus commenced. He started up and exclaimed--"Is
it thus, and always thus, that I am to find you?--the slaves and victims
of your besotted senses. Is there anything to be done? I look for the
man to do it, and find him sunk in drunkenness. Is a secret to be
kept?--it is blabbed on the highway, to the ruin of a good cause, by the
man who suffers drink to steal away his reason. When I lie down to
sleep, I can dream of ruin only, for this subtle devil can tempt the
truest into a traitor. And now, with the hour of triumph at hand--the
rich hope of vengeance near fulfilment--there is not a man among you,
bound to me as you are, heart and hand, soul and body, who would not
surrender the victory and the vengeance, if he were only allowed to
drink on until he had reduced himself to a level with the senseless
brute. Give me that liquor."
His command was instantly obeyed, for he had rare ascendancy over the
minds of those who acknowledged him as their leader. Dashing the
vessel violently on the hard earthen floor, he broke it, and every drop
of its contents--the "fire-water" of the American aborigines--was
spilled. "There," he cried, "who serves with me, must obey me. When a
deed is to be done, I _will_ have obedience. When the deed is
done--drink, if you will, and when you will. But when service is to be
performed, you _shall_ be sober."
Not a syllable of dissent--not a murmur of discontent fell from the lips
of those who heard him. Not a gesture--not a look--indicated anger at
what he had done.
"Mark me, my lads," he added. "I have arranged all beyond the chance of
defeat. I have contrived to turn the main strength of the soldiers on a
wrong scent four miles on the other side of Charleville. I have laid my
plans so that we cannot be disappointed, except through some fault of
our own. Let us on to Churchtown Barracks. The sergeant, by whose rash
and ready hand our friend has died, remains there with a handful of his
comrades. He was sent thither to escape us. Fools! as if, for those who
have a wrong to avenge, any spot can be too remote. Let us seize him,
and give him the doom he gave the innocent. If they resist, we can fire
the barracks, and burn them in their nest. But they will never be so mad
as to offer resistance to such a force as ours, when we tell that we
want only that one man. If they do--their blood be upon their own
heads. Who joins me? Who will follow to the cry of 'On to Churchtown?'
Now is the long-desired hour of revenge. Will any lag behind?"
Every man present repeated the cry--"On to Churchtown!" Some of the
women also joined in it.
The Whiteboys and their leader left the cabin. An ancient crone, almost
a reputed witch, and certainly known to be by far the oldest woman in
the district, hobbled after them as far as the door, and threw her shoe
after them--"for luck!"
Many a "God speed them" was breathed after that company of avengers by
young and fair women. What Lord Bacon has called "the wild justice of
revenge," and what America recognizes in the unseen but omnipotent
incarnation of Judge Lynch, was necessarily the rule of action when
injured Right took arms against tyrannic Might. Is it surprising that
such should be the case? If wrongdoers cannot always be rewarded, "each
according unto his works," within and by the law, why should not their
impunity be broken down by the rational sense of justice which abides in
the minds of men?
Forth on their mission, therefore, did the Whiteboys speed. Hurrying
across the bog, they reached a farm which was almost isolated amid the
black waste from which it had been indifferently reclaimed. They drew
muskets, pistols, and pikes from the turf-rick in which they had
been concealed. Some of them brought old swords, and scythe-blades
attached to pike-handles (very formidable weapons in the hands of
strong, angry men), from hiding-places in the bog itself. Stealthily,
and across by paths unknown to and inaccessible to the military, that
wild gang, "with whom Revenge was virtue," pushed forward for the attack
on Churchtown Barracks.