A good many years ago, somewhere on the southwestern coast of Wales,
there lived an honest fisherman, by the name of John Jenkins. The
Jenkinses are a very numerous and respectable family in Wales, and so
are the Joneses.
Mrs. Jenkins was a Jones, but she was not half so proud of her high and
vast family connections, as she was of her industrious, hardy husband,
and her pretty little daughter, Fanny.
When Fanny was a fortnight-old baby, the least, puny, little, pink
creature, wrapped in flannel, there came up a dreadful storm, and a
small London packet was wrecked on the coast, near her father's
cottage. The passengers were all lost except a little boy, about three
years of age, whom John Jenkins saved at the risk of his life. Two of
the crew escaped, but they could tell nothing of the child more than
that he came from Ireland, and was bound for London, with his nurse.
The boy could give no clear account of himself, but he wore round his
neck a gold locket, with arms engraved on it, and containing a lock of
black hair, twined with small pearls. So the fisherman concluded that
he must belong to some great family; and when they asked what was his
name, they expected to hear some prodigious great title, such as earl,
or marquis; but when he proudly answered, "Brian O'Neill," they could
make nothing of it--little knowing, simple folks as they were, that the
O'Neills were once kings and princes in Ireland. But that was in the
old, old time; great changes have taken place since, and there are a
few O'Neills quite in common life nowadays.
John Jenkins did all that lay in his power to find the parents and home
of the child--but he was poor and ignorant--the lord of the manor was a
little boy, at school, and the steward could not or would not help him;
so, his efforts all proving useless, he adopted Brian, and brought him
up as his son, giving him a tolerably good education, and training him
for his own honest calling.
O'Neill grew into a fine, hearty, brave lad,--not at all conceited or
haughty in his ways, though he was proud, he scarcely knew why, of his
Irish name,--always treasured up his locket of gold, and often declared
that he could remember the head from which that hair was cut--his
mother's--and how he had seen it shut away under the coffin-lid, the
very day that his nurse set out with him for London. He said, too,
that he could remember his home; a grand old castle, near a lake, and a
great park, and a little cottage, where his foster-mother lived, and
his foster-father, a terrible man, who used to get drunk and break
things; and how once, when running away from him, he fell and cut his
head. Here Brian always lifted the hair off his forehead, and, sure
enough, there was a scar quite plain to be seen.
Fanny Jenkins grew up into a good and beautiful girl, and it seemed
very natural that she and young O'Neill should love one another, and
when they married and set up for themselves nobody objected. Indeed,
so much were they beloved, that all who were able, helped them, and
those who had nothing to give, wished them well and smiled on their
courageous love, and so did them more good than they thought.
The lord of the manor built them a beautiful cottage by the sea, with
long narrow windows and turrets, almost like a castle; and the Lord of
lords blessed them and prospered them, and in due time gave them a
little son, whom they called Brian Patrick Jenkins Jones O'Neill, and
who was just the brightest, best, and most beautiful baby ever
beheld,--at least Fanny thought so, and surely mothers are the best
judges of babies.
They lived a very happy life, that humble little family. Every morning
early the young fisherman went out in his pretty boat, the "Fanny
Jenkins," for his day's toil and adventure, leaving his cheerful little
wife at her work--spinning, sewing, or caring for the child; and every
night, when he returned tired and hungry, as fishermen often are, and
found a tidy home, a smiling wife, a crowing baby and a hearty meal
awaiting him, he thought and said, that he was just the happiest
O'Neill in all the world.
In tempestuous weather Fanny suffered a great deal from anxiety for her
brave husband, who would always put out to sea, unless the storm was
very serious indeed.
At length, one lowering day in September, when he was far out of sight
of home, a sudden squall came up, which deepened into a tempest as the
day wore on.
With anxious heart and tearful eyes poor Fanny watched through the
gloomy sunset, for his coming,--half longing, half fearing to see his
frail vessel driven toward the land on such an angry sea.
But the day and night passed, and he did not come. The next four or
five days were dark and stormy; there were several wrecks upon the
coast, and Brian was given up for lost by all but his wife. She still
kept up a good heart and would not despair.
At last the storm ceased, the sea grew smooth, the skies smiled, and
all looked cheerful again, save where along the wild shore fragments of
wrecks came drifting in, and the people were burying the drowned.
At the close of a beautiful day, a week from the time that Brian
O'Neill left his home, his wife sat in front of the cottage, with her
baby asleep upon her lap. Her brave heart was failing her now; she
grew tired of her sad, vain gazing out toward the west, and bowing her
head on her hands, wept till the tears trickled through her fingers and
dropped on the sleeping face before her.
So she sat a long time, weeping and praying, and calling her babe a
"poor fatherless boy," when suddenly, the child smiled out of sleep and
started up, calling "Papa!" Fanny sprung to her feet, almost hoping
that her Brian was by her side. No, he was not there; but, oh, joy! a
little way out to sea, between her and the sunset glory, came a dear
familiar object--her aquatic namesake--_the boat_! Swiftly it came
o'er the bright waters, joyfully dancing toward its home! Soon a
beloved form was seen waving a shining sailor's hat; soon a beloved
voice was heard calling her name, and soon, though it seemed an age to
her, Brian O'Neill, with his oars and nets over his shoulder, as though
he had only been absent for a day's fishing, sprang up the steps before
the cottage and clasped his wife and child to his honest heart! Fanny
laughed and wept and thanked God, the baby crowed and pulled his
father's whiskers, and all were happier than I can tell.
In the evening, when his parents and the neighbors were in, to rejoice
over his return, Brian told the story of his adventures.
When that dreadful storm came up, he would have been lost, had he not
been near a large vessel which took up both him and his boat. This
ship was bound to a northern Irish port, and as the storm continued, he
was obliged to make the whole voyage. At B----, while he was waiting
for fair weather, he looked about him a little, to see the country; and
now comes the wonderful, romantic part of his story. On visiting an
old and somewhat dilapidated castle, in the neighborhood of the town,
he instantly recognized it as the home of his infancy; and walking
straight through the park, he found the cottage of his foster-mother
and the dear old woman herself--who didn't believe in him at first,
because he was a great weather-beaten sailor, instead of the fair baby
she had nursed. But when Brian lifted his hair and showed the scar,
she was convinced and rejoiced exceedingly. Then she told him how his
father, Sir Patrick O'Neill died when he was a mere baby, and left him
to the guardianship of an uncle who proved to be a bad man. So when
Lady O'Neill was dying, she made her nurse promise to take the child to
her sister, in London, to have him brought up away from that wicked
man. When the news came of the wreck of the "Erin," and the loss of
all on board, this uncle went into mourning for six months--but his
tenants were always in mourning, for he proved a very hard landlord.
Brian laid no claim then to his title and estate, but as soon as the
sea was calm, went home to ask his wife's advice, like a sensible man
and a good husband.
He and Fanny had often said that they did not envy the rich and great;
but now, considering that the false baronet was so bad a man, and his
tenantry so oppressed, they really thought it their duty to make an
effort for rank and fortune.
Well, after a long time, Brian got his rights, by the help of a great
lawyer, who took half the property in payment for his services. So he
became Sir Brian O'Neill, the master of a dreary old castle and no end
of bogs and potatoe patches, and Fanny became "Her Leddyship, God bless
her!" as the peasants used to say.
For a long time they found it rather awkward and tiresome to be grand
and idle, like other great folks; so much so, that for several years
they used to go over to Wales in the fishing season, and live in the
cottage by the sea, and Sir Brian would go out fishing every day, and
Lady Fanny would spin and sew and take care of the baby, just in the
old way. Living thus, they were happiest--but they were always happy
and good--they lived to be very old, and died on the same day and were
buried in the same grave.
Their great great-grandson, Sir Algernon O'Neill, is fond of the water,
too; but he takes to it in a splendid yacht, called the "Fanny
Ellsler," with his delicate wife, the Lady Ginevra, who abhors the sea,
and gets dreadfully sick always, but _will_ take cruises, because the
sea air is good for the little O'Neills, _she_ says,--because Queen
Victoria has set the fashion, some people say.
Dublin, Howth.