Legends and Stories of Ireland E-Book

Samuel Lover

• Herausgeber: Charles River Editors
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Seitenzahl: 405

Beschreibung

Skyros Publishing is dedicated to reproducing the finest books ever written and letting readers of all ages experience a classic for the first time or revisit a past favorite.

Samuel Lover was an Irish writer best known for his collection Legends and Stories of Ireland.

Leseprobe

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF IRELAND

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Samuel Lover

SKYROS PUBLISHING

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This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

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Copyright © 2015 by Samuel Lover

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Legends and Stories of Ireland

Preface

Glossary

King O’Toole and St. Kevin

Lough Corrib

A Legend of Lough Mask

A White Trout

The Battle of the Berrins;

Father Roach

The Priest’s Story

The King and the Bishop

Jimmy the Fool

The Catastrophe

The Devil’s Mill

The Gridiron

Paddy the Piper

The Priest’s Ghost

New Potatoes

Paddy the Sport

The White Horse of the Peppers

The Legend of the Little Weaver of Duleek Gate

Conclusion of the White Horse of the Peppers

The Curse of Kishogue

The Fairy Finder

LEGENDS AND STORIES OF IRELAND

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PREFACE

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THOUGH THE SOURCES WHENCE THESE Stories are derived are open to every one, yet chance or choice may prevent thousands from making such sources available; and though the village crone and mountain guide have many hearers, still their circle is so circumscribed, that most of what I have ventured to lay before my reader is for the first time made tangible to the greater portion of those who do me the favour to become such.

Many of them were originally intended merely for the diversion of a few friends round my own fireside;—there, recited in the manner of those from whom I heard them, theyfirst made their début, and the flattering reception they met on so minor a stage, led to their appearance before larger audiences;—subsequently, I was induced to publish two of them in the Dublin Literary Gazette, and the favourable notice from contemporary prints, which they received, has led to the publication of the present volume.

I should not have troubled the reader with this account of the “birth, parentage, and education” of my literary bantlings, but to have it understood that some of them are essentially oral in their character, and, I fear, suffer materially when reduced to writing. This I mention enpassant to the critics; and if I meet but half as good-natured readers as I have hitherto found auditors, I shall have cause to be thankful. But, previously to the perusal of the following pages, there are a few observations that I feel are necessary, and which I shall make as concise as possible.

Most of the stories are given in the manner of the peasantry; and this has led to some peculiarities that might be objected to, were not the cause explained—namely, frequent digressions in the course of the narrative, occasional adjurations, and certain words unusually spelt. As regards the first, I beg to answer, that the stories would be deficient in national character without it; the Irish are so imaginative that they never tell a story straightforward, but constantly indulge in episode; for the second, it is only fair to say, that in most cases the Irish peasant’s adjurations are not meant to be in the remotest degree irreverent, but arise merely from the impassioned manner of speaking which an excitable people are prone to; and I trust that such oaths as “thunder-and-turf,” or maledictions, as “bad cees to you,” will not be considered very offensive.

Nay, I will go further, and say, that their frequent exclamations of “Lord be praised,"—"God betune us and harm,” etc., have their origin In a deeply reverential feeling and a reliance on the protection of Providence. As for the orthographical dilemmas into which an attempt to spell their peouliar pronunciation has led me, I have ample and most successful precedent in Mr. Banim’s works. Some general observations, however, it may not be irrelevant to introduce here, on the pronunciation of certain sounds In the English language by the Irish peasantry. And here I wish to be distinctly understood, that I speak only of the midland and western district of Ireland—and chiefly of the latter.

They are rather prone to curtailing their words; of, for instance, is very generally abbreviated into o’ or i’, except when a succeeding vowel demands a consonant; and even in that case they would substitute v. The letters d and t as finals, they scarcely ever sound; for example, pond, hand, slept, kept, are pronounced pon, han, slep, kep. These letters, when followed by a vowel, are sounded as if the aspirate h intervened, as tender, letter—tindher, letther. Some sounds they sharpen, and vice versa. The letter e, for instance, is mostly pronounced like i in the word litter, as lind for lend, mind for mend, etc.; but there are exceptions to this rule—Saint Kevin, for example, which they pronounce K a vin. The letter o they sound like a in some words, as off, aff or av—thus softening f into v; beyond, beyant—thussharpening the final d to t, and making an exception to the custom of not sounding d as a final; in others they alter it to ow—asold, owld. Sometimes o is even converted into I-as spoil, spile. In a strange spirit of contrariety, while they alter the sound of e to that of i, they substitute the latter for the former sometimes—as hinder, hendher—cinder, cendher; s they soften into z—as us, us. There are other peculiarities which this is not an appropriate place to dilate upon. I have noticed the most obvious. Nevertheless, even these are liable to exceptions, as the peasantry are quite governed by ear—as in the word of, which is variously sounded o’, i’, ov, av, or iv, as best suits their pleasure.

It is unnecessary to remark how utterly unsystematic I have been in throwing these few remarks together. Indeed, to classify (if it were necessary) that which has its birth in ignorance would be a very perplexing undertaking. But I wished to notice these striking peculiarities of the peasant pronunciation, which the reader will have frequent occasion to observe in the following pages; and, as a further assistance, I have added a short glossary.

GLOSSARY

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ALPEEN—A cudgel.

BAD SCRAN—Bad food.

BAD WIN, BAD CESS—Malediction. Cess is an abbreviation of success.

BAITHERSHIN—It may be so.

BALLYRAG—To scold.

CAUREEN—An old bat. Strictly, a little old hat. Een, in Irish, is diminutive.

COLLEEN DHAS—Pretty girl.

COMETHER—Corruption, of “Come hither.” “Putting his comether” means forcing his acquaintance.

GOMMOCH—A simpleton.

HARD WORD—Hint.

HUNKERS—Haunches.

KIMMEENS—Sly tricks.

MACHREE—My dear.

MAVOURNEEN—My darling.

MUSHA!—An exclamation, as “Oh, my!” “Oh, la!”

NOGGIN—A small wooden drinking vessel.

PHILLELEW—An outcry.

SPALPHEEN—A contemptible person.

STRAVAIG—To ramble.

ULICAN—The funeral cry.

WAKE—Watching the body of the departed previously to interment.

WEIRASTHRU!—Mary, have pity!

KING O’TOOLE AND ST. KEVIN

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A LEGEND OF GLENDALOUGH

WHO HAS NOT READ OF St. Kevin, celebrated as he has been by Moore in the melodies of his native land, with whose wild and impassioned music he has so intimately entwined his name? Through him, in the beautiful ballad whence the epigraph of this story is quoted, the world already knows that the skylark, through the intervention of the saint, never startles the morning with its joyous note in the lonely valley of Glendalough. In the same ballad, the unhappy passion which the saint inspired, and the “unholy blue” eyes of Kathleen, and the melancholy fate of the heroine by the saint’s being “unused to the melting mood,” are also celebrated; as well as the superstitious, finale of the legend, in the spectral appearance of the love-lorn maiden:

“And her ghost was seen to glide

Gently o’er the fatal tide.”

Thus has Moore given, within the limits of a ballad, the spirit of two legends of Glendalough, which otherwise the reader might have been put to the trouble of reaching after a more roundabout fashion. But luckily for those coming after him, one legend he has left to be

“—touched by a hand more unworthy—”

and instead of a lyrical essence, the raw material in prose is offered, nearly verbatim, as it was furnished to me by that celebrated guide and bore, Joe Irwin, who traces his descent In a direct line from the old Irish kings, and warns the public In general that “there’s a power of them spalpeens sthravaigin’ about, sthrivin’ to put their comether upon the quol’ty (quality), and callin’ themselves Irwin (knowin’, the thieves o’ the world, how his name had gone far and near, as the rale guide), for to deceave dacent people; but never for to b’lieve the likes—for it was only mulvatherin people they wor.” For my part, I promised never to put faith in any but himself; and the old rogue’s self-love being satisfied, we set out to explore the wonders of Glendalough. On arriving at a small ruin, situated on the south-eastern side of the lake, my guide assumed an air of importance, and led me into the ivy-covered remains, through a small square doorway, whose simple structure gave evidence of its early date: a lintel of stone lay across two upright supporters, after the fashion of such remains in Ireland.

“This, sir,” said my guide, putting himself in an attitude, “is the chapel of King O’Toole—av coorse y’iv often heard o’ King O’Toole, your honour?”

“Never,” said I.

“Musha, thin, do you tell me so?” said be. “By gor, I thought all the world, far and near, heerd o’ King O’Toole! Well, well!—but the darkness of mankind is ontellible. Well, sir, you must know, as you didn’t hear it afore, that there was wanst a king, called King O’Toole, who was a fine ould king in the ould ancient times, long ago; and it was him that ownded the Churches in the airly days.”

“Surely,” said I, “the Churches were not in King O’Toole’s time?”

“Oh, by no manes, your honour—throth, it’s yourself that’s right enough there; but you know the place is called ‘The Churches,’ bekase they wor built afther by St. Kavin, and wint by the name o’ the Churches iver more; and therefore, av coorse, the place bein’ so called, I say that the king ownded the Churches—and why not, sir, seein’ ‘twas his birthright, time out o’ mind, beyant the flood? Well, the king, you see, was the right sort—he was the rale boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and huntin’ in partic’lar; and from the risin’ o’ the sun, up he got, and away be wint over the mountains beyant afther the deer. And the fine times them wor; for the deer was as plinty thin—aye, throth, far plintyer than the sheep is now; and that’s the way it was with the king, from the crow o’ the cock to the song o’ the redbreast.

“In this counthry, air,” added he, speaking parenthetically in an undertone, “we think it onlooky to kill the redbreast, or the robin is God’s own bird.”

Then, elevating his voice to its former pitch, he proceeded:

“Well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in coorse o’ time, the king grewn ould, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got athriken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost intirely for want o’ divarshin, bekase he couldn’t go a-huntln’ no longer; and, by dad, the poor king’ was obleeged at last for to get a goose to divart him.”

Here an involuntary smile was produced by this regal mode of recreation, “the royal game of goose.”

“Oh, you may laugh if you like,” said he, half-affronted, “but it’s thruth I’m tellin’ you; and the way the goose diverted him was this-a-way: you see, the goose used for to swim acrass the lake, and go down divin’ for throut (and not finer throut in all Ireland, than the same throut), and cotch fish on a Friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake divartin’ the poor king, that you’d think he’d break his sides laughin’ at the frolicksome tricks av his goose; so in coorse o’ time the goose was the greatest pet in the counthry, and the biggest rogue, and diverted the king to no end, and the poor king was as happy as the day was long. So that’s the way it was; and all went on mighty well, antil, by dad, the goose got sthricken in years, as well as the king, and grewn stiff in the limbs, like her masther, and couldn’t divert him no longer; and then it was that the poor king was lost complate, and didn’t know what in the wide world to do, seein’ he was done out of all divarshin, by raison that the goose was no more in the flower of her blame.

“Well, the king was nigh-hand broken-hearted, and melancholy intirely, and, was walkin’ one mornin’ by the edge of the lake, lamentin’ his cruel fate, an’ thinkin’ o’ drownin’ himself that could get no divarshin in life, when all of a suddint, turnin’ round the corner beyant, who should he meet but a mighty dacent young man comin’ up to him.

“‘God save you,’ says the king (for the king was a civil-spoken gintleman, by all accounts), ‘God save you, ‘says he to the young man.

“‘God save you kindly,’ says the young man to him back again; ‘God save you,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole.’

“‘Thrue for you,’ says the king, ‘I am King O’Toole,’ says he, ‘prince and plennypennytinchery o’ these parts,’ says he; ‘but how kem ye to know that?’ says he.

.” ‘Oh, never mind,’ says Saint Kavin.

“For you see,” said Old Joe, in his undertone again, and looking very knowingly, “it was Saint Kavin, sure enough—the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else. ‘Oh, never mind,’ says he, ‘I know more than that,” says be, ‘nor twice that.’

“‘And who are you?’ said the king, ‘that makes so bowld—who are you, at all at all?’

“Oh, never you mind,’ says Saint Kavin, ‘who I am; you’ll know more o’ me before we part, King O’Toole,’ says he.

“‘I’ll be proud o’ the knowledge o’ your acqaintance, sir,’ says the king mighty p’lite.

“‘Troth, you may say that,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘And now, may I make bowld to ax, how is your goose, King O’Toole?’ says he.

“‘Blur-an-agers, how kem you to know about my goose?’ says the king.

“‘Oh, no matther; I was given to undherstand It,’ says Saint Kavin.

“‘Oh, that’s a folly to talk,’ says the king; ‘bekase myself and my goose Is private frinds,’ says he, ‘and no one could tell you,’ says he ‘barrin’ the fairies.’

“‘Oh, thin, it wasn’t the fairies,’ says Saint Kavin; ‘for I’d have you to know,’ says he, “that I don’t keep the likes o’ sitch company.’

“You might do worse then, my gay fellow,’ says the king; ‘for it’s they could show you a crock o’ money as alay as kiss hand; and that’s not to be sneezed at,’ says the king, ‘by a poor man,’ says be.

“‘Maybe I’ve a betther way of making money rnyself’ says the saint.

“‘By gor,’ says the king, ‘barrin’ you’re a coiner,” says he, ‘that’s impossible!’

“I’d scorn to be the like, my lord!’ says Saint Kavin, mighty high, ‘I’d scorn to be the like,’ says he.

“‘Then, what are you,’ says the king ‘that makes money so aisy, by your own account? ‘

“‘I’m an honest man,’ says Saint Kavin.

“‘Well, honest man,’ says the king, ‘and how is it you make your money so aisy?’

“‘By makin’ ould things as good as new,’ says Saint Kavin.

“‘Blur-an-ouns, is it a tinker you are?’ says the king.

“‘No,’ say. the saint; ‘I’m no tinker by thrade, King O’Toole; I’ve a betther thade than a tinker,’ says he—’ what would you say,’ says he, ‘if I made your old goose as good as new?’

“My dear, at the word o’ makin’ his goose as good as new, you’d think the poor ould king’s eyes was ready to jump out iv his head, ‘and,’ says he—’troth, thin, I’d give you more money nor you could count,’ says he, ‘if you did the like; and I’d be behoulden to you into the bargain.’

“‘I scorn your dirty money,’.sys Saint Kavin.

“‘Faith then, l’m thinkln’ a thrifle o’ change would do you no harm,’ says the king, lookin’ up sly at the old cawbeen that Saint Kavin had on him.

“‘I have a vow agin’ it,’ says the saint; ‘and I ambook sworn,’ says he, ‘never to have goold, silver, or brass in my company.’

“‘Barrin’ the thrifle you can’t help,’ says the king, mighty cute, and looking him straight in the face.

“‘You just hot it,’ says Saint Kavin; ‘but though I can’t take money,’ says he, ‘I could take a few acres o’ land, if you’d give them to me.”

“‘With all the veins o’ my heart,’ says the king, ‘If you can do what you say.’

“‘Thry me!’ says Saint Kavin. ‘Call down your goose here,’ says he, ‘and I’ll see what I can do for her.’

“‘With that the king whistled, and down kem the poor goose, all as one as a hound, waddlin’ up to the poor ould cripple, her masther, and as like him as two pays. The minute the saint clapt his eyes an the goose, ‘I’ll do ‘the job for you,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole!’

“‘By Jaminee,’ says King O’Toole, ‘if you do, bud I’ll say you’re the cleverest fellow in the aivin parishes.’

“‘Oh, by dad,’ says Saint Kavin, “you must say more nor that-my horn’s not so soft all out,’ says he, ‘as to repair your ould goose for nothing ‘; what’ll you gi’ me, if I do the job for you?—that’s the chat,’ says Saint Kavin.

“‘I’ll give you whatever you ax,’ says the king; ‘isn’t that fair?’

“‘Divil a fairer,’ says the saint; ‘that’s the way to do business. Now,’ says he, ‘this is the bargain I’ll make with you, King O’Toole: will you gi’ me all the ground the goose flies, over the first offer afther I make her as good as new?’

“‘I will,’ says the king.

“‘You won’t go back o’ your word?’ says Saint Kavin.

“‘Honour bright!’ says King O’Toole, howldin’ out his fist.”

Here old Joe, after applying his hand to his mouth, and making a sharp, blowing sound (something like “thp“), extended it to illustrate the action.

“‘Honour bright,’ says Saint Kavin back agin, ‘it’s a bargain,’ says he. ‘Come here!’ says he to the poor ould goose—’come here, you unfort’nate ould cripple,’ says he, ‘and it’s I that’ll make you the sportin’ bird.’

“With that, my dear, he tuk up the goose by the two wings—’Criss o’ my crass and you,’ says he, markin’ her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute—and throwin’ her up in the air, ‘whew!’ says he, jist givin’ her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she tuk, to her heels, flyin’ like one o’ the aigles themselves, and cuttin’ as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain. Away she went down there, right fornist you, along the side o’ the clift, and flew over Saint Kavin’s bed (that is where Saint Kavin’s bed is now, but was not thin, by raison it wasn’t made, but was conthrived afther by Saint Kavin himself, that the women might lava him alone), and on with her undher Lugduff and round the ind av the lake there, far beyant where you see the watherfall (though indeed it’s no watherfall at all now, but only a poor dhribble iv a thing; but if you seen it In the winther, it id do your heart good, and it roarin’ like mad, and as white as the dhriven snow, and rowlin’ down the big rooks before it, all as one as childher playin’ marbles)—and on with her thin right over the lead mines o’ Luganure (that is where the lead mines is now, but was not thin, by raison they worn’t discovered, but was all goold in Saint Kavin’s time).

“Well, over the ind o’ Luganure she flew, stout and sturdy, and round the other ind av the little lake, by the Churches (that is, av coorse, where the Churches is now, but was not thin, by raison they wor not built, but aftherwards by Saint Kavin), and over the big hill here over your head, where you see the big clift—(and that clift in the mountain was made by Fan Ma Cool,where he cut it acrass with a big swoord that he got made a purpose by a blacksmith out o’ Ruthdrum, a cousin av his own, for to fight a joyant [giant] that darr’d him an the Curragh o’ Kildare; and he thried the swoord first an the mountain, and out it down into a gap, as is plain to this day; and faith, sure enough, it’s the same sauce he sarv’d the joyant, soon and suddent, and chopped him in two like a pratie, for the glory of his sowl and owld lreland)—well, down she flew over the clift, and fluttberin’, over the wood there at Poulanass (where I showed you the purty watherfall—and by the same token, last Thursday was a twelve monthsence, a young lady, Miss Rafferty by name, fell into the same watherfall, and was nigh-hand drownded—and indeed would be to this day, but for a young man that jumped in afther her; indeed, a smart slip iv a young man he was—he was out o’ Francis Street, I hear, and coorted her sence, and they wor married, Fm given to undherstand—and indeed a purty couple they wor). Well, as I said, afther fluttherin’ over the wood a little bit, to plaze herself, the goose flew down, and lit at the fut o’ the king, as fresh as a daisy, afther flyin’ roun’ his dominions, just as if she hadn’t flew three perch.

“Well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standin’ with his mouth open, lookin’ at his poor ould goose flyin’ as light as a lark, and betther nor ever she was; and when, she lit at his fut, he patted her anthe head, and ‘Mavourneen,’ says he, ‘but you are the darlint o’ the world.’

“‘And what do you say to me,’ says Saint Kavin, ‘for makin’ her the like?’

“‘By gor,’ says the king, ‘I say nothin’ bates the art o’ man, barrin’ the bees.’

“‘And do you say no more nor that?, says Saint Kavin.

“‘And that I’m behoulden to you,’ says the king.

“‘But will you gi’e me all the ground the goose flewn over?’ says Saint Kavin.

“‘I will,’ says King O’TooIe. ‘And you’re welkim to it,’ says he, ‘though it’s the last acre I have to give.’

“‘But you’ll keep your word thrue’ says the saint.

“‘As thrue as the sun,’ says the king.

“‘It’s well for you,’ says Saint Kavin, mighty sharp—’ it’s well for you, King O’Toole, that you said that word,’ says he; ‘for if you didn’t say that word, the divil receave the bit o’ your goose id ever fly agin,’ says Saint Kavin.

“Oh! you needn’t laugh,” said old Joe, half offended at detecting the trace of a suppressed smile; “you needn’t laugh, for it’s thruth I’m tellin’ you.

“Well, whin the king was as good as his word, Saint Kavin was plased with him, and thin it was that he made himself known to the king. ‘And,’ says he, ‘King O’Toole, you’re a decent man,’ says he, ‘for I only kem here to thry you. You don’t know me,’ says he, ‘bekase I’m disguised.’[A person in a state of drunkenness is said to be disguised.]

“‘Troth, then, you’re right enough,’ says the king. ‘I didn’t perceave it,’ says he; ‘for, indeed, I never seen the sign o’ aper’ts an you.’

“‘Oh! that’s not what I mane,’ says Saint Kavin. ‘I mane I’m deceavin’ you all out, and that I’m not myself at all.’

“‘Blur-an-agers! thin,’ says the king, ‘if you’re not yourself, who are you?’

“‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ said the saint, bleesin’ himself.

“‘Oh, queen iv heaven!” says the king, makin’ the sign o’ the crass betune his eyes, and fallin’ down on his knees before the saint. ‘Is it the great Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘that I’ve been discoorsin’ all this time without knowin’ it,’ says he, ‘all as one as if he was a lump iv a gosson? And so you’re a saint?’ says the king.

“‘I am,’ says Saint Kavin.

“‘By gor, I thought I was only talking to a decent boy,’ says the king.

“‘Well, you know the differ now,’ says the saint. ‘I’m Saint Kavin,’ says he, ‘the greatest of all the saints.’

“For Saint Kavin, you must know, sir,” added Joe, treating me to another parenthesis, “Saint Kavin is counted the greatest of all the saints, bekase he went to school with the prophet Jeremiah.

“Well, my dear, that’s the way that the place kem, all at wanst, into the hands of Saint Kavin; for the goose flewn round every individyial acre o’ King O’ Toole’s property, you see, bein’ let into the saycret by Saint Kavin, who was mighty cute; and so, when he done the ould king out iv his property for the glory of God, he was plased with him, and he and the king was the best o’ frinds ivermore afther (for the poor ould king was doatin’, you see), and the king had his goose as good as new to divert him as long as be lived; and the saint supported him afther he kem into his property, as I tould you, antil the day iv his death—and that was soon afther; for the poor goose thought he was ketchin’ a throut one Friday, but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made, and instead of a throut, It was a thievin’ horse-eel, and, by gor! instead iv the goose killin’ a throut for the king’s supper, by dad! the eel killed the king’s goose, and small blame to him; but he didn’t ate her, bekase he darn’t ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on.

“Howsumdever, the king never recovered the loss iv his goose, though he had her stuffed (I don’t mane stuffed with pratees and inyans, but as a curosity) and preserved in a glass casefor his own divarshin; and the poor. king died on the next Michaelmas Day, which was remarkable. Throth, it’s thruth I’m tellin’ you; and when he was gone, Saint Kavin gev him an illigant wake and a beautiful berrin’; and more betoken, he said mass for his sowl, and tukcare av his goose.“

LOUGH CORRIB

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IT CHANCED, AMONGST SOME OF the pleasantest adventures of a tour through the West of Ireland, in 1825, that the house of Mr.––of–—received me as a guest. The owner of the mansion upheld the proverbial reputation of his country’s hospitality, and his lady was of singularly winning manners, and possessed of much intelligence—an intelligence arising not merely from the cultivation resulting from careful education, but originating also from the attention which persons of good sense bestow upon the circumstances which come within the range of their observation.

Thus, Mrs.—, an accomplished Englishwoman, instead of sneering at the deficiencies which a poorer country than her own laboured under, was willing to be amused by observing the difference which exist, in the national character of the two people, in noticing the prevalence of certain customs, superstitions, etc. etc.; while the popular tales of the neighbourhood had for her a charm which enlivened a sojourn in a remote district that must otherwise have proved lonely.

To this pleasure was added that of admiration of the natural beauties with which she was surrounded; the noble chain of the Mayo mountains, linking with the majestic range of those of Joyce’s country, formed no inconsiderable source of picturesque beauty and savage grandeur; and when careering over the waters of Lough Corrib that foamed at their feet, she never sighed for the grassy slopes of Hyde Park, nor that unruffled pond, the Serpentine river.

In the same boat which often bore so fair a charge have I explored the noble Lough Corrib to its remotest extremity, sailing over the depths of its dark waters, amidst solitude, whose echoes are seldom awakened but by the scream of the eagle.

From this lady I heard some characteristic stories and prevalent superstitions of the country. Many of these she had obtained from an old boatman, one of the crew that manned Mr.—’s boat; and often, as he sat at the helm, he delivered his “round, unvarnished tale”; and, by the way, in no very measured terms either, whenever his subject happened to touch upon the wrongs his country had sustained in her early wars against England, although his liege-lady was a native of the hostile land. Nevertheless, the old Corribean (the name somehow has a charmingly savage sound about it) was nothing loath to have his fling at “the invaders “—a term of reproach he always cut upon the English.

Thus skilled in legendary lore, Mrs.–—proved an admirable guide to the “lions” of the neighbourhood; and it was previously to a projected visit to the Cave of Cong that she entered upon some anecdotes relating to the romantic spot, which led her to tell me that one legend had so particularly excited the fancy of a young lady, a friend of hers, that she wrought it into the form of a little tale, which, she added, had not been considered ill done. “But,” said she, “ ‘tis true we were all friends who passed judgment, and only drawing-room critics: You shall therefore judge for yourself, and hearing it before you see the cave, will at least rather increase your interest in the visit.” And forthwith drawing from a little cabinet a manuscript, she read to me the following tale—much increased in its effect by the sweet voice in which It was delivered.

A LEGEND OF LOUGH MASK

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THE EVENING WAS CLOSING FAST as the young Cormac O’FIaherty had reached the highest acclivity of one of the rugged passes of the steep mountains of Joyce’s country. He made a brief pause—not to take breath, fair reader—Cormac needed no breathing time, and would have considered it little short of an insult to have had such a motive attributed to the momentary stand he made, and none that knew the action of the human figure would have thought it; for the firm footing which one beautifully formed leg held with youthful firmness on the mountain path, while the other, slightly thrown behind, rested On the half-bent foot, did not imply repose, but rather suspended action. In sooth, youth Cormac, to the eye of the painter, might have seemed a living Antinous—all the grace of that beautiful antique, all the youth, all the expression of suspended motion were there, with more of vigour and impatience. He paused—not to take breath, Sir Walter Scott; for, like your own Malcolm Graeme,

“Right up Ben Lomond could he press,

And not a sob his toll confess;”

and our young O’Flaberty was not to be outdone in breasting up a mountain side by the boldest Graeme of them all.

But he lingered for a moment to look back upon a scene at once sublime and gorgeous; and cold must the mortal have been who could have beheld and had not paused.

On one side the Atlantic lay beneath him, brightly reflecting the glories of an autumnal setting sun, and expanding into a horizon of dazzling light; on the other lay the untrodden wilds before him, stretching amidst the depths of mountain valleys, whence the sunbeam had long since departed, and mists were already wreathing round the overhanging heights, and veiling the distance in vapoury indistinctness-though you looked into some wizard’s glass, and saw the uncertain conjuration of his wand, On the one side all was glory, light, and life—on the other all was awful, still, and almost dark. It was one of Nature’s sublimest moments, such as are seldom witnessed, and never forgotten.

Ere he descended the opposite declivity, Cormac once more bent back his gaze; and now it was not one exclusively of admiration. There was a mixture of scrutiny in his look, and turning to Diarmid, a faithful adherent of his family, and only present companion, he said: “That sunset forebodes a coming storm; does it not, Diarmid?”

“Ay, truly does it,” responded the attendant; “and there’s no truth in the clouds if we haven’t it soon upon us”

“Then let us speed,” said Cormac; “for the high hill and the narrow path must be traversed ere our journey be accomplished.” And he sprang down the steep and shingly, pass before him, followed by the faithful Diarmid.

“Tis sweet to know there is as eye to mark

Our coming and grow brighter when we come.”

And there was a bright eye Watching for Cormac, and many a love-taught look did Eva cast over the waters of Lough Mask, impatient for the arrival of the O’Flaherty. “Surely he will be here this evening,” thought Eva; “yet the sun is already low, and no distant oars disturb the lovely quiet of the lake. But may he not have tarried beyond the mountains—he has friends therein recollected Eva. But soon the maiden’s jealous fancy whispered: “He has friends here too.” And she reproached him for his delay; but it was only for a moment.

“The accusing spirit blushed,” as Eva continued her train of conjecture. “ ‘Tis hard to part from pressing friends,” thought she, “and Cormac is ever welcome in the hall, and heavily closes the portal after his departing footsteps.”

Another glance across the lake. ‘Tis yet unrippled by an oar. The faint outline of the dark grey mountains, whose large masses lie unbroken by the detail which daylight discovers; the hazy distance of the lake, whose extremity is undistinguishable from the overhanging cIiffs which embrace it; the fading of the western sky; the last lonely rook winging his weary way to the adjacent wood; the flickering flight of the bat across her windows—all—all told Eva that the night was fast approaching; yet Cormac was not come. She turned from the casement with a sigh. Oh! only those who love can tell how anxious are the moments we pass in watching the approach of the beloved one.

She took her harp. Every heroine, to be sure, has a harp; but this was not the pedal harp, that instrument par excellence of heroines, but the simple harp of her country, whose single row of brazen wires had often rung to many a sprightly planxty, long, long before the double action of Erard had vibrated to some fantasia from Rossini or Meyerbeer, under the brilliant finger of a Bochsa or a Labarre.

But now the harp of Eva did not ring forth the spirit-stirring planxty, but yielded to her gentlest touch one of the most soothing and plaintive of her native melodies; and to her woman sensibility, which long expectation had excited, it seemed to breathe an unusual flow of tenderness and pathos, which her heated imagination conjured almost into prophetic wailing. Eva paused—she was alone; the night had closed—her chamber was dark and silent. She burst into tears, and when her spirits became somewhat calmed by this gush of feeling, she arose, and dashing the lingering tear-drops from the long lashes of the most beautiful blue eyes in the world, she hastened to the hall, and sought in the society of others to dissipate those feelings by which she had been overcome.

The night closed over the path of Cormac, and the storm he anticipated had swept across the waves of the Atlantic, and now burst in all its fury over the mountains of Joyce’s country. The wind rushed along in wild gusts, bearing in its sweeping eddy heavy dashes of rain, which soon increased to a continuous deluge of enormous drops, rendering the mountain gullies the channel of temporary rivers, and the path that wound along the verge of each precipice so slippery as to render its passage death to the timid or amwsry, and dangerous even to the firmest or most practised foot. But our hero and his attendant strode on; the torrent was resolutely passed, its wild roar audible above the loud thunder-peals that rolled through the startled echoes of the mountains; the dizzy path was firmlytrod, its dangers rendered more perceptible by the blue lightnings, half revealing the depths of the abyss beneath, and Cormac and Diarmid still pressed on towards the shores of Lough Mask, unconscious of the interruption that yet awaited them, fiercer than the torrent, and more deadly than the lightning.

As they passed round the base of a projecting crag, that flung its angular masses athwart the ravine through which they wound, a voice of brutal coarseness suddenly arrested their progress with the fiercely uttered word of “Stand!”

Cormac instantly stopped—as instantly his weapon was in his hand; and with searching eye he sought to discover through the gloom what bold intruder dared cross the path of the O’Flaherty. His tongue now demanded what his eye failed him to make known, and the same rude voice that. first addressed him answered: “Thy mortal foe! Thou seek’st thy bride, fond boy, but never shalt thou behold her—never shalt thou share the bed of Eva.”

“Thou liest, foul traitor!” cried Cormac fiercely. “Avoid my path; avoid it, I say, for death is in it!”

“Thou say’st truly,” answered the, unknown, with a laugh of horrid meaning. “Come on, and thy words shall be made good!”

At this moment a flash of lightning illumined the whole glen with momentary splendour, and discovered to Cormac, a few paces before him, two armed men of gigantic stature, in one of whom he recognised Emman O’Flaherty, one of the many branches of that ancient and extensive family, equally distinguished for his personal prowess and savage temper.

“Ha!” exclaimed Cormac, “is it Emman Dubh?” for the black hair of Emman had obtained for him this denomination of Black Edward, a name fearfully suitable to him who bore it.

“Yes,” answered be tauntingly, “it is Emman Dubh who waits the coming of his fair cousin. You have said death is in your path. Come on and meet it.”

Nothing daunted, however shocked at discovering the midnight waylayer of his path in his own relative, Cormac answered:

“Emman Dubh, I have never wronged you; but since you thirst for my blood, and cross my path, on your own head be the penalty. Stand by me, Diarmuid,” said the brave youth, and rushing on his Herculean enemy, theyclosed in mortal combat.

Had the numbers been equal, the colossal strength of Emmanmight have found its overmatch in the activity of Cormac, and his skill in the use of his weapon. But oh, the foul, the treacherous Emman! He dared his high-spirited rival to advance but to entrap him into an ambuscade; for as he rushed upon his foe, past the beetling rock that hung over his path, a third assassin, unseen by the gallant Cormac, lay in wait, and when the noble youth was engaged in the fierce encounter, a blow, dealt him in the back, laid the betrothed of Eva lifeless, at the feet of the savage and exulting Emman.

Restlessly had Eva passed that turbulent night—each gust of the tempest, each flash, of living flame and burst of thunder awakened her terrors, lest Cormac, the beloved of her soul, were exposed to its fury; but in the lapse of the storm hope ventured to whisper he yet lingered in the castle of some friend beyond the mountains. The morning dawned, and silently bore witness to the’ commotion of the elements of the past night. The riven branch of the naked tree, that in one night had been shorn of its leafy beauty; the earth strewn with foliage half green, half yellow, ere yet the autumnal alchemy had converted its summer verdure quite to gold, gave evidence that an unusually early storm had been a forerunner of the equinox. The general aspect of Nature, too, though calm, was cold; the mountain, wore a dress of sombre grey, and the small, scattered clouds were straggling over the face of heaven, as though they had been rudely riven asunder, and the short and quick lash of the waters upon the shore of Lough Mask might have told to an accustomed eye that a longer wave and a whiter foam had broken on its strand a few hours before.

But what is that upthrown upon the beach? And who are those who surround it in suck consternation? It is the little skiff that was moored at the opposite side of the lake on the preceding eve, and was to have borne Cormac to his betrothed bride. And they who identify the shattered boat are those to whom Eva’s happiness is dear; for it is her father and his attendants, who are drawing ill omens from the tiny wreck. But they conceal the fact, and the expecting girl is not told of the evil-boding discovery. But days have come and gone and Cormac yet tarries. At length ‘tis past a doubt; and the father of Eva knows his child is widowed ere her bridal—widowed in heart, at least. And who shalI tell the fatal tale to Eva? Who shall cast the shadow o’er her soul, and make the future darkness? Alas! ye feeling souls that ask it, that pause ere you can speak the word that blights for ever, pause no longer, for Eva knows it. Yes; from tongue to tongue—by word on word from many a quivering lip, and meanings darkly given, the dreadful certainty at last arrived to the bewildered Eva.

It was nature’s last effort at comprehension; her mind was filled with the one fatal knowledge—Cormac was gone for ever; and that was the only mental consciousness that ever after employed the lovely Eva.

The remainder of the melancholy tale is briefly told. Though quite bereft of reason, she was harmless as a child, and was allowed to wander round the borders of Lough Mask, and, its immediate neighbourhood. A favourite haunt of the still beautiful maniac was the Cave of Cong, where a subterranean river rushes from beneath a low natural arch in the rook, and passing for some yards over a strand of pebbles, in pellucid swiftness, loses itself in the dark recesses of the cavern with the sound of a rapid and turbulent fall. This river is formed by the waters of Lough Mask becoming engulfed at one of its extremities, and hurrying through a subterranean channel until they rise again in the neighbourhood of Cong, and become tributary to Lough Corrib. Here the poor girl would sit for hours; and believing that her beloved Cormac had been drowned In Lough Mask, she hoped, in one of those half-intelligent dreams which haunt a distempered brain, to arrest his body, as she fancied It must pass through the Cave of Cong, borne on the subterranean rlver.

Month after month passed by; but the nipping winter and the gentle spring found the lovely Eva still watching by the stream, like some tutelary water-nymph beside her sacred fountain. At length she disappeared—and though the strictest search was made, the broken-hearted Eva was never heard of more; and the tradition of the country is, that the fairies took pity on a love so devoted, and carried away the faithful girl to join her betrothed in fairyland!’

Mrs.-closed the manuscript, and replaced it in the little cabinet.

“Most likely,” said I, “poor Eva, if ever such a person existed-“

“If!” said the fair reader. “Can you be so ungrateful as to question the truth of my legend, after all the trouble I have had in reading it to you? Getaway! A sceptic like you is only fit to hear the commonplaces of the daily press.”

“I cry your pardon, fair lady,” said I. “I am most orthodox in legendary belief, and question not the existence of your Eva. I was only about to say that perchance she might have been drowned in and carried away by the river she watched so closely.”

“Hush, hush!” said the fair chronicler. “As you hope for favour or information in our fair counties of Galway or Mayo, never dare to question the truth of a legend—never venture a ‘perhaps’ for the purpose of making a tale more reasonable, nor endeavour to substitute the reign of common sense In hopes of superseding the empire of the fairies. Go to-morrow to the Cave of Cong, and if you return still an unbeliever, I give you up as an irreclaimable infidel.”

A WHITE TROUT

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A Legend of Cong

THE NEXT MORNING I PROCEEDED alone to the cave, to witness the natural curiosity of its subterranean river, my interest in the visit being somewhat increased by the foregoing tale. Leaving my home at the little village of Cong I bent my way on foot through the fields, if you may venture to give that name to the surface of this immediate district of the couuty Mayo, which, presenting large flat muses of limestone, intersected by patches of verdure, gives one the idea much more of a burial-ground covered with monumental slabs than a formation of Nature. Yet (I must make this remark enpassant) such is the richness of the pasture in these little verdant interstices, that cattle are fattened upon it in a much shorter time than on a meadow of the most cultured aspect; and though to the native of Leinster this land (if we may ‘be pardoned a premeditated bull) would appear all stones, the Mayo farmer knows it from experience to be a profitable tenure. Sometimes deep clefts occur between these laminae of limestone rock, which, closely overgrown with verdure, have not infrequently occasioned serious accidents to man. and beast; and one of these chasms, of larger dimensions than usual, forms the entrance to the celebrated cave in question.

Very rude steps of unequal height, partly natural and partly artificial, lead the explorer of its quiet beauty, by an abrupt descent, to the bottom of the cave, which contains an enlightened area of some thirty or forty feet, whence a naturally vaulted passage opens, of the deepest gloom. The depth of the cave may be about equal to its width at the bottom; the mouth is not more than twelve or fifteen feet across; and pendent from its margin clusters of ivy and other parasite plants bang and cling in all the fantastic variety of natural festooning and tracery. It is a truly beautiful and poetical little spot, and particularly interesting to the stranger from, being unlike anything else one has ever seen, and having none of the noisy and vulgar pretence of regular show-places,which calls upon you every moment to exclaim “Prodigious!”

An elderly and decent-looking woman had just filled her pitcher with the deliciously cold and clear water of the subterranean river that flowed along its bed of small, smooth, and many-coloured pebbles, as I arrived at the bottom; and perceiving at once that I was a stranger, she paused, partly perhaps with the pardonable pride of displaying her local knowledge, but more from the native peasant politeness of her country, to become the temporary Cicerone of the cave. She spoke some word of Irish, and hurried forth on her errand a very handsome and active boy, of whom she informed me she was the great-grandmother.

“Great-grandmother! “I repeated, in unfeigned astonishment.