The county of Antrim is not only one of the most picturesque, but most
prosperous in all Ireland. It is also remarkable for being entirely
surrounded by water--by the ocean, Lough Neagh, and the rivers Bann and
Lagan. In this county vast quantities of flax are raised and
manufactured into linen---chiefly at Belfast, the handsomest and most
important commercial town in the north of Ireland.
Belfast is particularly dear to me as a place where I spent many
pleasant days, with some warm-hearted Irish friends, whose constant
kindness and affectionate care made me feel as though my long voyage
across the stormy sea was only a troubled dream, and that I was still
at home, surrounded by the dear ones I had loved and clung to always.
In sight of this town is a large hill, which is remarkable for
presenting at a particular point of view, a most gigantic likeness to
the first Napoleon. Certain swells and ledges of the summit form the
great profile very distinctly. He seems to be lying on his back,
asleep, or in a meditative mood, and the face has such a dejected,
melancholy look that one might suppose the likeness had been taken when
the Emperor was a prisoner at St. Helena. There was one of the
Bonapartes at Belfast, at the time I was there--attending the meeting
of the British Association, a celebrated scientific society. This was
Lucien, Prince of Canino, a grand-nephew of the Emperor. He recognized
the likeness in the great rocky profile, when it was pointed out to
him, and professed to be a good deal affected by it, and many people
saw a strong family likeness between him and the old hill. This
Bonaparte, unlike most princes, is fond of learning and science--is
what is called a _savant_--but unlike most _savants_, he is stout and
jovial-looking, and extremely fond of children, which is the best thing
I can say for him.
Near Belfast is a famous "Druidical circle," or a large amphitheatre,
enclosed by high mounds of earth, where the ancient Druids used to meet
for their heathen worship. As we stood in that great circle, beside a
rude altar of stones, it made us shudder to think that hundreds of
human beings had probably been cruelly sacrificed there as offerings to
the gods of the Druids. What a happy, blessed thing it is to know that
such dreadful crimes can never again be committed here, under the name
of religion.
I should like to tell you about some of the admirable charitable
institutions of Belfast--in which I became interested--and describe
some of the beautiful scenery of the neighborhood, but I have so many
things and places to speak of in this chapter, that I must not allow
myself to linger longer here.
While at Belfast, we made a delightful excursion to Shane's Castle, the
seat of Lord O'Neil.
The O'Neils were for many centuries kings of Ulster, and were a very
proud and warlike race. There is a curious tradition of the manner in
which they came into possession of their kingdom: "In an ancient
expedition for the conquest of Ireland, the leader declared that
whoever of his followers should first touch the shore, should possess
the territory. One of them, the founder of the O'Neils, seeing that
another boat was likely to reach the land before him, seized an axe and
with it cut off his left hand, which he flung on shore, and so, was the
first to 'touch' it."
Shane's Castle and the O'Neil estate are situated upon Lough Neagh, the
largest lake in Great Britain. There is a legend that this sheet of
water covers land that was once cultivated--cottages, castles, and even
villages. The peasants say that there was once a well in the midst of
this country--an enchanted well--which was always kept covered with a
heavy stone, lest its waters should rise and overwhelm the land. One
day, a careless woman went to this well to get water to boil her
potatoes in, and hearing her baby cry, ran home without waiting to
cover the well--which presently began to leap up in a great column,
like a water-spout of an under-ground sea--and poured out so fast and
furious, that before many hours the whole valley was overflowed, and
that night, the moon smiled to see herself reflected in a new lake.
On our route from Belfast to the Giant's Causeway, we passed through
several towns, of little importance now, though of some historical
note--such as Carrickfergus, Larne, and Glenarm. This last is a
beautifully situated town, with a pleasant little bay, which usually
affords a safe shelter for shipping on a coast somewhat renowned for
wrecks and disasters. Here is a fine castle--the seat of the ancient
family of the MacDonnels--Earls of Antrim.
Scarcely any thing in the world can be grander or more beautiful than
the coast road all the way from Glenarm to the Giant's Causeway. It is
altogether too fine to be described--it should be painted, not written
about.
One of the grandest points in the scenery is the great promontory of
Benmore, or Fairhead. From the sea it rises an immense precipice,
formed of a multitude of enormous basaltic columns, at the highest
point more than five hundred feet above the water.
We reached the Causeway late in the evening--so hungry and tired that
we were very glad to get our supper and go to bed, without putting our
heads out of doors. In the morning early we engaged a guide, and set
out on our tour of sight-seeing.
The Causeway is formed by a vast collection of rocky columns--mostly as
regular in shape as though cut by masonry--five-sided, six-sided, seven
or eight-sided--piled and packed together, varying much in height, but
little in size. Some form a floor almost as even as a city
pavement--some form gradual steps leading down to the sea--and some
tower upward, like spires and turrets.
There is a very singular collection of these columns on the side of the
highest cliff, a hundred and twenty feet in height, called "the Giant's
Organ," from their resemblance to the pipes of that instrument.
According to tradition, the mighty Giant, Fin Mac Cual, was musical in
his taste, and used to give himself "a little innocent divarsion" here,
after his hard labors in building the Causeway. Even now, when the sea
roars, and the deep thunder rolls along the rocky coast, they say--"the
giant is playing on his big stone organ under the cliff."
Sometimes they say,--"Listen to Fin, now!--he's at his avening
devotions--Heaven help us, an' him, poor cratur!" and then they cross
themselves, for Fin was but a miserable heathen, and can have no part
now, they think, in the true church.
By the way, I was told while here, a ludicrous little anecdote of the
great Fin, from which it seems that he was not, after all, quite as
brave as a giant should be. It is said that when he had finished the
Causeway, he went up on a high point and shouted across the channel to
the Scotch Giant, Benandonner, to come over and fight him, if he dared.
Bold Benandonner accepted the challenge, and began to wade
across--threatening and bullying his Irish enemy. As he drew near, he
seemed to grow so much bigger, that Fin got frightened, and turned and
ran into his house, which stood near the cliff.
"What's the matter, Fin?" said his wife, who saw what a tremble he was
in, and how pale he looked.
"Ah, my darling," said he, "there's big Benandonner coming over to have
a fight--and as I'm not very well to-day, I don't like to meet him."
Now, Mrs. Mac Cual was really very much ashamed of her husband for
being such a booby; but like the good wife she was, she kept her
contempt to herself, just then, and told him to lie down in the cradle,
and keep quiet, and she would attend to the Scotch Giant. Fin did as
he was bid--his wife covered him up in the cradle, and commenced
rocking and singing to him. Presently, Benandonner came stamping and
storming in, and asked for "that rascal, Fin Mac Cual."
"If you'll please sit down and rock my baby a minute--I'll go and look
for him," said Mrs. Mac Cual. Benandonner looked down into the cradle,
and seeing that enormous giant lying there, with his feet hanging over
the foot-board, thought to himself, "if Fin's baby is so big, what must
Fin himself be!"--and became so frightened that he turned and hurried
back home, much quicker than he came. It is a foolish little
tradition, but I have related it as a specimen of the stories which are
told to amuse the children of Irish peasants.
There are two caves near the Causeway, which are entered from the sea.
Our visits to these were the most interesting and exciting incidents of
the day. Though the waves ran high, our skilful boatmen rowed us
safely in--and though the roar of the sea and the reverberation of some
fire-arms discharged by the guides, were rather awful, we certainly
enjoyed the sight of those ocean temples, gloomy, rude, and jagged
though they were.
From the Causeway we went to Dunluce Castle--a grand old ruin, which
stands on an insulated rock, a hundred feet above the sea. It is
separated from the land by a chasm twenty feet wide, which is crossed
by an arch only about eighteen inches broad.
This castle was once the stronghold of a very powerful, proud, and
warlike family--the Mac Donnels. They had a whole regiment of
retainers; they had their bard, an elderly gentleman, with a long white
beard, who spent most of his time in singing songs in praise of their
glory and great exploits, to the music of a rude harp--and they had
their Banshee, who occupied a choice apartment in one of the turrets,
and doubtless howled as seldom as possible. But all this glory has
passed away, and now, the rooks and sea-birds have the famous old
castle all to themselves--wheel fearlessly about the lofty black
precipices, and scream back the shrillest shriek of the storm-winds.
Now, no bard, however poor, ever visits that once hospitable hall, to
"sing for his supper," and even the gloomy Banshee has retired from her
turret in disgust.
A branch of the Mac Donnels clung to the haunted, dilapidated, old
castle as long as possible, to keep up the family credit, I suppose.
It was within this century, I think, that a frightful accident
happened, which drove the last of them away. In a terrible storm, one
winter afternoon, the part of the castle containing the kitchen was
blown down, and tumbled over the precipice into the sea, with the
family stores of meat and potatoes, and Biddy, the cook, who was
preparing dinner, and Teddy, the little scullion, who was turning the
spit. The Mac Donnels, for all their pride, were shocked and afflicted
by this misfortune,--for Biddy was an excellent cook, and Teddy, her
son, though careless and lazy, and given to little thefts and large
stories, had his good points, as what Irish boy has not. So they, the
Mac Donnels, sought out some other home,--safer and more comfortable,
if not quite so grand in its isolated, ancient gentility,--and it may
be, took the Banshee with them for their comfort. Trouble, I believe,
always goes with people in this world, wherever they move to,--in some
form or other, it travels with them, and settles down with them,--as
sorrow, ill-luck, disease, disgrace, discontent, fear, or remorse,--and
if we may credit Irish traditions, the old nobility and gentry had to
endure howling Banshees in addition. No wonder they wasted away under
their aristocratic infliction.
In my story, I shall make bold to turn my back on the Causeway, Dunluce
Castle, the Mac Donnels, Banshees, and all,--return to the beautiful
neighborhood of Glenarm, and relate a little incident in the lives of
some humble peasant people there.