Stories and Legends of Travel and History, for Children Part 8

Mrs. O'Shaughnessy kept a few geese, and just before the door there was a little muddy pond, where they enjoyed themselves, and on the edges of which the pig wallowed, and dozed; except on stormy days, when he preferred to go into the house. Now, among the poor Irish peasants, the pig is a very important personage, and is treated with a great deal of respect, for he usually pays the rent. With Mrs. O'Shaughnessy, it was first herself and husband, then her son Teddy, then _the Pig_; then the girls, Biddy and Peggy and Katy; and then, our hero, Larry O'Sullivan. If she had known he was to be our hero, she might have put him before the _colleens_, (girls,) but not, I think, before the pig.

Larry O'Sullivan was a poor orphan boy, the child of a sister of Michael O'Shaughnessy, by whom he had been adopted, when his father and mother died of the fever. Larry was very handsome, and what was better, very good, but he led rather a hard life of it at his new home.

His uncle was kind, but he was a gentle, meek sort of a man--his wife ruled every thing at the cabin, and she did not like Larry overmuch.

She thought it hard that he should not only eat the food and wear the clothes that her own children needed, but should be more liked and admired in the neighborhood than they. She doted on her own boy, Teddy, and thought him not only good-looking, but wonderfully clever--when, in fact, a plainer or more stupid young bog-trotter could hardly be found in all Ireland. She was a strong-minded woman, and did not make much account of her girls--and there she was not far wrong--except in regard to the youngest, Katy, who was a pretty, blue-eyed darling, as sweet and as bright as a May morning. Katy and Larry were famous good friends--Larry was the pulse of Katy's heart, and Katy was the light of Larry's eyes.

The children all went to school in the village, about a mile away.

Dermot Finnigen, the schoolmaster, was also a tailor, a barber, a bit of a doctor, and a fiddler. He did very well at all his professions, but he was greatest at fiddling.

From the first, Larry was the master's favorite--not because he was particularly studious, but because he took to the fiddle as naturally, Dermot said, "as a ducklin' takes to the wather, just." Indeed, the boy showed such extraordinary talent for music, that, for the mere love of it, Dermot gave him lessons, and often lent him an old fiddle to practise on.

Larry had also a very sweet voice, and in singing the wild ballads of the country, could make people laugh or cry, just as it pleased him to do.

Larry coveted, more than any thing in the world, the old fiddle of his master. Dermot was willing to sell it, as he had a better, but he said he could not part with it even to his favorite pupil, for less than a crown. Now Larry in all his life had never held so much money--so he despaired of ever being rich enough to have a fiddle of his own.

One spring-time, when Larry was about twelve and Teddy fourteen, a great trouble came upon the house of the O'Shaughnessys--the pig died!

One morning, soon after this sad event, as the two boys were on the way to the little village, on some errand, a travelling carriage pa.s.sed them, driving rapidly. As it turned a corner, a small writing-case was jolted off from one of the seats, and fell into the road. Larry picked it up, and the two boys ran after the carriage, shouting to the driver to stop. But he took them for beggars, and drove on the faster. So they followed, for more than a mile, running at the top of their speed, calling and holding up the writing-case.

At last, the carriage stopped, and the boys came up panting, and gave the writing-case to a gentleman, who seemed very happy to get it, as he said it contained valuable papers and money. He thanked the boys, and gave them each a crown.

Larry's beautiful brown eyes danced with joy. "Arrah, Teddy," said he, "sure this is a rale providince! I'll go immadiately an buy Dermot's ould feddle."

"Faix thin, Larry, ye'll make thrue the sayin'--'a fool and his money be soon parted.' _I'll_ go an' buy the Widdy Mullowny's pig, and fat it for the Fair. It's meself that knows how to spind money in a sinsible way. A feddle indade!"

Larry did not heed Teddy's sneers, but went directly and bought the fiddle. He hugged it to his heart, and danced for joy all the way home. But such a scolding as met him there! All blamed him for his extravagance, but little Katy, who stole up to him and whispered--"Niver mind the hard discoorse, Larry; ye've got the feddle ony how, and it's mighty glad I am."

Larry was never allowed to play on his treasure within the cabin walls; it was always "Away wid ye now, ye lazy feddling spalpeen!" But up amid the gorge of the hill side, he used to sit, with Katy, on pleasant summer evenings, playing so late that Katy would creep close to him, fancying she saw the "little folk," or fairies, dancing in the moonlight, to his delicious music.

In the mean time, "Phelim," the pig, throve finely, and grew to be, as Mrs. O'Shaughnessy said, "an iligant cratur, intirely." Every meal, after the family had eaten, the remains were thrown into the potato-kettle, and "the sinsible baste claned it out beautifully," so saving work for Mrs. O'Shaughnessy.

At last, the first day of the Fair arrived, and Teddy and Larry set out for Donnybrook, with the pig,--Larry taking his fiddle.

Now Phelim had been a wonderful animal at home, and in his own mud-puddle, but it was quite another thing at Donnybrook. There he was eclipsed by pigs of a more choice breed, fatter, cleaner, and better behaved. Teddy was sadly disappointed and mortified--he had supposed that there would be a tremendous compet.i.tion for that jewel of a pig.

"Suppose, Larry, ye strike up a tune on yer feddle, to call the attintion of the folk, just," said he, at last.

Larry began very timidly, but in a few moments an admiring group was collected around him. A purchaser was soon found for Phelim, and Teddy having doubled his money, felt rich and grand, and cast rather contemptuous looks on his thriftless cousin. But before the day was over, Larry had made more money than two pigs like Phelim would bring--by playing for the dancers, and singing ballads. Among those who listened most attentively to him was a great musician from Dublin, who saw at once that the lad had a remarkable genius for music. He talked with him, and was much pleased with his intelligence and modesty. Larry was glad to find it was the same gentleman whose writing-case he had picked up a few months before.

Mr. R---- inquired where the boys lived, and the next day drove down to Michael O'Shaughnessy's, and offered to take his nephew and educate him for a musician.

So Larry went to town, to live with his kind benefactor. He was well clothed and cared for and being good and grateful, studied hard to be a finished musician. He never forgot his humble home, or felt above his poor relations. Every Sunday he walked out to see them, and good old Dermot, who was fond and proud of him, you may depend. His cousin Katy grew still dearer to him as the years wore on, and he blessed the time when he was rich enough to take her to Dublin, and put her to school.

It was said she was to be governess--but every body thought Larry would have no other wife but Katy--and every body was right.

Larry _has_ become a great musician--so great that even Mrs.

O'Shaughnessy admits that he "is not a bad fiddler."

From Dublin to Cork and Blarney Castle.

LITTLE NORAH AND THE BLARNEY STONE.

We left Dublin for Cork, on a fresh August morning--pleasant but showery, like nearly all mornings in Ireland. The railway on which we travelled, pa.s.ses for the most part through a barren, boggy, desolate country, with only here and there a tract of well cultivated land--past low, miserable hovels of bog-working peasants, and wretched, tumble-down little villages.

It was melancholy to see, all along our way, mult.i.tudes of ruins--churches and castles and towers--battered, dismantled, and ivy-grown--making it look more like a country of the dead than of the living. In these crumbling remains, you read, almost as in a book, the history of the ancient prosperity and power of Ireland, and of its gradual destruction by wars, sieges, famine, and pestilence, till it was brought to its present state of poverty and desolation.

We pa.s.sed through, or in sight of, several famous old places, such as Kildare, the Rock of Dunamase, Cashel, Kilmallock, and b.u.t.tevant.

Kildare, though now a small, dilapidated town, was once a large city, renowned for its religious inst.i.tutions. Its princ.i.p.al buildings were churches, monasteries, and nunneries, and its chief productions crucifixes, rosaries, and saints. The most celebrated among the latter, was Saint Bridget, who received the veil from the hands of St Patrick himself. She founded a nunnery here, which was most remarkable for "the sacred fire," which the nuns who succeeded her kept burning for hundreds of years--in remembrance of her, probably. From a little story related of her, when she was a child, I should say she better deserved to be called a saint than many of those so honored by the Church.

The father of Bridget was a warlike Irish chieftain, but a loyal subject of the King of Leinster, and on one occasion, that monarch bestowed upon him a rich sword, with the hilt set with costly jewels.

Now the peasants on this chieftain's estates were very poor--indeed, suffering absolute starvation, and there was no one to help them, for their lord had enough to do to fight his enemies, without feeding his humble friends; and his wife, Bridget's stepmother, was a hard, cruel woman. Poor little Bridget gave all her pocket-money, and sold all her little keepsakes, for their relief, and still they were starving. At last, she went to the armory and took down her father's idle, show sword, and had the rich jewels taken out of the hilt and sold. With the money she bought food, and saved the lives of several most worthy but unfortunate families. When her father came home, she told him what she had done. History does not say, but we can easily guess, what _he_ did. And that was not the last of it; soon after, the King came to her father's house to dine, and having heard about the theft, called the child up to him, and asked her how she had dared to do such a wicked thing as to rob her father and deface the gift of a great monarch.

Now, we republicans can have very little idea of what it was to be called up and spoken to in this way. Kings, in old times, were far more terrible than they are now, and Irish kings were the most terrible of all. But brave little Bridget, though she was only nine years old, was not frightened by his black frown and thunder-like voice. She stood up straight, and looked calmly into his angry eyes, as she replied: "I have but bestowed thy gift upon a greater and a mightier king than thou art--even Christ, who hath said that whatsoever we give unto his poor children is given unto him."

In the neighborhood of Kildare, is Inch Castle, about which Mrs. S. C.

Hall tells a touching legend. Inch Castle was once in the possession of the MacKellys--a proud and powerful family. Ulick, one of the sons of the old lord, a handsome, gay, daring young man, but wild and heartless, paid court to a beautiful peasant girl, named Oona More. He won her love, and then, being very fickle, cruelly forsook her. Oona was very good and gentle--she forgave her false lover, and would not allow her brothers to harm him, though he had broken her loving heart.

Suddenly the plague broke out in the neighborhood, and Ulick MacKelly was one of the first struck. As was the custom, for fear of the infection, he was removed at once from the castle to the fields, where a shed was erected over him, and he was left alone with only a loaf of bread and a pitcher of water by his side. When Oona heard of this, she forgot his cruel desertion--forgot every thing but his suffering and her love--and went to him, and tended him, and prayed beside him, day and night, till he died. Even then, she did not leave him. She had taken his deadly disease; on her breast came a bright red spot--the sure sign of the plague. She was not sorry to see it there and the next day, all her pain and trouble and sorrows were over. Then her brother came to take her away. She still sat by the dead--her hood fell over her face, so she seemed to be yet alive. Her brother laid his hand on her shoulder, and said, gently--

"Oona, come home--the cow is lowing for you--the little lambs have no one to care for them. Oona, dear, come home with me!"

Seeing that she did not stir, he lifted the hood, looked in her dead face, and gave a bitter cry. He had no sister any more.

We pa.s.sed through a portion of the "Bog of Allen," the largest of all Irish bogs--said to be full 300,000 acres in extent. Some of my readers may not know that the bog is not the primitive soil, but ma.s.ses of partly decomposed vegetable matter, which have acc.u.mulated during many, many ages. In nearly all of the bogs, trees of various kinds have been found imbedded--sometimes small buildings, arms, ornaments, strange implements, and the bones of enormous animals, now extinct.

From oak dug up from bogs, many pretty black ornaments are now made.

This bog takes its name from the hill of Allen, or "Dun Almhain," on which was the residence of the famous old Irish chief, Fin MacCual, or Fingal, as he is called in Ossian's Poems. He was the king of the Fians, the name of the ancient Irish tribes who lived by hunting. He must have been handsome as well as heroic, for he was, it seems, a wonderful favorite with the ladies. It is related that when he concluded that it was time for him to take a wife, he was sadly puzzled who to choose among his many fair admirers. Finally, he settled upon a plan odd and funny enough, certainly. He sent out a proclamation to all the beautiful young women of Ireland, calling upon them to a.s.semble on a certain day, at the foot of a mountain in Tipperary, now called Slieve-na-man. When they had all come together, a host of rival beauties in their best array, the great chief coolly announced to them that he was about to ascend the mountain, and that from the summit, he would make a signal to them, when they should all start fair, and whoever should first reach the summit, should have the honor and felicity of being Mrs. Fin MacCual. He then proceeded leisurely up the mountain, seated himself on an old Druidical altar, at the very topmost point, and graciously waved his hand to the expectant ladies below.

Off they started like eager young race-horses,--nothing daunted by the hard course they had to run. Up, up, over rocks and streams, and patches of black bog--up, up, through woods and briars and furze, they leaped and climbed and scrambled--laughing and panting and scolding and screaming! Ah, what sport it must have been for Fin, watching them from above! Yet, though they all ran well, only one came in winner.

But that was the highest princess of the country--Graine, daughter of Cormac, monarch of all Ireland. I hope she found her husband worth the chase.

The great rock of Dunarnase stands alone in the midst of a plain, and is crowned with the ruins of a castle--once a very strong fortress.

The rock of Cashel is seen from a great distance, and upon its summit are the finest ruins in all Ireland. This n.o.ble height was a stronghold of the ancient kings of the province of Munster. The first Christian kings built churches, chapels, towers, and cathedrals here, and the present ruins are mostly of religious edifices. This imposing site is much venerated still, and a favorite oath among the Irish peasantry is--"By the Rock of Cashel!"

Kilmallock, now all in ruins, was once a city of great beauty and consideration. It was destroyed by the troops of Cromwell, the desolater of Ireland. Kilmallock was the seat of the ancient and powerful race of the Desmonds.

b.u.t.tevant is a poor little place, but containing the ruins of a fine old abbey. Near b.u.t.tevant are the ruins of Kilcoleman Castle, at which the great poet Spenser lived, and which was burned by the Irish in a rebellion. The youngest child of the poet perished in the flames.

Cork is usually ranked as the second city of Ireland, and is a handsome, pleasant, prosperous looking place. It has not many interesting antiquities, but some of its modern buildings are very fine. The country around Cork is exceedingly picturesque, and its harbor is very beautiful. The city itself is about twelve miles from the mouth of the harbor, upon the River Lee.

We had letters of introduction to a gentleman living at Monkstown, about six miles below the city, and on the day after our arrival, we took the steamboat and went down to his residence. We were received with warm Irish hospitality, and throughout that day and the next, every thing that our friend and his family could do for our enjoyment was done in the pleasantest and heartiest way. They took us boating up and down the n.o.ble bay--driving along the sh.o.r.es, and walking over their estate. There was always a large, lively party, and we had the merriest times imaginable. They made a pic-nic for us, on Cove Island, but a rain coming on, we took refuge in an old, old castle, where we feasted, and jested, and laughed, and sung songs, and even danced, in the rough and gloomy halls in which, hundreds and hundreds of years ago, were gathered barbaric Irish chieftains--grim, terrible fellows--parading the spoils of the chase, or the plunder of war.

A little way back from their house, our friends have another ruin--Monkstown Castle. This was built in 1636--tradition says at only the cost of a groat. Of course, the statement was a puzzle to me, when I first heard it, but it was soon explained. The estate belonged, at that time, to John Archdeken, who, while serving with the army abroad, left his wife in charge of his property. She was a thrifty woman, and determined to surprise him on his return by a n.o.ble residence, which should cost very little. So she hired workmen, with the privilege of supplying them with all their provisions and articles of clothing.

These she purchased by wholesale, and though she sold them at the ordinary retail price, found in the end, that the profits had only fallen short of paying the expenses of building, one groat.

It came very hard for us to part from our kind friends at Monkstown--but it has by no means been hard to keep them in loving remembrance.

Just a pleasant drive from Cork is Blarney Castle--a n.o.ble ruin, towering above a beautiful little lake, all surrounded by delightful, though neglected grounds--made famous by an old comic song, called "The Groves of Blarney."

This stronghold was built in the fifteenth century, by the great chief, Cormac MacCarty, and retained by his descendants, the lords of Clancarty and Musterry, until 1689, when it was confiscated. It has since belonged to a family of Jeffries. The sad work of decay and demolition has been going on for several centuries, and yet some of the walls look as though they would stand centuries longer.