Stories and Legends of Travel and History, for Children Part 13

It runs very rapidly, with bright sparkles and pleasant murmurs, down a deep rocky ravine, whose jagged sides are overgrown with moss and ferns, and overhung with luxuriant foliage.

A path leads up the glen to the waterfall. This is considered by the people here a sublime and magnificent cataract, and it is very fine in its way, and abundantly makes up in beauty for what it lacks in awfulness; it is a charming thing to look at, and listen to, and ramble about; and though it does not thunder and plunge and roar, like Niagara, it glads the hearts of all who behold it--it manufactures quite as radiant bows in the sunshine, and makes soft, musical, lulling sounds enough to soothe all the peevish and restless children in the world to sleep.

The entire descent at this fall is said to be about three hundred feet; but it is only when the stream has been reinforced and encouraged by heavy winter rains, that it takes the whole great jump at once.

The next stopping-place of much interest was Glendalough, which means, "The Glen of the Two Lakes." This is usually called "The Valley of the Seven Churches;" for here, in a very small s.p.a.ce, are the ruins of that number of rude little churches, and several other edifices, most of them said to have been built as early as the sixth century, by St.

Keven.

The place reminds one of "The Valley of the Shadow of Death," in "Pilgrim's Progress," and it is hard to believe that any thing like a "city" ever stood on so gloomy and desolate a spot. Yet history says so; and it is certain the O'Tooles and MacTooles, for centuries kings of all this region, lived here, or near here, in old-fashioned Irish state, and were buried generation after generation of them in the Church of Rhefeart.

The two lakes are small and quiet; but the water seems very deep, and is remarkably dark-colored. There is something really awful in the look of the lower lake, which is shut in by steep black mountains. On the side of one of these, Lugduff, about thirty feet above the water, is a singular little cave, which looks as though it had been hewn from the solid rock, and is called St. Keven's Bed. The legend about it is, that when St. Keven was a handsome young man of twenty, he made up his mind to be a priest, and a saint--so, gave up all thoughts of love and marriage, and devoted himself to a life of loneliness, privation, and penance. It unluckily happened that a certain n.o.ble young lady, named Kathleen, (the last name has not come down to us--perhaps it was O'Toole,) took a great fancy to him, and offered him her hand, with a very respectable property. To her surprise and mortification, he not only did not accept, but actually ran away from her. He went to Glendalough, then a wilderness, and scooped out this little den in the rock--a place very difficult of access, both from the mountain and the lake. Here he hid, laughing to himself that he had outwitted Kathleen.

But, one morning, he was wakened by hearing his name called, very softly, and opening his eyes, who should he see but Miss Kathleen, standing at the opening of the little cave, and smiling at him--as much as to say, "Ah, you rogue, you see you can't escape me."

Shocked at the impropriety of her conduct, and provoked at being found out, he put his feet against her, and kicked her into the lake! where, I am sorry to say, she drowned in a very short time. In our day, there would have been a hue and cry raised--a coroner's inquest--a great talk in the newspapers--a trial--and, if the jury agreed, a hanging; but there was nothing of the kind in that benighted time--n.o.body arrested Keven, or punished him, and he went on his pious way in peace, building churches and monasteries, and working miracles, or what pa.s.sed for such, till he got to be a very famous saint indeed. But my opinion is, that it took more than the working of all the miracles a.s.signed to him, and the building of those miserable little edifices at Glendalough, to atone for the drowning of that poor, foolish girl, Kathleen.

Mr. and Mrs. S. C. Hall, in their admirable work On Ireland, give several other anecdotes, told by their guide, Wynder, which ill.u.s.trate the saint's goodness of heart in rather an improbable way. "One day, when he had retired to keep the forty days of Lent, in fasting, meditation, and prayer, as he was holding his hand out of the window, a blackbird came and laid her four eggs in it; and the saint, pitying the bird, and unwilling to disturb her, never drew in his hand, but kept it stretched out until she had brought forth her young, and they were fully fledged and flew off with a chirping quartette of thanks to the holy man, for his _convaynience_." Another is of "how he was once going up Derrybawn, when he met a woman that carried five loaves in her ap.r.o.n. 'What have you there, good woman?' said the saint. 'I have five stones,' said she. 'If they are stones,' said he, 'I pray that they may be bread; and if they are bread, I pray that they may be stones.' So with that, the woman let them fall; and sure enough, stones they were, and stones they are to this day." Our guide told us this same anecdote, in a queer, half jesting, half believing way, and pointed out the stones to us. I thought to myself that if they had not been stones in the first place, they must have been very _heavy bread_--too hard fare even for a saint.

We clambered up the rock, and crawled into the cave, which we found all carved and written over with names--among them a few of distinguished persons, such as Thomas Moore, Maria Edgeworth, Mr. and Mrs. S. C.

Hall, and Walter Scott.

After leaving Glendalough, we visited the "Sweet Vale of Avoca," which the poet Moore has rendered famous by a song, called "The Meeting of the Waters."

It is a little green valley, in which meet two streams--the Avonmore and the Avonbeg--a pretty place enough, but hardly coming up to Mr.

Moore's description.

The next day we explored "The Devil's Glen," an exceedingly beautiful place, for all its naughty name. It is somewhat like the Dargle, but more wild and romantic. It also has its rugged hills, its stream, and its waterfall--or its mountains, river, and cataract; as, being in a foreign country, I suppose we should be polite enough to call them, instead of letting ourselves be carried away by conceit in our Mississippis and Niagaras, and being "stuck up" on our Alleghanies and Mount Washingtons.

Our last day in Wicklow was spent at the beautiful and romantic country seat of Sir Philip Crampton, or Lough Bray, a wild, lonely little mountain lake, whose sh.o.r.es are all black peat, or barren rock, except where flourish the pleasant plantations and shrubberies of Sir Philip, growing upon manufactured ground, and looking like the enchanted gardens we read of in fairy tales.

The Lough is a smooth dark sheet of water, so deep in the centre that it cannot be sounded. There is a pretty pebbly beach at one end, and all around the other sh.o.r.es the waves make a peculiar musical sound against the precipitous rocks. It is a charming little lake for boating, and in fine weather, Sir Philip Crampton always gives his guests the pleasure of a trip in his pretty row-boat. There are great numbers of duck and other water-fowl about the lake, which Sir Philip, who is a kind, genial, delightful old gentleman, has tamed, by feeding them with crumbs of bread, which he always carries about him when he goes on the water. No sooner does he make his appearance, than his winged pets are after him in flocks, all clamoring eagerly for their "daily bread."

Sir Philip Crampton told me that when his friend, Sir Walter Scott, was at Lough Bray, on his last visit, a boat excursion was proposed. Sir Walter had always been pa.s.sionately fond of boating, and now his eye brightened, and he smiled gladly at the thought of his favorite amus.e.m.e.nt. But just as the party were about stepping into the boat, Mrs. Scott, Sir Walter's young daughter-in-law, drew back, and declared that she was afraid to go. Everybody urged her and reasoned with her, but she could not be persuaded--she would not go--she would stay where she was. Sir Walter did not seem at all vexed with her, though he laughed at her childish fears, but insisted on staying with her; and as the boat pushed off, he sat down on the sh.o.r.e beside her, and plucked flowers for her hair, and tried his best to entertain her--the good, kind great man! When the laughter and songs of his merry friends came to him across the water, he would smile cheerily, and wave his hat to them, and never once said how sorry he was not to be with them. I have heard many n.o.ble things about Sir Walter Scott, but nothing that speaks better for his generous, tender heart, than this little anecdote.

I should like to describe further this strange and charming place, but I fear I have no room for any more descriptions of scenery. I will now try to give you some idea of the fairy lore and superst.i.tions of this part of Ireland.

The fairies, or "good people," according to the belief of the peasants, are not confined to any locality; they are all over the country, wherever they can find pleasant, secluded nooks, flowers, and green gra.s.s. Their meeting-places are said to be the "Raths," which are singular artificial mounds, supposed to have been built by the Danes, away back in the heathen ages. Fairies have the reputation of being in general good-humored and kindly, though full of merry pranks and frolicsome tricks; yet the peasants are very careful not to offend them by intruding upon their haunts at night, or speaking disrespectfully of their little mightinesses--for they say, "they have tempers of their own, and not having a Christian _idication_, can't be blamed for not behaving in a Christian-like fashion--poor _craturs_."

The _Phooka_ is said to be a half-wicked, half-mischievous spirit, who takes the form of many strange animals, but oftenest a.s.sumes that of a wild horse. His great object then, is to get a rider, and when he has persuaded a poor fellow to mount him, he never lets him off till he has treated him to a ride long and hard enough to last him his lifetime.

Over bogs and moors, ditches and walls, across streams, up and down mountains, he gallops, leaps, and plunges, making the welkin ring with his horrible horse-laugh, and snorting fire from his nostrils.

There is a funny story told of one Jerry Deasy, who paid the Phooka well for such a ride. The next night, he provided himself with a "_shillalah_," or big stick, and put on a pair of sharp spurs, and when the Phooka appeared, and invited him to take another little excursion, he mounted, and so belabored the head and cut up the sides of the beast, that he was quite subdued, and trotted home, with Jerry, to his own cabin door.

The "_Banshee_" is a gloomy, foreboding spirit, of rather aristocratic tastes, as she is only attached to highly respectable old families.

She never appears but to announce some great misfortune, or the death of a member of the household. She does this by howling and shrieking in the night; and sometimes, they say, she is seen--a tall, pale woman, in long white robes, with black hair flying in the wind.

The most amusing of these supernatural creatures is the Leprehawn, or Luriceen, or Clericaune, the brogue-maker of the "good people." This fairy cobbler is said to have inexhaustible concealed treasure; and sometimes, when he is busily at work, he is surprised and caught. Then he can be made to give up his riches, if his captor keeps his eye fixed on him all the time. But he is almost sure to divert attention, and then is off like a flash. While we are on this subject, I will tell you a little story.

TIM O'DALY AND THE CLERICAUNE.

Tim O'Daly was an under-gamekeeper upon Lord Powerscourt's estate, and lived in a nice comfortable cottage, near the Dargle. He had a tidy, thrifty, good-tempered wife, and half a dozen fine, hearty boys and girls--the eldest nearly young men and women. Tim, himself, was honest and industrious, and very much trusted by his master, and yet he was not a happy man. He was _discontented_, because he was poor, and obliged to work for a living. He longed for wealth and ease--to see his wife ride in her carriage, and to make his sons and daughters gentlemen and ladies. In short, he thought that riches were all that was needed to put the O'Dalys where they deserved to be in the world, and make them great and happy. So much did he think of these things, that he was always on the look-out for the _Clericaune_, determined, if ever he should see him, to catch him, and make him deliver up his treasure.

One evening, as he was going home through the Dargle, he sat down on a mossy stone, and fell to thinking of his hard lot, and wondering what Providence had against the O'Dalys, that he had not been made a lord, or at least, a rich squire.

All at once, he heard the click, click, of the _Clericaune's_ little hammer on his lapstone! He rose softly--parted the bushes, and there sat the wee brogue-maker, busily at work.

The next moment, Tim had him fast in his fist, and fast he held him, till the elf showed him where his treasure was hid.

Then, after loading himself with gold and jewels, he set the fairy free, and went home dancing and singing in a very strange and indecorous way. The news and the treasure he brought set his sober family wild with joy. They had a great feast and dance over it--all to themselves, for they were grown too grand to a.s.sociate with their poor neighbors.

Then Tim went and bought a castle, a real old castle, from an impoverished lord--with fine furniture, pictures, horses, hounds, plate, wines, whiskey, and a famous Banshee, who lived in an old turret, especially built for her accommodation.

Tim took his family to this castle, and set up a splendid style of living. n.o.body was troubled with work or care now, except in the pursuit of pleasure; and yet, to poor Tim's astonishment, n.o.body was happy. He was most miserable of all, for he found it hardest to get used to rich clothes, rich food, authority, and idleness. His wife had her carriage--but she was always driving about in it--never at home with him. His daughters put on fine airs, with fine clothes, and learned to despise their ignorant old father, His sons took to bad company, drinking, rioting, and fox-chasing--and, as they did not know much about riding, they were always getting tumbles, and breaking their necks. His old friends were too humble to come near him in his grandeur, and the gentry too proud to notice such a rough, vulgar fellow, who had got rich in some sudden, suspicious way. He had hoped that Lord Powerscourt, at least, would visit him, "for the sake of old times, and out of neighborly feeling just,"--and Mrs. O'Daly counted confidently on a "betther acquaintance with her Ladyship." "An' sure,"

she said, "our young folk will be mighty thick directly, and what should hinder the young lord from taking a fancy to our Peggy? Arrah!

they would make an ilegant match, by raison of his height an' her shortness,--an' thin, haven't they hair of the same lively shade of red?"

But Lord Powerscourt, who had always been a kind and affable master, seemed put upon the very tallest stilts of his dignity, when he met his old servant now; and though he congratulated him on his good fortune, never honored him with either a formal or friendly call--while Lady Powerscourt and her daughters, who had often visited the cottage by the Dargle, in times of sickness and trouble, were never seen driving up the avenue of O'Daly Castle,--and as for the young lord, he went abroad, about these days, and was lost to Miss Peggy O'Daly forever.

Tim's new neighbors laughed at him for his pretensions, and the blunders his family made in "aping their betters,"--his servants imposed on him, and there was nothing but coldness, discord, and wicked waste in his grand old castle, so unlike the humble, happy home of the game-keeper.

Even the Banshee, in whom he had felt so much pride, was no consolation; for, being indignant that low-born peasants had dared to take the place of the ancient and n.o.ble family she had so long patronized, she did nothing but howl about the castle, every night of her life.

At length, things got to such a desperate pa.s.s, that Tim could endure them no longer, but took the few fairy jewels and guineas that remained, and went with them to the place where he had caught the _Clericaune_.

There he was again, and he looked up at Tim with a wicked twinkle in his eye, for he knew, the rascal, what trouble unearned riches bring upon one. Tim emptied his pockets of gold and precious stones, and flung them at the little brogue-maker's head--crying out--

"There, take back yer dirty treasure, and bad luck to you, you spalpeen of a fairy, for decaying a Christian!"

He threw with such force, that he flung himself off the stone--_and that woke him!_

Yes, the capture of the _Clericaune_, his wealth, his grand castle, and all his trouble were _a dream_. He got up and looked about him, a little bewildered at first, but soon recollected himself, and set out for home, a wiser and happier man than when he entered the Dargle that afternoon.

It was late and supper was waiting for him. His good wife smiled when he came in, and put by her sewing; his sons and daughters had all come from their work or school, and greeted him affectionately. As he sat down with them to their simple evening meal of bread, milk, and potatoes, they noticed that he said grace with unusual fervor, and then looked round upon them all with tears in his eyes.

His home was as humble as ever--but somehow, it had grown beautiful to him, for the sunshine of _contentment_ was over every thing. His wife was as far from riding in her carriage, and his boys and girls from being gentlemen and ladies, as ever; but he loved them and was proud of them for their goodness and honesty, and he felt that G.o.d had done better for them than he could do, with all the riches in the world.

Antrim--The Giant's Causeway.

THE POOR SCHOOLMASTER.

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 quant.i.ties 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 a.s.sociation, 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.