Stories and Legends of Travel and History, for Children Part 6

All Irish carmen drive furiously, and the cars go jumping and hopping along, and spinning round the corners, at such a rate that one feels rather nervous at first, and has no little difficulty in keeping on.

But like many other things, it's easy enough, when you get used to it.

We found Gresham's Hotel a very comfortable, pleasant place, and we soon felt at home, though we saw none but Irish faces, and heard only the Irish brogue around us; for those faces were smiling and cordial, and that rich, musical brogue seemed bubbling up from kindly hearts.

I have not told you much about Wales in this chapter, because rus.h.i.+ng through the country, as I did, I really saw very little of it. The people seemed quiet, cleanly, and industrious; but they did not look, or dress at all like the English. I noticed that many of the women seemed rather masculine in their tastes--wearing hats and coats like the men, and that the children were dressed in an odd old-fas.h.i.+oned way, and looked serious, shrewd, and mature--almost as though they were a race of dwarfs. The Welsh language had to me a strange, harsh, barbaric sound, and when listening to it, I realized for the first time since I had left America, that I was indeed far away from home. I do not doubt, however, but that if I had seen more of the Welsh, I should have liked them heartily, for they are said to be very kindly, honest, and hospitable. They are naturally brave and st.u.r.dy lovers of liberty.

In old times the English had a hard and tedious struggle with them, before they could subdue them. Often, when they thought they had the whole rude nation under their hands, or rather under their feet, the rebellious spirit would break out again in a new spot, fiercer and hotter than ever, and all the work had to be done over again.

Many of the stories in Welsh history are very grand and heroic, but they are also very terrible; and I think you will find more to your taste a simple little story of domestic life, which I have picked up somewhere, and can a.s.sure you is as true as a great deal we find in history.

THE FISHERMAN'S RETURN.

A good many years ago, somewhere on the southwestern coast of Wales, there lived an honest fisherman, by the name of John Jenkins. The Jenkinses are a very numerous and respectable family in Wales, and so are the Joneses.

Mrs. Jenkins was a Jones, but she was not half so proud of her high and vast family connections, as she was of her industrious, hardy husband, and her pretty little daughter, f.a.n.n.y.

When f.a.n.n.y was a fortnight-old baby, the least, puny, little, pink creature, wrapped in flannel, there came up a dreadful storm, and a small London packet was wrecked on the coast, near her father's cottage. The pa.s.sengers were all lost except a little boy, about three years of age, whom John Jenkins saved at the risk of his life. Two of the crew escaped, but they could tell nothing of the child more than that he came from Ireland, and was bound for London, with his nurse.

The boy could give no clear account of himself, but he wore round his neck a gold locket, with arms engraved on it, and containing a lock of black hair, twined with small pearls. So the fisherman concluded that he must belong to some great family; and when they asked what was his name, they expected to hear some prodigious great t.i.tle, such as earl, or marquis; but when he proudly answered, "Brian O'Neill," they could make nothing of it--little knowing, simple folks as they were, that the O'Neills were once kings and princes in Ireland. But that was in the old, old time; great changes have taken place since, and there are a few O'Neills quite in common life nowadays.

John Jenkins did all that lay in his power to find the parents and home of the child--but he was poor and ignorant--the lord of the manor was a little boy, at school, and the steward could not or would not help him; so, his efforts all proving useless, he adopted Brian, and brought him up as his son, giving him a tolerably good education, and training him for his own honest calling.

O'Neill grew into a fine, hearty, brave lad,--not at all conceited or haughty in his ways, though he was proud, he scarcely knew why, of his Irish name,--always treasured up his locket of gold, and often declared that he could remember the head from which that hair was cut--his mother's--and how he had seen it shut away under the coffin-lid, the very day that his nurse set out with him for London. He said, too, that he could remember his home; a grand old castle, near a lake, and a great park, and a little cottage, where his foster-mother lived, and his foster-father, a terrible man, who used to get drunk and break things; and how once, when running away from him, he fell and cut his head. Here Brian always lifted the hair off his forehead, and, sure enough, there was a scar quite plain to be seen.

f.a.n.n.y Jenkins grew up into a good and beautiful girl, and it seemed very natural that she and young O'Neill should love one another, and when they married and set up for themselves n.o.body objected. Indeed, so much were they beloved, that all who were able, helped them, and those who had nothing to give, wished them well and smiled on their courageous love, and so did them more good than they thought.

The lord of the manor built them a beautiful cottage by the sea, with long narrow windows and turrets, almost like a castle; and the Lord of lords blessed them and prospered them, and in due time gave them a little son, whom they called Brian Patrick Jenkins Jones O'Neill, and who was just the brightest, best, and most beautiful baby ever beheld,--at least f.a.n.n.y thought so, and surely mothers are the best judges of babies.

They lived a very happy life, that humble little family. Every morning early the young fisherman went out in his pretty boat, the "f.a.n.n.y Jenkins," for his day's toil and adventure, leaving his cheerful little wife at her work--spinning, sewing, or caring for the child; and every night, when he returned tired and hungry, as fishermen often are, and found a tidy home, a smiling wife, a crowing baby and a hearty meal awaiting him, he thought and said, that he was just the happiest O'Neill in all the world.

In tempestuous weather f.a.n.n.y suffered a great deal from anxiety for her brave husband, who would always put out to sea, unless the storm was very serious indeed.

At length, one lowering day in September, when he was far out of sight of home, a sudden squall came up, which deepened into a tempest as the day wore on.

With anxious heart and tearful eyes poor f.a.n.n.y watched through the gloomy sunset, for his coming,--half longing, half fearing to see his frail vessel driven toward the land on such an angry sea.

But the day and night pa.s.sed, and he did not come. The next four or five days were dark and stormy; there were several wrecks upon the coast, and Brian was given up for lost by all but his wife. She still kept up a good heart and would not despair.

At last the storm ceased, the sea grew smooth, the skies smiled, and all looked cheerful again, save where along the wild sh.o.r.e fragments of wrecks came drifting in, and the people were burying the drowned.

At the close of a beautiful day, a week from the time that Brian O'Neill left his home, his wife sat in front of the cottage, with her baby asleep upon her lap. Her brave heart was failing her now; she grew tired of her sad, vain gazing out toward the west, and bowing her head on her hands, wept till the tears trickled through her fingers and dropped on the sleeping face before her.

So she sat a long time, weeping and praying, and calling her babe a "poor fatherless boy," when suddenly, the child smiled out of sleep and started up, calling "Papa!" f.a.n.n.y sprung to her feet, almost hoping that her Brian was by her side. No, he was not there; but, oh, joy! a little way out to sea, between her and the sunset glory, came a dear familiar object--her aquatic namesake--_the boat_! Swiftly it came o'er the bright waters, joyfully dancing toward its home! Soon a beloved form was seen waving a s.h.i.+ning sailor's hat; soon a beloved voice was heard calling her name, and soon, though it seemed an age to her, Brian O'Neill, with his oars and nets over his shoulder, as though he had only been absent for a day's fis.h.i.+ng, sprang up the steps before the cottage and clasped his wife and child to his honest heart! f.a.n.n.y laughed and wept and thanked G.o.d, the baby crowed and pulled his father's whiskers, and all were happier than I can tell.

In the evening, when his parents and the neighbors were in, to rejoice over his return, Brian told the story of his adventures.

When that dreadful storm came up, he would have been lost, had he not been near a large vessel which took up both him and his boat. This s.h.i.+p was bound to a northern Irish port, and as the storm continued, he was obliged to make the whole voyage. At B----, while he was waiting for fair weather, he looked about him a little, to see the country; and now comes the wonderful, romantic part of his story. On visiting an old and somewhat dilapidated castle, in the neighborhood of the town, he instantly recognized it as the home of his infancy; and walking straight through the park, he found the cottage of his foster-mother and the dear old woman herself--who didn't believe in him at first, because he was a great weather-beaten sailor, instead of the fair baby she had nursed. But when Brian lifted his hair and showed the scar, she was convinced and rejoiced exceedingly. Then she told him how his father, Sir Patrick O'Neill died when he was a mere baby, and left him to the guardians.h.i.+p of an uncle who proved to be a bad man. So when Lady O'Neill was dying, she made her nurse promise to take the child to her sister, in London, to have him brought up away from that wicked man. When the news came of the wreck of the "Erin," and the loss of all on board, this uncle went into mourning for six months--but his tenants were always in mourning, for he proved a very hard landlord.

Brian laid no claim then to his t.i.tle and estate, but as soon as the sea was calm, went home to ask his wife's advice, like a sensible man and a good husband.

He and f.a.n.n.y had often said that they did not envy the rich and great; but now, considering that the false baronet was so bad a man, and his tenantry so oppressed, they really thought it their duty to make an effort for rank and fortune.

Well, after a long time, Brian got his rights, by the help of a great lawyer, who took half the property in payment for his services. So he became Sir Brian O'Neill, the master of a dreary old castle and no end of bogs and potatoe patches, and f.a.n.n.y became "Her Leddys.h.i.+p, G.o.d bless her!" as the peasants used to say.

For a long time they found it rather awkward and tiresome to be grand and idle, like other great folks; so much so, that for several years they used to go over to Wales in the fis.h.i.+ng season, and live in the cottage by the sea, and Sir Brian would go out fis.h.i.+ng every day, and Lady f.a.n.n.y would spin and sew and take care of the baby, just in the old way. Living thus, they were happiest--but they were always happy and good--they lived to be very old, and died on the same day and were buried in the same grave.

Their great great-grandson, Sir Algernon O'Neill, is fond of the water, too; but he takes to it in a splendid yacht, called the "f.a.n.n.y Ellsler," with his delicate wife, the Lady Ginevra, who abhors the sea, and gets dreadfully sick always, but _will_ take cruises, because the sea air is good for the little O'Neills, _she_ says,--because Queen Victoria has set the fas.h.i.+on, some people say.

Dublin, Howth.

GRACE O'MALLEY.

It is not certainly know who was the founder of Dublin, or _Dubhlywn_, as the name was written formerly. Some learned historians say it was Avella.n.u.s, one of the Danish Vikings, an adventurous sort of monarchs of old times, very much given to a seafaring life, and piratical depredations. If Avella.n.u.s was the founder--and I don't dispute that he was--he showed great taste and wisdom in selecting the site of a city. It has a beautiful harbor; the River Liffey flows through it, a picturesque country lies around it, and in sight are romantic valleys and dark gorges and n.o.ble hills, which don't stop far short of real mountains.

Dublin remained under the rule of the Danish Sea-kings, and their descendants, till they were conquered by the English, in the year 1170.

They were, however, put down for a time in the year 1014, by a league of native princes, led by the great king, Brien-Boro. It was during this struggle that the famous battle of Clontarf was fought.

Brien-Boro was a model monarch--the King Alfred of Ireland. So perfectly were the laws administered in his reign, that it was said a fair damsel might travel alone, from one end of the Kingdom to the other, with a gold ring on the top of a wand, without danger of being robbed. I doubt very much, however, if any young lady ever performed such a journey.

From the year 1173, when Henry II. received the submission of the Irish princes, and the last Irish king, Roderic O'Connor, Ireland has remained under the government of England, and though it has had several b.l.o.o.d.y rebellions, it has never been really independent. The Irish formerly had a parliament of their own, but toward the close of the last century it was suppressed, and the union made complete.

The governors of Ireland have always been called viceroys, or lord-lieutenants. Dublin Castle was built for their residence, but for some time past it has been abandoned for "The Lodge," in Phoenix Park.

The Castle is a ma.s.sive, gloomy-looking building, now princ.i.p.ally occupied by the military.

The Parliament House, now the Bank of Ireland, the Custom-House, and Trinity College, are beautiful buildings; but I did not admire the cathedrals and churches very much, after those of England. The church of St. Anne is interesting, as containing the tomb of Felicia Hemans.

We drove about the town on a jaunting car, with a talkative driver, seeing all the sights and listening to strange, wild legends. In the pretty cemetery of Glasneven, we saw, through the grating of a vault, the magnificent coffin which contains the body of Daniel O'Connell, the great orator. We enjoyed most our drive in Phoenix Park, a n.o.ble enclosure, filled with fine trees and shrubbery, flowers, birds, gentle deer, and playful, brown-eyed fawns.

But if we liked the streets, buildings, and parka of Dublin, we liked the _people_ better. Very courteous, generous, and cordial we found all those to whose hospitality we had been commended--and warm at my heart is now, and ever will be, the dear memory of my good Dublin friends.

A pleasant excursion from the city is to the Bay, which is considered one of the most beautiful in the world; and to Howth Harbor, formerly the landing-place of the Dublin packets, but now superseded by Kingston.

The first object which strikes one on approaching Dublin by sea, is the famous Hill of Howth, which rises bold and high, on the northern coast of the bay, and stands like the great guardian and champion of Ireland.

The Dublin people are as proud of this as the Neapolitans are of Mount Vesuvius, which overlooks their n.o.ble bay of Naples. "Ah, sure ma'am,"

said an Irish sailor,--"it's as fine an ilivation, barrin' a few thousand feet of height, as that same smokin', rumblin' ould cratur, an' a dale betther behaved."

At Howth there are some very interesting Druidical remains to be seen, a fine old castle and an abbey, in which repose many brave and famous knights--the Tristrams and St. Lawrences, barons of Howth.

There is a curious and romantic legend of Howth Castle, which I will relate here.

GRACE O'MALLEY.

In the time of Queen Elizabeth, there was a celebrated woman living in the province of Connaught, Ireland, named _Grana Uille_, or Grace O'Malley. She was the chieftainess of the O'Malley's of Clare Island, and called herself a princess, but she was most famed as a female pirate-captain, or vi-_queen_, as, perhaps, she would have preferred to be called.