[Illustration: Initial: "How the Lakes were made"]
Among the weird legends of the Irish peasantry is found a class of stories
peculiar both in the nature of the subject and in the character of the
tradition. From the dawn of history, and even before, the island has been
crowded with inhabitants, and as the centres of population changed, towns
and cities were deserted and fell into ruins. Although no longer
inhabited, their sites are by no means unknown or forgotten, but in many
localities where now appear only irregular heaps of earth and stones to
which the archaeologist sometimes finds difficulty in attributing an
artificial origin there linger among the common people tales of the city
that once stood on the spot; of its walls, its castles, its palaces, its
temples, and the pompous worship of the deities there adored. Just as, in
Palestine, the identification of Bible localities has, m many instances,
been made complete by the preservation among the Bedouins of the
Scriptural names, so, in Ireland, the cities of pagan times are now being
located through the traditions of the humble tillers of the soil, who
transmit from father to son the place-names handed down for untold
generations.
Instances are so abundant as to defy enumeration, but a most notable one
is Tara, the greatest as it was the holiest city of pagan Ireland. Now it
is a group of irregular mounds that the casual observer would readily
mistake for natural hills, but for ages the name clung to the place until
at last the attention of antiquaries was attracted, interest was roused,
investigation made, excavation begun, and the site of Tara made a
certainty.
Not all ancient Irish cities, however, escaped the hand of time as well as
Tara, for there are geological indications of great natural convulsions in
the island at a date comparatively recent, and not a few of the Irish
lakes, whose name is legion, were formed by depression or upheaval, almost
within the period of written history. A fertile valley traversed by a
stream, a populous city by the little river, an earthquake-upheaval lower
down the watercourse, closing the exit from the valley, a rising and
spreading of the water, an exodus of the inhabitants, such has undoubtedly
been the history of Lough Derg and Lough Ree, which are but reservoirs in
the course of the River Shannon, while the upper and lower Erne lakes are
likewise simply expansions of the river Erne. Lough Neag had a similar
origin, the same being also true of Loughs Allen and Key. The Killarney
Lakes give indisputable evidence of the manner in which they were formed,
being enlargements of the Laune, and Loughs Carra and Mask, in Mayo, are
believed to have a subterranean outlet to Lough Carrib, the neighborhood
of all three testifying in the strongest possible manner to the sudden
closing of the natural outlet for the contributing streams.
The towns which at one time stood on ground now covered by the waters of
these lakes were not forgotten. The story of their fate was told by one
generation to another, but in course of ages the natural cause, well known
to the unfortunates at the time of the calamity, was lost to view, and the
story of the disaster began to assume supernatural features. The
destruction of the city became sudden; the inhabitants perished in their
dwellings; and, as a motive for so signal an event was necessary, it was
found in the punishment of duty neglected or crime committed.
Lough Allen is a small body of water in the County Leitrim, and on its
shores, partly covered by the waves, are several evidences of human
habitation, indications that the waters at present are much higher than
formerly. Among the peasants in the neighborhood there is a legend that
the little valley once contained a village. In the public square there was
a fountain guarded by spirits, fairies, elves, and leprechawns, who
objected to the building of the town in that locality, but upon an
agreement between themselves and the first settlers permitted the erection
of the houses on condition that the fountain be covered with an elegant
stone structure, the basin into which the water flowed from the spring to
be protected by a cover never to be left open, under pain of the town's
destruction, the good people being that nate an' clane that they didn't
want the laste speck av dust in the wather they drunk. So a decree was
issued, by the head man of the town, that the cover be always closed by
those resorting to the fountain for water, and that due heed might be
taken, children, boys under age, and unmarried women, were forbidden under
any circumstances to raise the lid of the basin.
For many years things went on well, the fairies and the townspeople
sharing alike the benefits of the fountain, till, on one unlucky day,
preparations for a wedding were going on in a house close by, and the
mother of the bride stood in urgent need of a bucket of water. Not being
able to bring it herself, the alleged reason being "she was scholdin' the
house in ordher," she commanded her daughter, the bride expectant, to go
in her stead.
The latter objected, urging the edict of the head man already mentioned,
but was overcome, partly by her mother's argument, that "the good people
know ye're the same as married now that the banns are cried," but
principally by the more potent consideration, "Av ye havn't that wather
here in a wink, I'll not lave a whole bone in yer body, ye lazy young
shtrap, an' me breaking me back wid the work," she took the bucket and
proceeded to the fountain with the determination to get the water and
"shlip out agin afore the good people 'ud find her out." Had she adhered
to this resolution, all would have been well, as the fairies would have
doubtless overlooked this infraction of the city ordinance. But as she was
filling the pail, her lover came in. Of course the two at once began to
talk of the all-important subject, and having never before taken water
from the fountain, she turned away, forgetting to close the cover of the
well. In an instant, a stream, resistless in force, burst forth, and
though all the married women of the town ran to put down the cover, their
efforts were in vain, the flood grew mightier, the village was submerged,
and, with two exceptions, all the inhabitants were drowned. The girl and
her lover violated poetic justice by escaping; for, seeing the mischief
they had done, they were the first to run away, witnessed the destruction
of the town from a neighboring hill, and were afterwards married, the
narrator of this incident coming to the sensible conclusion that "it was
too bad entirely that the wans that got away were the wans that, be
rights, ought to be droonded first."
Upper Lough Erne has a legend, in all important particulars identical with
that of Lough Allen, the catastrophe being, however, in the former case
brought about by the carelessness of a woman who left her baby at home
when she went after water and hearing it scream, "as aven the best babies
do be doin', God bless 'em, for no betther rayson than to lishen at
thimselves," she hurried back, forgetting to cover the well, with a
consequent calamity like that which followed similar forgetfulness at
Lough Allen.
In the County Mayo is found Lough Conn, once, according to local
story-tellers, the site of a village built within and around the enclosure
of a castle. The lord of the castle, being fond of fish, determined to
make a fish-pond, and as the spot selected for the excavation was covered
by the cabins of his poorest tenants, he ordered all the occupants to be
turned out forthwith, an order at once carried out "wid process-sarvers,
an' bailiffs, an' consthables, an' sogers, an' polis, an' the people all
shtandin' 'round." One of the evicted knelt on the ground and cursed the
chief with "all the seed, breed and gineration av 'im," and prayed "that
the throut-pond 'ud be the death av 'im." The prayer was speedily
answered, for no sooner was the water turned into the newly-made pond,
than an overflow resulted; the valley was filled; the waves climbed the
walls of the castle, nor ceased to rise till they had swept the chief from
the highest tower, where "he was down an his hard-hearted knees, sayin'
his baids as fast as he cud, an' bawlin' at all the saints aither to bring
him a boat or taiche him how to swim quick." Regard for the unfortunate
tenants, however, prevented any interference by the saints thus vigorously
and practically supplicated, so the chief was drowned and went, as the
story-teller concluded, to a locality where he "naded more wather than
he'd left behind him, an' had the comp'ny av a shwarm av other landlords
that turned out the poor to shtarve."
Lough Gara, in Sligo, flows over a once thriving little town, the City of
Peace, destroyed by an overflow on account of the lack of charity for
strangers. A poor widow entered it one night leading a child on each side
and carrying a baby at her breast. She asked alms and shelter, but in
vain; from door to door she went, but the customary Irish hospitality, so
abundant alike to the deserving and to the unworthy, was lacking. At the
end of the village "she begun to scraich, yer Anner, wid that shtrength
you'd think she'd shplit her troat." At this provocation, all the
inhabitants at once ran to ascertain the reason of so unusual a noise,
upon which, when they were gathered 'round her, the woman pronounced the
curse of the widow and orphan on the people and their town. They laughed
at her and returned home, but that night, the brook running through the
village became a torrent, the outlet was closed, the waters rose, and
"ivery wan o' them oncharitable blaggards wor drownded, while they wor
aslape. Bad cess to the lie that's in it, for, sure, there's the lake to
this blessed day."
[Illustration: Lough Conn]
In County Antrim there lies Lough Neag, one of the largest and most
beautiful bodies of water on the island. The waters of the lake are
transparently blue, and even small pebbles on the bottom can be seen at a
considerable depth. Near the southern end, a survey of the bottom
discloses hewn stones laid in order, and careful observations have traced
the regular walls of a structure of considerable dimensions. Tradition
says it was a castle, surrounded by the usual village, and accounts for
its destruction by the lake on this wise. In ancient times, the castle was
owned by an Irish chief named Shane O'Donovan, noted for his bad traits of
character, being merciless in war, tyrannical in peace, feared by his
neighbors, hated by his dependents, and detested by everybody for his
inhospitality and want of charity. His castle then stood by the bank of
the lake, on an elevated promontory, almost an island, being joined to the
mainland by a narrow isthmus, very little above the water level.
By chance there came into that part of Ireland an angel who had been sent
from heaven to observe the people and note their piety. In the garb and
likeness of a man, weary and footsore with travel, the angel spied the
castle from the hills above the lake, came down, and boldly applied for a
night's lodging. Not only was his request refused, "but the oncivil Shane
O'Donovan set an his dogs fur to bite him." The angel turned away, but no
sooner had he left the castle gate than the villagers ran 'round him and a
contest ensued as to which of them should entertain the traveller. He made
his choice, going to the house of a cobbler who was "that poor that he'd
but the wan pitatee, and when he wanted another he broke wan in two." The
heavenly visitor shared the cobbler's potato and slept on the cobbler's
floor, "puttin' his feet into the fire to kape thim warrum," but at
daylight he rose, and calling the inhabitants of the village, led them
out, across the isthmus to a hill near by, and bid them look back. They
did so, beholding the castle and promontory separated from the mainland
and beginning to subside into the lake. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the
castle sank, while the waters rose around, but stood like a wall on every
side of the castle, not wetting a stone from turret to foundation. At
length the wall of water was higher than the battlements, the angel waved
his hand, the waves rushed over the castle and its sleeping inmates, and
the O'Donovan inhospitality was punished. The angel pointed to a spot near
by, told the villagers to build and prosper there; then, as the
awe-stricken peasants kneeled before him, his clothing became white and
shining, wings appeared on his shoulders, he rose into the air and
vanished from their sight.
Of somewhat different origin is the pretty Lough Derryclare, in Connemara,
south of the Joyce Country. The ferocious O'Flahertys frequented this
region in past ages, and, with the exception of Oliver Cromwell, no
historical name is better known in the west of Ireland than O'Flaherty.
One of this doughty race was, it seems, a model of wickedness. "He was as
proud as a horse wid a wooden leg, an' so bad, that, savin' yer presince,
the divil himself was ashamed av him." This O'Flaherty had sent a party to
devastate a neighboring village, but as the men did not return promptly,
he started with a troop of horse in the direction they had taken. On the
way he was passing through a deep ravine at the bottom of which flowed a
tiny brook, when he met his returning troops, and questioning them as to
the thoroughness with which their bloody work had been done, found, to his
great wrath, that they had spared the church and those who took refuge in
its sacred precincts.
"May God drownd me where I shtand," said he, "if I don't shlay thim all an
the althar," and no doubt he would have done so, but the moment the words
passed his lips, the rivulet became a seething torrent, drowned him and
his men, and the lake was formed over the spot where they stood when the
curse was pronounced. "An' sometimes, they say, that when the lake is
quite shtill, ye may hear the groans av the lost sowls chained at the
bottom."
The fairies are responsible for at least two of the Irish lakes, Lough Key
and the Upper Lough Killarney. The former is an enlargement of the River
Boyle, a tributary of the Shannon, and is situated in Roscommon. At a low
stage of water, ruins can be discerned at the bottom of the river, and are
reported to be those of a city whose inhabitants injudiciously attempted
to swindle the "good people" in a land bargain. The city was built, it
seems, by permission of the fairies, the understanding being that all
raths were to be left undisturbed. For a long time the agreement was
respected, fairies and mortals living side by side, and neither class
interfering with the other. But, as the necessity for more arable land
became evident, it was determined by the townspeople to level several
raths and mounds that interfered with certain fields and boundary lines.
The dangers of such a course were plainly pointed out by the local
"fairy-man," and all the "knowledgable women" lifted their voices against
it, but in vain; down the raths must come and down they came, to the
consternation of the knowing ones, who predicted no end of evil from so
flagrant a violation of the treaty with the fairies.
The night after the demolition of the raths, one of the towns-men was
coming through the gorge below the city, when, "Millia, murther, there wor
more than a hundherd t'ousand little men in grane jackets bringin' shtones
an' airth an' buildin' a wall acrass the glen. Begob, I go bail but he was
the skairt man when he seen phat they done, an' run home wid all the legs
he had an' got his owld woman an' the childher. When she axed him phat he
was afther, he towld her to howld her whisht or he'd pull the tongue out
av her an' to come along an' not spake a word. So they got to the top o'
the hill an' then they seen the wathers swapin' an the city an' niver a
sowl was there left o' thim that wor in it. So the good people had their
rayvinge, an' the like o' that makes men careful wid raths, not to
displaze their betthers, for there's no sayin' phat they'll do."
The Upper Killarney lake was created by the fairy queen of Kerry to punish
her lover, the young Prince O'Donohue. She was greatly fascinated by him,
and, for a time, he was as devoted to her as woman's heart could wish. But
things changed, for, in the language of the boatman, who told the legend,
"whin a woman loves a man, she's satisfied wid wan, but whin a man loves a
woman, belike he's not contint wid twinty av her, an' so was it wid
O'Donohue." No doubt, however, he loved the fairy queen as long as he
could, but in time tiring of her, "he concluded to marry a foine lady, and
when the quane rayproached him wid forgittin' her, at first he said it
wasn't so, an' whin she proved it an him, faith he'd not a word left in
his jaw. So afther a dale o' blasthogue bechuxt thim, he got as mad as
Paddy Monagan's dog when they cut his tail aff, an' towld her he wanted no
more av her, an' she towld him agin for to go an' marry his red-headed
gurrul, 'but mark ye,' says she to him, 'ye shall niver resave her into
yer cassel.' No more did he, for the night o' the weddin', while they were
all dhrinkin' till they were ready to burst, in comes the waither an'
says, 'Here's the wather,' says he. 'Wather,' says O'Donohue, 'we want no
wather to-night. Dhrink away.' 'But the wather's risin',' says the
waither. 'Arrah, ye Bladdherang,' says O'Donohue, 'phat d' ye mane be
inthrudin' an agrayble frinds an such an outspishus occasion wid yer
presince? Be aff, or be the powdhers o' war I'll wather ye,' says he,
risin' up for to shlay the waither. But wan av his gintlemin whuspered the
thruth in his year an' towld him to run. So he did an' got away just in
time, for the cassel was half full o' wather whin he left it. But the
quane didn't want to kill him, so he got away an' built another cassel an
the hill beyant where he lived wid his bride."
Still another origin for the Irish lakes is found in Mayo, where Lough
Carra is attributed to a certain "giont," by name unknown, who formerly
dwelt in the neighborhood, and, with one exception, found everything
necessary for comfort and convenience. He was a cleanly "giont," and
desirous of performing his ablutions regularly and thoroughly. The streams
in the neighborhood were ill adapted to his use, for when he entered any
one of them for bathing purposes "bad scran to the wan that 'ud take him
in furder than to the knees." Obviously this was not deep enough, so one
day when unusually in need of a bath and driven desperate by the
inadequacy of the means, "he spit an his han's an' went to work an' made
Lough Carra. 'Bedad,' says he, 'I'll have a wash now,' an' so he did," and
doubtless enjoyed it, for the lake is deep and the water clear and pure.
Just below Lough Carra is Lough Mask, a large lake between Mayo and
Galway. Concerning its origin, traditionary authorities differ, some
maintaining that the lake was the work of fairies, others holding that it
was scooped out by a rival of the cleanly gigantic party already
mentioned, a theory apparently confirmed by the fact that it has no
visible outlet, though several streams pour into it, its waters, it is
believed, escaping by a subterranean channel to Lough Corrib, thence to
the sea. Sundry unbelievers, however, stoutly assert a conviction that
"it's so be nacher entirely an' thim that says it's not is ignerant
gommochs that don't know," and in the face of determined scepticism the
question of the origin of the lake must remain unsettled.
Thus far, indeed, it is painful to be compelled to state that scarcely one
of the narratives of this chapter passes undisputed among the veracious
tradition-mongers of Ireland. Like most other countries in this practical,
poetry-decrying age, the Emerald Isle has scientists and sceptics, and
among the peasants are found many men who have no hesitation in
proclaiming their disbelief in "thim owld shtories," and who even openly
affirm that "laigends about fairies an' giants is all lies complately." In
the face of this growing tendency towards materialism and the disposition
to find in natural causes an explanation of wonderful events, it is
pleasant to be able to conclude this chapter with an undisputed account of
the origin of Lough Ree in the River Shannon, the accuracy of the
information being in every particular guaranteed by a boatman on the
Shannon, "a respectable man," who solemnly asseverated "Sure, that's no
laigend, but the blessed truth as I'm livin' this minnit, for I'd sooner
cut out me tongue be the root than desave yer Anner, when every wan knows
there's not a taste av a lie in it at all."
"When the blessed Saint Pathrick was goin' through Ireland from wan end to
the other buildin' churches, an' Father Malone says he built three
hundherd an' sixty foive, that's a good manny, he come to Roscommon be the
way av Athlone, where ye saw the big barracks an' the sojers. So he passed
through Athlone, the counthry bein' full o' haythens entirely an' not av
Crissans, and went up the Shannon, kapin' the river on his right hand, an'
come to a big peat bog, that's where the lake is now. There were more than
a thousand poor omadhawns av haythens a-diggin' the peat, an' the blessed
saint convarted thim at wanst afore he'd shtir a toe to go anny furder.
Then he built thim a church an the hill be the bog, an' gev thim a holy
man fur a priest be the name o' Caruck, that I b'lave is a saint too or
lasteways ought to be fur phat he done. So Saint Pathrick left thim wid
the priest, givin' him great power on the divil an' avil sper'ts, and
towld him to build a priest's house as soon as he cud. So the blessed
Caruck begged an' begged as long as he got anny money, an' whin he'd the
last ha'penny he cud shtart, he begun the priest's house fur to kape monks
in.
"But the divil was watchin' him ivery minnit, fur it made the owld felly
tarin' mad to see himself bate out o' the face that-a-way in the counthry
where he'd been masther so long, an' he detarmined he'd spile the job. So
wan night, he goes to the bottom o' the bog, an' begins dammin' the
shtrame, from wan side to the other, layin' the shtones shtrong an' tight,
an' the wather begins a risin' an the bog. Now it happened that the
blessed Caruck wasn't aslape as Satan thought, but up an' about, for he
misthrusted that the Owld Wan was dodgin' round like a wayzel, an' was an
the watch fur him. So when the blessed man saw the wather risin' on the
bog an' not a taste o' rain fallin', 'Phat's this?' says he. 'Sure it's
some o' Satan's deludherin'.'
"So down he goes bechuxt the hills an' kapin' from the river, an' comes up
below where the divil was workin' away pilin' on the airth an' shtones. So
he comes craipin' up on him an' when he got purty clost, he riz an' says,
'Hilloo, Nayber!' Now Belzebub was like to dhrop on the ground wid fright
at the look av him, he was that astonished. But there was no gettin' away,
so he shtopped on the job, wiped the shweat aff his face, an' says,
'Hilloo yerself.'
"'Ye're at yer owld thricks,' says the blessed Caruck.
"'Shmall blame to me, that's,' says Belzebub, 'wid yer churches an' saints
an' convartin' thim haythens, ye're shpiling me business entirely. Sure,
haven't I got to airn me bread?' says he, spakin' up as bowld as a cock,
and axcusin' himself.
"At first the blessed Caruck was goin' to be rough wid him for shtrivin'
to interfare wid the church an' the priest's house be risin' the wather on
thim, but that minnit the moon shone out as bright as day an' he looked
back an' there was the beautifulest lake he iver set his blessed eyes on,
an' the church wid its towers riz above it like a fairy cassel in a
dhrame, an' he clasped his hands wid delight. So Satan looked too an' was
mortefied to death wid invy when he seen how he bate himself at his own
game.
"So the blessed Caruck towld Belzebub to lave the dam where it was, an'
then, thinkin' av the poor bog-throtters that 'ud nade the turf, he
ordhered him beways av a punishmint, to dig all the turf there was in the
bog an' pile it up on the hill to dhry.
"'Don't you lave as much as a speck av it undher wather,' says he to him,
'or as sure as I'm a saint I'll make ye repint it to the end o' yer
snakin' life,' says he, an' thin stud on the bank an' watched the Owld
Deludher while he brought out the turf in loads on his back, an' ivery
load as big as the church, till the hape av sods was as high as a
mountain. So he got it done be mornin', an' glad enough was the divil to
have the job aff his hands, fur he was as wet as a goose in May an' as
tired as a pedler's donkey. So the blessed Caruck towld him to take
himself aff an' not come back: that he was mighty well plazed to do.
[Illustration: The Church by the Bog]
"That's the way the lake come to be here, an' the blessed Caruck come well
out o' that job, fur he sold the turf an' built a big house on the shore
wid the money, an' chated the divil besides, Glory be to God, when the
Owld Wan was thryin' his best fur to sarcumvint a saint."