"And to obtain your brother's discharge, you have come on this pilgrimage to Blarney Castle, my poor child?" said Lord Clare, laying his hand gently on the little girl's head.

"Yes, and will yer honor kindly point out the stone to me? for I must go back to Cork this day."

Lord Clare took her by the hand, and leading her to the parapet, pointed down to the stone, imbedded in the outside wall. "Ah," cried Norah, in a tone of dismay and grief, "how can I reach it there? and where am I to get the heart to spake up to the lord-lieutenant for poor Phin?"

Just then, an idea of testing the courage and devotion of the child occurred to Lord Clare. Unwinding from his waist a long silk, military sash, he said, "If you will let me tie this around you, under your arms, and let you down by it, you can kiss the Blarney Stone, and I will draw you up again. Are you brave enough to venture?"

As Norah looked down from what seemed to her a dreadful height, she grew dizzy and shrank back; but when she looked up into the calm, kind eyes of Lord Clare, she took courage, and said she would go. As he tied the sash firmly about her, she said,—"If yer honor finds me heavy you'll not let me fall, for sure you have a colleen (girl) of your own."

She put up a little prayer when she went over the wall, which I doubt not was lovingly listened to, by Him who blessed little children. Safely she was lowered to the stone, and eagerly she pressed against it her soft red lips, and then called out, "I've done it, yer honor; now pull me up, if you plase."

As Lord Clare lifted her up over the parapet, Fanny, in admiration of her courage, rushed forward, flung her arms about her and kissed her—calling her "the best and bravest girl in the world." The ladies and gentlemen of the party all made presents of money, which she received with grateful thanks, but seemed bewildered by their great kindness and in a hurry to get away.

"Where are you going?" asked one.

"Back to Cork, sure, to find the lord-lieutenant, while the feel of the Blarney Stone is on my lips."

"But how will you get to speak to him?"

"Ah, then, I cannot tell; but the saints will help me, may be."

"I will tell you what to do," said Lord Clare. "Come to the Royal Hotel, where he lodges, just after the Review, to-day. I know him, and will see that orders are given to admit you, at once."

"But hadn't I better wait till his lordship has dined?" asked Norah, "for I have heard that gentlemen are better natured after dinner."

"Ah, you are a shrewd child," said Lord Clare, laughing, "but you forget that you have kissed the Blarney Stone, and need not fear even a hungry lord-lieutenant. Come at the time I set."

"And keep up good courage," whispered Fanny. "You can't expect any help from the fairies, for there are no such little folks nowadays; but there are the angels, you know—and my papa, he is almost as good as a fairy."

At the hour appointed for receiving his humble petitioner, the lord-lieutenant was standing in his parlor, at the Royal Hotel, with a group of officers in rich uniforms and ladies in full dress about him. He was amusing some of the company who had not been with him in the morning, by an account of the simplicity and heroism of the beautiful Irish child he had met, when she was shown in, by a pompous serving-man, in showy livery, who looked very much astonished and somewhat indignant at being obliged to introduce such a humble little body to a room full of grand people. But no one cared for his looks. Norah was dazzled by the sight of so much splendid dress, and went forward with timid, wavering steps to where she was told the lord-lieutenant was standing. She stood before him, quite silent for a moment, her eyes cast down, and a painful blush overspreading her artless face; then, in a trembling, hesitating voice, she began—"Will yer honor plase—no, may it plase yer lord-lieutenantship to let our poor Phin go! Sure, with all these fine soldiers you'll never miss him, and then"—here she stammered and broke quite down. Covering her face with her hands, she cried out, half sorrowfully and half in vexation, "Bad luck to the Blarney Stone! There's no good in it at all, at all—sorra a word more will it give me to spake."

Lord Clare laughed at this—a pleasant, familiar laugh—and Norah dropped her hands and looked up full in his face, for the first time during the interview. In an instant, her eyes flashed joyfully through their tears, she clapped her hands and cried,—"Blessed Saint Patrick it is himself!" The next moment, Fanny was at her side, smiling and whispering joyfully, "Didn't I tell you my papa was almost as good as a fairy?"

To make a long story short, I will say that Phin McCarthy's discharge was soon obtained, and Norah McCarthy returned to Bantry, by the public car, loaded with presents from the generous friends her beauty and brave devotion had made.

A short time after, as the lord-lieutenant and his party were passing through Bantry, on their way to Killarney, their travelling car was surrounded by the McCarthys and Nelligans, (Mary Nelligan was already Mrs. Phin McCarthy,) all come to return their thanks.

Little Lady Frances was very happy to see her Irish friend, who looked prettier than ever, in a neat new dress; and drawing her father's face down to hers, she whispered,—"Oh, papa, dear! won't you take Norah home with us, to be my little maid?" This thought had already occurred to Lord Clare, so he proposed it at once to Mrs. McCarthy. Though feeling greatly honored, the good woman was, at first, unwilling to part from her darling, and Norah to go so far from her mother; but when his lordship promised that they should often visit each other, they gratefully consented.

So Norah went to live in Dublin Castle, as the maid and playmate of Lady Frances. She was always most kindly cared for, received a good education, and was treated more as a friend than as a servant by all Lord Clare's household, for she ever retained her simple, endearing ways, and was as good as she was beautiful.

When she had been a year or two in his family, Lord Clare one day explained to her, as well as he could, the curious superstition of the Blarney Stone,—assuring her that there was in reality no virtue or power in it whatever. Norah smiled and blushed at his earnest words, as she answered in her sweet brogue, which she had not yet been educated out of,—"My Lady Frances told me long ago, that the fairies were all a pretty fable, and the Blarney Stone was like any other stone, just. I'll let the fairies go, but," (taking Fanny's hand and kissing it,) "by your lordship's leave and hers, I will stand by the Blarney Stone, for the good fortune it has brought me."



A Visit to the Lakes of Killarney.

KATHLEEN OF KILLARNEY.

The morning of our leaving Cork was dark and rainy; but it gradually cleared up, and by the time we reached Bantry, the first place of much note on our route, all was bright and smiling, overhead and along our way.

Bantry Bay is very beautiful, and is historically remarkable as the place where the French have twice attempted a landing, for the purpose of invading and revolutionizing Ireland.

Late in the afternoon, we arrived at Glengariff—one of the wildest and yet loveliest spots in all that picturesque country. How I wish I could give you such an idea of it as I have in my own mind—a great, magnificent picture, painted on my memory—in some parts sunny and green, and flowery; in others, dark and rugged, and grand. I shall always particularly remember a long row we had on the bay, in the twilight, and how the scenery of the mountainous shore and the rocky islands, and the swelling, booming waves, grew stern, solemn, and even awful, in the fast-falling shadows of evening, and the rising winds and gloomy clouds of a coming storm.

But the next morning, every thing was more sweet and quiet and radiant than I can tell. So, wild Glengariff smiled upon us in our parting, but we found it hard to smile back. We really felt sad to go so soon and forever from such a bit of paradise.

We travelled now upon a large outside car, which allowed us to see every thing on our way, and would have been a very pleasant conveyance if it had not left us too much exposed to the attacks of the beggars. The seats were so low that when the car was going slowly up the hills, we could step off and walk—so, of course, the beggars could come close beside us. Nothing kept them off—neither laughing, nor commanding; alms-giving, nor refusals. Drive as fast as we might, they kept up with us—crowds of little boys and girls, and sometimes full-grown men and women. Some of the children were exceedingly handsome, with black hair and eyes, and dark olive skins—descendants, it is said, of the Spaniards, who, in the time of Queen Elizabeth, invaded Ireland.

The Lakes of Killarney would scarcely be called lakes in our country, where we boast such grand inland seas under that name. They are small, but certainly very beautiful, and surrounded by delightful scenery. They are three in number—the Upper, the Lower, and Torc Lake.

The town of Killarney has a miserable, dilapidated appearance, and is overflowing with beggars. We did not stop here, however, but at a hotel a mile or two away, on the northern shore of the Lower Lake—a most charming situation. A little way out of the town, we had stopped to visit Torc waterfall—a beautiful cascade, in a wild and shady glen—one of the very finest sights of that region.

In the morning, we set out early on an excursion through the Gap of Dunloe, to the Upper Lake. This time I was mounted on a fleet-footed pony, which gave me an advantage over the beggars. One friend rode beside me; the others were, as usual, on a jaunting car.

The "Gap" is a long, dark, rocky pass, with a noisy stream, called the Loe, rushing through it. On the right, are the mountains called the Reeks; on the left, the Toomies, and the "Purple Mountain." On reaching the Upper Lake, we left our ponies and car, and embarked in a boat, which was awaiting us, for a row down a still, silvery, and fairy-like sheet of water. Passing many green and flowery islands—always in sight of grand mountains and lovely shores—we entered upon "the long range"—a sort of river, connecting the lakes. On this stands old "Eagle's Nest," a mountain about eleven hundred feet in height, on whose summit the eagles have built their nests for centuries.

It is principally remarkable for the fine echoes which it gives forth. Our guide played the bugle before it, and every note came back, clear and sweet.

Mrs. Hall, in her beautiful book on Ireland, relates an amusing story which a peasant told her, of a daring attempt a mountaineer once made to rob the eagle's nest. He watched till he saw the old eagles fly away, and then let himself down by a rope from the rock above, and was just about to seize upon the young eaglets, when suddenly out darts the mother eagle from a thunder-cloud, and stood facing him! But she spoke very civilly, and said—

"Good morning, sir; and what brings you to visit my fine family so early, before they've had their breakfast?"

"Oh, nothing at all," said the man, "only to ax after their health, ma'am, and to see if any of them is troubled with the tooth-ache; for I've got a cure for it, here in my pocket, something I brought wid me from furrin parts."

"Aha! and you brought some blarney in the other pocket," said the mother eagle; "for don't I know you came to steal my children—the darlings?"

"Honor bright," said he, "do you raly think now I'd be sarving ye such a mane trick as that?"

"I'll leave it to a neighbor of mine," said she; and with that she raised her voice and screeched out—"Did he come to rob the eagle's nest?"

Of course, the echo answered—"To rob the eagle's nest."

"Hear that! you thieving blackguard," said the eagle, "and take that home with you!" and with one blow of her great beak, she pitched him over, and he tumbled down the mountainside into the lake; getting severely bruised and well ducked for interfering with the domestic happiness of his neighbors.

About a mile below this mountain, we passed under Old Weir Bridge. This is called "shooting the bridge," and unless you have very skilful boatmen, is considered very dangerous, as the rapids are swift and strong.

We next passed the bay and mountain of Glena, by far the most beautiful scenes of Killarney.

We took dinner on shore, seated on the soft, cool grass, under the shade of arbutus-trees, and after a little stroll, returned over the water to our hotel, but a very little wearied by our day of pleasure.

Our first excursion the next morning was to the ruins of Muckross Abbey, on a peninsula which divides the Lower Lake from Torc Lake.

This is a beautiful, solemn old spot, and is very much venerated by the Irish peasantry, not only as having been built and occupied by holy priests and saints, but as the burial-place of many of the ancient Princes of Desmond, the MacCartys-Mor, and the O'Donoghues.

After leaving the Abbey, we commenced the ascent of Mangerton, a mountain some 2,550 feet high. We were now all mounted on ponies, who were very sagacious and sure-footed, and climbed the rocky, narrow path like goats. We were followed every step of the way by a host of lads and girls, carrying jugs and cups of milk and whisky, which they offered to us at almost every moment. The greatest curiosity upon this mountain is a little lake, near the summit, called, "The Devil's Punch-Bowl." It is surrounded by almost perpendicular rocks; the water is very dark, and is said to be unfathomable. Though so completely shut in, it is never calm, and though icy cold in summer, it never freezes in winter.

From the summit, we had a vast, magnificent view, which, however, I must confess, I enjoyed less than the wild, frolicking ride which I took soon after, down the mountain, following closely upon the steps of one of my friends, who, for mischief, went far out of the path, and took his way over rocks and gullies, through bogs and briars. It was great sport to us, but I am afraid my poor pony had some private objections to it.

We enjoyed another pic-nic dinner in Lord Kenmare's grounds, and afterwards rowed to the lovely little island of Innisfallen, upon which are some ruins of a famous old abbey, which is said to have been built as early as the seventh century.

From Innisfallen we went to Ross Castle—a very well-preserved ruin.

In old times it was the stronghold of the war-like O'Donoghues. It was besieged in 1652, by the forces of Cromwell, commanded by General Ludlow, and though very strong and well provisioned, surrendered, with scarcely an attempt at defence. The reason of this was that the garrison was frightened at seeing the war ships which Ludlow brought against them—as, long before, some old priest or wizard had made a prophecy that when such vessels should appear on the lake, all would be up with the castle. So superstition makes cowards of the bravest men.

There is a very curious and absurd legend which the peasants relate about the last O'Donoghue; and they really seem to believe what they are telling. Some say that when Ludlow marched his men into his castle, the O'Donoghue, driven to despair, leaped from one of the windows into the lake,—that he was not drowned, but turned into a sort of merman under the waves, and has lived there ever since, with the friendly water-spirits, and his family and many of his friends who have followed him. They say he has a splendid sub-marine palace, and dogs and horses, and harpers and fiddlers, good whisky punch, and potatoes that are never touched with the rot—fairs and dances, and weddings and wakes, and now and then a fight—in short, every thing that can make a real old-fashioned Irishman feel at home and comfortable. The wakes and fights are only make-believes, "for divarshin," they say; for the people down there cannot die—cannot even be wounded, or hurt in any way.

Others say that the O'Donoghue under the lake is a more ancient prince—an enchanter, who for some act of impiety, got enchanted in his turn and was condemned to dwell under the water, and is only allowed to come to the surface once a year—on the first morning in May, when he rides over the lake in grand style, clad in silver armor, with snowy plumes in his casque, mounted on a white steed, splendidly caparisoned. Before him go beautiful water-spirits, scattering flowers—all running and dancing on the water, without the slightest difficulty. It is said the enchantment of the O'Donoghue will last until the silver shoes of his horse are worn off by the friction of the waves.

There are many yet living at Killarney, who solemnly declare that they have seen the chieftain on his May-morning ride. But these, if honest persons, have doubtless been deceived by singular appearances in the atmosphere, called optical illusions, or mirages.

Many other legends are told by the peasants and guides. All are strange and improbable, but some are very amusing, and some, I think, quite poetic and beautiful.

One is about a holy man of Muckross, who fell into some great sin, and repenting of it, waded into the lake, and stuck a holly-stick into the bottom, and said he would not leave the spot till it should throw out leaves and branches. So he did penance for seven years, and then the stick suddenly leaved out and blossomed, and became a great tree, by which the good man knew that he was pardoned. We may take a lesson from this. If we do wrong, and try to atone for it, in the best way we know how, it may seem a hopeless work; but if we wait patiently and pray, we shall surely see, at last, God's love and blessing blossoming before us like the holly-stick, and overshadowing us like the great tree.

There is another legend about an ancient Abbot of Innisfallen, which is sweet and touching, though I do not see that it has any moral. This good man was at his prayers one morning, very early, when he heard a little bird singing so melodiously out among the trees, that he got up from his knees and followed it. The bird flew from tree to tree, and still he walked after, for its music was so delicious he could not tire of it. He thought in his heart that he could listen to it forever, and he came very near doing that same, for the bird was an enchanted singer, and so bewitched the priest that he had no idea how the time went by. At last, he thought that it was about the hour for vespers—so he gave his blessing to the little bird, and went back into the abbey. But, when he entered, he was astonished to see only strange faces and to hear a strange tongue, which was the English, in place of the Irish. There were monks about, who asked him who he was, and where he came from. He told them his name, and that he was their Abbot. He had gone out, he said, in the morning to hear a little bird sing, and somehow it had kept him following it about the island ever since. Then they told him that no less than two hundred years had passed since he went out to hear that singing, and that he had never been seen since—for being enchanted, he had been invisible. Then the old monk cried out—"Give me absolution, some of you, for my time is come!" They gave him absolution, and he died in peace; but just as he was passing away, there came to the holly-tree, before the window, a little white bird, and sat and sung the sweetest song ever heard; and when the soul left the body of the old Abbot, another white bird appeared, and the two sang together very joyfully for awhile, in the holly tree, and then flew out into the sunshine, and up into the blue heaven, away!

KATHLEEN OF KILLARNEY.

Not many years ago there lived at Glena, the loveliest spot in all Killarney, a small farmer, by the name of Mickey, or Michael More, his wife, and one daughter. Though Mickey was a poor, hard-working man, he boasted that he was descended from a regular Irish chieftain, the great MacCarty-Mor, and held his head up accordingly. But his wife, Bridget O'Dogherty, that was—used sometimes to put him down a little, by boasting that her great ancestor of all, was "a mighty king, or monarch, that ruled over the biggest part of Ireland, shortly after the flood,—long before the MacCartys-Mor were ever heard of. Why man, it took all the lakes of Killarney to water his cattle—and the bog of Allen was only his potato-patch."

In truth, Mrs. More was but a silly, ignorant woman, and her husband was not much better, though he thought himself infinitely more clever and sensible. In one thing, however, this couple were perfectly agreed: it was in thinking their daughter, Kathleen, the most beautiful and bewitching creature that the sun ever shone upon. They were so foolishly proud of her that they resolved and declared that no one short of a lord, or a rich baronet should ever marry her—that she should become "my lady" somebody, or remain Kathleen More, to the day of her death. They were strengthened in this resolution by a famous fortune-teller, who foretold that Kathleen would become a grand lady—live in a castle, ride in a coach, and have jewels and fine dresses, ponies, pages, parrots, and poodle-dogs to her heart's content.

So they kept as keen a watch over her as though she had been a royal princess, whose marriage was a great affair of state. They would hardly allow her to speak to the young people of her own rank, but were always telling her to hold her head high, and remember that she was "a mate for their betters."

Of course, this ambition and pretension excited some ill feeling at Killarney, and laughter and ridicule without end. But Kathleen was truly a very beautiful young girl—so beautiful that her fame spread far and wide, and toasts were made and songs were written in her praise. Visitors to the Lakes used to inquire after her, and sometimes hire their boatmen to land them near her father's cottage, so that they might, by chance, catch a glimpse of "the Beauty of Glena." But Kathleen was a good and sensible girl, and, strange to say, was not spoiled by the constant flattery of her parents, and the evident admiration of all who beheld her. She knew that she was very beautiful,—every glance into the clear waters of the lake showed her what sweet blue eyes, what lustrous black locks, what rosy, dimpled cheeks were hers,—showed her that no lily could be fairer than her brow, her neck, and her lovely taper [Transcriber's note: tapered, tapering?] arms. Yet she knew also that this beauty was hers by no merit, or power of her own; that it was the gift of the good God, bestowed in kindness, though it brought her little happiness, poor girl. Watched and guarded like a nun, she had few friends and little pleasure, and often envied the humblest village maids and farm-servants, as she saw them, strolling along the lake shore, with their brothers and friends, on summer evenings, when their work was done—or sometimes rowing over the lake, their plain brown faces lighted up with innocent enjoyment, and their gay songs and happy laughter ringing out over the water.

There was one young man, braver or more persevering than most of Kathleen's untitled admirers, who would not be frowned off by her ambitious parents;—perhaps because he was encouraged by the kind smiles of the beautiful girl herself. This was a young tradesman, named Barry O'Donoghue—a fine, manly fellow, industrious, intelligent, and though not rich, in better circumstances than most young men of the parish. But when "bold Barry O'Donoghue," as he was called, proposed to Michael More for the hand of his daughter, he received as stern and scornful a "No, young man," as any who had been before him. Barry had a proud as well as a loving heart, and felt the slight and disappointment so keenly that he left his home at once, and sailed for Australia, to seek his fortune in that rich, but then almost unknown land. People laughed, and said that Mickey and Biddy More were keeping their daughter for "the O'Donoghue"—expecting him to come for her, some May-day morning, in grand style, riding over the waves on his silver-shining steed, to carry her off to his palace under the lake. But when it was seen how poor Kathleen took Barry's going to heart, few were so unfeeling as to laugh. She never had been as merry as most young girls, and now she grew sad and silent and very weary-looking. She did not complain, but her eyes seemed heavy with the tears she would not shed, and the roses went fading and fading out of her cheeks, till her father became alarmed, and would bid her eat more, and spin less—to get up early in the morning and drink new milk, "with a drop of mountain-dew in it." ("Mountain-dew," I must tell you, is an Irish name for whisky.) "Ah darling," her mother would say, "if you don't howld on to your beauty, what'll his lordship say, when he comes after you? Sure, he'll consider himself imposed upon."

"But mother, dear," Kathleen would reply, "I don't want any lord—I'll just stay with father and you, always as I am."

"Hush now, you simple child! It's just flying in the face of Providince, you are—your fortune has all been foretowld this many a year, and you've only to submit to it—though you don't desarve it."

Well, one May-day morning, when Barry O'Donoghue had been gone somewhat over a year, Kathleen More went out as usual, to take her early walk; but did not come back again. All day long they searched, far and near, but without obtaining any trace or tidings of her; but just at night, a note was found at the door of Michael's cottage, which ran thus:—

"I have taken away your daughter, and married her, before a priest. Be easy about her. She is happy, and sends her dutiful respects.

The O'Donoghue."

"Ochone!" cried Bridget More, "the Phantom Prince has come and gone off wid our darling Kathleen. I always towld you that trouble would come of them early walks;—and how do you feel, Mickey More, to have gone and made yourself father-in-law to a merman—a wicked water-wizard? Answer me that!"

"Hush now, Biddy," said Michael, "it's not the O'Donoghue at all. It's the great lord we've been waiting for so long, trying to make believe he is the Phantom Prince. Maybe, for reasons of state, he don't like to reveal himself; and maybe," he added, with a sly laugh, "he don't care to make the acquaintance of his talkative mother-in-law."

Mrs. More was very indignant at this supposition, and persisted in believing that the O'Donoghue, and no one else, had carried off and married her daughter,—and as time went by and brought, always in some mysterious way, good news, and now and then a handsome present, from Kathleen, she became reconciled to her marriage, and even proud of it. In her talks with her cronies, she would often speak of "her ladyship, my daughter Kathleen,"—or "my daughter, the Princess O'Donoghue." This greatly amused some of her neighbors, and they used to question and quiz her without mercy.

"And why don't you go and visit your daughter, Mistress More?" asked one—"Sure they invite you."

"Why, you see, Mistress Hallaghan," replied the cunning Bridget, "it's all on account of my rhumatiz—I'm thinking that the climate down there wouldn't agree with me."

But Mrs. More grew yet prouder and more important than ever, when there came another letter from the O'Donoghue, bringing the good news that she was grandmother to a fine little boy. Such grand calculations as she laid on this event. "Who knows," she said, "but that the heir will break up the long enchantment and grow up a good Christian, and come back and take possession of Ross Castle, and we'll be ruled by a rale Irish Prince once more."

At all these foolish anticipations Michael only laughed contemptuously; but as his efforts to find out any thing about his daughter and her husband had all failed, it was thought that he finally more than half believed in the O'Donoghue story himself, though he never owned that he did.

May-day morning had come round again. It was three years since Kathleen More was carried off, and as usual, on that day, her father and mother awoke very early, for it was a sad anniversary for them.

"Troth!" exclaimed Michael, "and it was a queer drame I had last night."

"Ah then, avick, tell me it!" cried his wife, who was particularly curious and superstitious about dreams.

"Well, then, I dramed that I paid a visit to the O'Donoghue; in his grand palace under the lake. I received my invitation by being upset in my boat, and pulled downwards by a big merman, who never let go of my coat-tails till he landed me at the palace gate.

"The O'Donoghue himself met me in the hall. 'Welcome, Mr. MacCarty-Mor,' (mind that, MacCarty-Mor!) said he—'welcome kindly! Sure it's delighted I am to see you—and you are just in time for dinner.' With that a sarvent began sounding a big conch-shell, a great door was flung open, and the next thing, I found myself in an ilegant room, sitting down to dinner with a mighty genteel looking company."

"Arrah! and was our Kathleen amongst them?" asked Mrs. More.

"Of course she was—sitting at the O'Donoghue's right hand, all silks and gold, and heaps of pearls in her hair. She kissed her hand to me, very politely, which was the most she could do, being a Princess, so grandly dressed, and meself in my old grey coat and patched corduroys."

"And did she look natural?—the darling!"

"A trifle paler and prouder—but pretty much the same as ever, Biddy."

"And who else did you see, Mickey?"

"Oh hosts of the quality. First there was Fin MacCual, and Brian Boro, and old King Cormac and the O'Tooles—with their crowns on, and the O'Neills, and the O'Connors, and the O'Meaghers, and the O'Malleys, and the O'Doghertys, and the O'Briens, and no end of O'Donoghues,—and the Dermods, and Desmonds, and my ancestor, the great MacCarty-Mor himself."

"And what was your dinner, Mickey?"

"Why, principally oysters, and lobsters, and turtles, sarved up in their shells—and plenty of good potheen to drink. The trouble of it was, every thing was cowld, for you see they had no fire down there; and candles wouldn't burn, by raison of the dampness,—so we went to bed by moonlight, and slept on pillows of soft sand, between two sheets of water."

"Ah, Mickey!" cried out Mrs. Bridget, in alarm, "why didn't you excuse yourself, and come home before bed-time, for you know you always take cowld from sleeping in damp sheets."

Michael burst into a laugh at this—"Why Biddy, woman," said he,—"sure you forget it's all a drame."

"Arrah, and so it is," replied his wife, sadly, "and we know no more about our poor Kathleen than we did the day she was spirited away. Ah, Mickey dear, I often think that if I had her back, in my ould arms again, I'd have no more such high notions for her, and I'd niver cross her in any way."

Michael said nothing, but sighed heavily, and turned his face toward the wall.

A short time after this conversation, while Michael More was stirring up the peat fire in the little kitchen, to boil the potatoes for breakfast, and his wife was milking the cow, just outside the door, he was startled by her calling put to him, in a tone of joyful excitement—"Mickey, oh, Mickey! they're coming!"

"Who are coming?" cried he, rushing to the door.

"The O'Donoghue and our Kathleen. Don't you see them? Sure it's the morning for them—only they are in a boat, instead of on horseback. Hark, don't you hear the fairy music? and that's our Kathleen's voice calling!"

"Faith, you are right, for once," replied Michael, running with her down to the shore. Yes, a boat came dancing over the bright waters of the bay; containing a tall young man, quite proud, and happy looking enough for a Prince, though not dressed in silver armor,—and a very beautiful lady, holding a child in her arms. The "fairy music" was made by the bugle of old Stephen Spillane, the Killarney guide.

In a few moments, there leaped to land, not the enchanted Irish chieftain, but a better man, Barry O'Donoghue, who had as good a right to call himself "the O'Donoghue" as any other member of that numerous family. Then he handed out his wife, Kathleen, who three years before he had been obliged to steal away from her unkind and foolish parents,—and little Master Harry O'Donoghue, a handsome, curly-headed little rogue, who jumped at once with a merry laugh, into the arms and into the hearts of his grandparents.

After a great deal of embracing and kissing, Barry said, in reply to a host of wondering exclamations and questions: "We have come back from Australia, where we were getting rich, because Kathleen could not be longer away from home and you. We have brought a little fortune with us, and mean to settle down here in dear old Killarney, if you will be reconciled to us, and take us for neighbors."

"And if you will forgive me, for not coming back to you a great lady," said Kathleen, smiling.

"Don't say any more about that," said Michael More, embracing her for the twentieth time,—"We are glad enough to have you back just your old self, and it's quite content we are with your husband and the boy—and bad luck to all fortune-tellers! say I."

With that, old Stephen blew an applauding farewell note on his bugle, and the Mores and O'Donoghues all went into the cottage, where we will leave them.



Limerick.

LITTLE ANDY AND HIS GRANDFATHER.

We travelled from Killarney to Tarbert, on the Shannon, by the stage-coach, passing through several old, but uninteresting towns, and seeing a great deal of barrenness and wretchedness on our way. At Tarbert, we took a steamer, to ascend the river to Limerick, and as the weather that afternoon was clear and bright, we had one of the most delightful trips you can imagine.

The Shannon is a very noble river—in some places widening out like a sea, and all the way running between beautiful green shores. There is a place in the river, near the mouth, which has somewhat the appearance of rapids, when the tide is coming in. This, the people say, is the site of a sunken city, whose towers and turrets make the roughness of the water. The whole city can be seen every seven years, but, as the sight is said to be unlucky, every body avoids it. The whole story is about as probable as the one I have told you of the damp and dubious palace of the O'Donoghue.

Limerick is a pleasant and prosperous city, and has a very honorable name in Irish history. The most interesting object that it contains is the Castle, which was built by King John, and has stood for more than six hundred years. In 1651, Limerick sustained a terrible siege, by the Parliamentary forces, under General Ireton, the son-in-law of Cromwell. It held out for six months, and would not have surrendered then, though the inhabitants were dying of starvation and plague, had it not been for the treachery of an officer of the garrison—one Colonel Fennel. Among the most faithful and heroic of the city's defenders, was a priest—Terence Albert O'Brien, Bishop of Emly. He was so active and influential that Ireton made him an offer of forty thousand pounds, (two hundred thousand dollars,) and a free pass to the Continent, if he would cease his exhortations, and advise immediate surrender. He scorned the offer, and so when the city at last fell into the hands of the English, he was tried and condemned to death. He was calm and heroic to the last; but before he was beheaded, he addressed a few solemn, warning words to Ireton, which made the stern soldier's blood curdle. He accused him of cruel injustice, and summoned him to appear before the tribunal of God within a few days. It is a singular fact that in a little more than a week from that time, Ireton died of the plague.

Limerick was again besieged in 1690, by William III. It was defended by the Irish Catholic adherents of James II. and their French allies, and so well defended, that the King and his army beat a retreat in less than a month. However, they made another trial the next year and with a little better success, for after a six months' siege, the garrison capitulated. A treaty was signed between the two armies, in which it was stipulated that Limerick and the other Irish fortresses should surrender to the new King—that the garrisons should be allowed to march out with all the honors of war, and that they should be provided with shipping to carry them to any country they should please to go to. Then there were several other articles very favorable to the rights and liberties of the Roman Catholics. To the shame of the English government of that day, it must be said that this compact was most dishonorably broken, and through that reign and many succeeding, the Irish Catholics were greatly wronged and meanly persecuted. From this circumstance, Limerick has always been called "The City of the Violated Treaty"—at least, until the year 1847, when, one evening, a famous tea-party given to the rebel leader, Smith O'Brien, was broken up by a mob—on which occasion, Mr. Punch made a little change in the old title, and called it "The City of the Violated Tea-tray."

The Cathedral of St. Mary's is a large, gloomy-looking building, with a very high tower, from which one can get a magnificent view of the surrounding country. In this tower is a very melodious chime of bells, about which there is told a pretty and touching story, which I do not doubt is true.

Once there lived in Italy a skilful young artisan, who was celebrated for founding bells. No founder in all Europe could equal him—no chimes in all the world were so grand and sweet-sounding as his. At last, he made a chime for a convent, which proved to be finer than any he had cast before. He had spent years upon them; they were his great work; he was very proud of them; he even seemed to have fallen in love with them, for he could not live out of the sound of their melodious ringing. So he purchased a little villa, in a lovely seaside nook, beneath the lofty cliff on which the convent stood, and every night and morning he had the happiness of hearing the solemn silver chiming of his own dear bells, which, when sounding at that height, it almost seemed to him God had taken and hung in the clouds, to call him and his children to prayer and to heaven.

But after a few bright, peaceful years, there came a dark, troubled time of war and pillage. The good Italian lost all in the terrible struggle—home, family—even his beloved bells—for the convent on the cliff was destroyed, and they were carried away to some distant land. At last, he was released from a miserable dungeon, to find himself old, infirm, poor, and alone in the wide world. Then a great longing came to him, and grew and grew at his lonely heart, to hear his bells once more before he should die. So he became a wanderer over Europe, searching for them every where. He would be told of wonderful chimes in this and that city, and go many weary leagues to hear them; but as soon as they sounded on his ear, he would sadly shake his head, his eyes would fill with tears, and he would turn to go on his way.

When, at length, he heard of the sweet bells of Limerick, he was very old and feeble, but he set out at once on what he knew must be his last pilgrimage. The vessel on which he sailed went up the Shannon, and anchored opposite the city. The old Italian took a boat to go on shore, at the close of a calm and beautiful day. He was very weak and ill, and reclined in the stern of the boat, looking longingly toward St. Mary's Cathedral. Suddenly, from the tall tower, rang softly out the vesper chime. The Italian started up joyfully at the sound. Then he crossed himself, looked upward, and murmured—"I thank thee, blessed mother of Jesus! I hear my bells at last!" Then he sank back, and closed his eyes and listened. The men rested on their oars, and all was still, except that sweet, solemn ringing. The Italian seemed to hear in his bells more than their old melody—all the music of his happy home—the deep murmur of the sea below the convent cliff—the sighing of the winds in the cypress and olive trees—and sweeter and dearer than all, the voices of his wife and children. They seemed to be softly calling his pious soul to leave the trouble and weariness of earth for the blessedness and rest of God. And his soul obeyed the call,—for, when the bells ceased their ringing, and the boatmen rowed to land, they found that the aged stranger was dead.

About six miles above Limerick are the Rapids of the Shannon, usually called the Falls of Doonas. These can be part way descended in long, narrow skiffs, constructed for the purpose, but the feat is a very hazardous one. I went down, with a friend and two brave boatmen, but though I enjoyed the adventure, I would not advise any one to follow my example.

Not far from Limerick are the ruins of Mungret Priory, said to have been founded by St. Patrick, and which once contained no less than one thousand five hundred monks.

"As wise as the women of Mungret," is a saying among the Irish, which had its rise, according to tradition, in this way:—

The monks of Cashel having heard great stories of the learning of those of Mungret, resolved to send a deputation to them, to settle the point as to which college possessed the finest scholars in the dead languages. Now the monks of Mungret enjoyed a better reputation for such learning than they deserved,—being rather more fond of good living than hard study,—so they were mortally afraid of being beaten in the contest, and losing their good name forever. But they hit upon a very ingenious plan of escape from their embarrassment. They dressed up a number of their best scholars—some as women and some as peasants—and placed them along the road by which their rivals must travel. As the deputation came on, they naturally asked the way to Mungret, and put other questions to the persons they met, and to their great astonishment, every question was answered in Greek or Latin. At last, they came to a halt, held a consultation, and prudently resolved to go back to Cashel, as they could not hope to win any honor in a controversy with a priory of monks who had so filled all the country around with learning, that even the women and workmen spoke the dead languages fluently.

We saw a great deal of poverty, squalor, and idleness, in Limerick, but also much honest industry. We visited the lace and glove manufactories, where many poor girls earn not only their own living, but often that of their families.

The peasantry in this county seemed sober and quiet people, but, as in other parts of Ireland, they are mostly ignorant and superstitious. They are workers in the bogs, or day-laborers, and all think themselves very fortunate if they can obtain employment at wages which will keep them and their children from starvation. Beggary is very common everywhere, and is not considered a disgrace, except by the better order of people.

There is in Ireland a class of small farmers, who live very respectably and comfortably, though they can never hope to get very much beforehand, as they do not own their farms, are obliged to pay many taxes, and the more valuable they make the land, by their industry, the higher is the rent.

I have heard a pretty little story about one of these farmer-families, with which I will close this chapter.

LITTLE ANDY AND HIS GRANDFATHER.

In the county of Waterford once lived an honest old farmer, by the name of Walsh. His wife died young, and left him one only child—a son, of whom he was very proud. And Patrick Walsh was worthy of a great deal of affection and respect; for he was a fine, amiable, industrious young man.

Unfortunately, Patrick fell in love with a proud, handsome young woman, the daughter of a well-to-do farmer in the neighborhood, and finally persuaded her to marry him, though she gave him to understand pretty plainly that she thought she was condescending not a little in doing so.

Why, the Mullowneys (she was a Mullowney) actually had three rooms in their cabin, and kept a horse, two cows, a goat, and a good-sized donkey! And then, they had relations who were very well off in the world—in particular, some fourth cousins, who kept a draper's shop in Waterford, who, though they never visited the country Mullowneys, couldn't help being an honor to the family. So it was little wonder that "Peggy Mullowney Walsh," as she always insisted on being called, held her pretty nose rather high, and curled her red lip a little scornfully, as she stepped into the neat, but humble cabin of her handsome young husband. Old Mr. Walsh felt for Patrick, and in order to make his fortune equal the goods and the honors which his wife had brought him, he made over to him the farm and all his possessions, and left himself a pennyless dependent upon his son and daughter-in-law.

All went well for a few years, for Patrick honored and loved his father, and did all that he could to make him happy and comfortable. But I am sorry to say that Mrs. Peggy never was very kind to him. With her high notions, she rather looked down upon him than felt grateful to him for being simple enough to give up all his property to his son. Then she was selfish and violent tempered, and did not like "the bother of an ould body like him about the cabin." Still, she bore with him, for he made himself quite useful, mostly in taking care of the children, especially of the oldest boy, Andy. This child was all the comfort the old grandfather had. He was always gentle and loving to him, and made him as little trouble as possible. Sometimes, when the poor old man was lying awake at night, grieving over the hard, scornful treatment of his proud daughter-in-law, and praying God to take him to a home of peace and love, where he would never be "in the way" any more, little Andy would hear his low sobs, and go to him, creep close to his desolate old heart, and whisper—

"Don't cry, gran'daddy—I love you wid all my heart, avourneen."

But the older and more feeble her father-in-law grew, the more unkindly Mrs. Peggy treated him, till she made the cabin such a scene of constant storm and confusion that everybody in it was wretched. At last, old Mr. Walsh came to a resolution to put an end to all this trouble. He would take to the road—that is, go a-begging. "The Lord will take care of me," he said: "He who feeds the sparrows will put it into the hearts of good Christians to give me all that I need."

Of course, Patrick was sad at the thought of his old father becoming a mendicant; but he was a peaceable man and ruled by his wife; he was tired of her scolding and complaints, and so, at last, consented.

As for Mrs. Peggy, she was very glad; she thought it was the best thing the "ould body" could do, and set about making a beggar's bag for him at once. He was to start the next morning.

Little Andy heard all the talk, but did not say any thing. He sat in a corner, busily at work, sewing up his bib.

"What's that yer doing, Andy, darling?" said his father.

The child looked up at him sadly and reproachfully, and answered,—"Making a bag for you to go beg—when you're as old as gran'daddy."

Patrick Walsh burst into tears, flung his arms around his old father's neck, and begged his forgiveness. And even the proud Peggy was so affected that she fell upon her knees and asked pardon of God, of her husband and his father, for her undutiful conduct. For his part, the good old man forgave her at once. I need hardly say that he never went on the road; for, from that hour, Peggy was a better and gentler woman, and tried hard to make her house a happy home for her father-in-law, and so, for all her family. To be sure, her besetting sins—pride and temper—would break out once in a while, but God was stronger than either; she prayed to Him, and He gave her strength to get the better of them at last.

Grandfather Walsh lived in comfort and content several years, and on his peaceful death-bed, blessed his son and daughter, and their children, very solemnly and lovingly. When all thought that he was gone, little Andy, who had been very quiet till then, began to cry aloud. The good old man, whose soul was just at the gates of heaven, heard him, opened his eyes, reached out his hand, and blessed his darling once more. Then he died.



Wicklow.

TIM O'DALY AND THE CLERICAUNE

After leaving Limerick, we returned to Dublin, and there took a carriage, for a little tour in the neighboring county of Wicklow.

Wicklow has been called "The Garden of Ireland," for the beauty of its scenery and the high cultivation of a large portion of its lands. It is full of romantic valleys and streams, lakes, glens, and waterfalls—varied by rugged, untamable wilds, and bleak, barren mountains.

We first visited "the Dargle," or Glenislorane River, upon Lord Powerscourt's domain. This would be thought "a small specimen" of a river with us, as, except when the waters are swollen with a freshet, it is but a narrow and shallow mountain stream. But in Ireland it passes at such times for a mighty torrent, and at all times is greatly admired and respected.

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 space, 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 noble 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—nobody arrested Keven, or punished him, and he went on his pious way in peace, building churches and monasteries, and working miracles, or what passed 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 assigned 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 illustrate 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 apron. '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 shores 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 shores 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 passionately fond of boating, and now his eye brightened, and he smiled gladly at the thought of his favorite amusement. 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 shore 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 noble 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 superstitions 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 grass. 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 assumes 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 associate 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. Nobody was troubled with work or care now, except in the pursuit of pleasure; and yet, to poor Tim's astonishment, nobody 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 noble 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 pass, 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 God 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 quantities 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 Association, 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.

Near Belfast is a famous "Druidical circle," or a large amphitheatre, enclosed by high mounds of earth, where the ancient Druids used to meet for their heathen worship. As we stood in that great circle, beside a rude altar of stones, it made us shudder to think that hundreds of human beings had probably been cruelly sacrificed there as offerings to the gods of the Druids. What a happy, blessed thing it is to know that such dreadful crimes can never again be committed here, under the name of religion.

I should like to tell you about some of the admirable charitable institutions of Belfast—in which I became interested—and describe some of the beautiful scenery of the neighborhood, but I have so many things and places to speak of in this chapter, that I must not allow myself to linger longer here.

While at Belfast, we made a delightful excursion to Shane's Castle, the seat of Lord O'Neil.

The O'Neils were for many centuries kings of Ulster, and were a very proud and warlike race. There is a curious tradition of the manner in which they came into possession of their kingdom: "In an ancient expedition for the conquest of Ireland, the leader declared that whoever of his followers should first touch the shore, should possess the territory. One of them, the founder of the O'Neils, seeing that another boat was likely to reach the land before him, seized an axe and with it cut off his left hand, which he flung on shore, and so, was the first to 'touch' it."

Shane's Castle and the O'Neil estate are situated upon Lough Neagh, the largest lake in Great Britain. There is a legend that this sheet of water covers land that was once cultivated—cottages, castles, and even villages. The peasants say that there was once a well in the midst of this country—an enchanted well—which was always kept covered with a heavy stone, lest its waters should rise and overwhelm the land. One day, a careless woman went to this well to get water to boil her potatoes in, and hearing her baby cry, ran home without waiting to cover the well—which presently began to leap up in a great column, like a water-spout of an under-ground sea—and poured out so fast and furious, that before many hours the whole valley was overflowed, and that night, the moon smiled to see herself reflected in a new lake.

On our route from Belfast to the Giant's Causeway, we passed through several towns, of little importance now, though of some historical note—such as Carrickfergus, Larne, and Glenarm. This last is a beautifully situated town, with a pleasant little bay, which usually affords a safe shelter for shipping on a coast somewhat renowned for wrecks and disasters. Here is a fine castle—the seat of the ancient family of the MacDonnels—Earls of Antrim.

Scarcely any thing in the world can be grander or more beautiful than the coast road all the way from Glenarm to the Giant's Causeway. It is altogether too fine to be described—it should be painted, not written about.

One of the grandest points in the scenery is the great promontory of Benmore, or Fairhead. From the sea it rises an immense precipice, formed of a multitude of enormous basaltic columns, at the highest point more than five hundred feet above the water.

We reached the Causeway late in the evening—so hungry and tired that we were very glad to get our supper and go to bed, without putting our heads out of doors. In the morning early we engaged a guide, and set out on our tour of sight-seeing.

The Causeway is formed by a vast collection of rocky columns—mostly as regular in shape as though cut by masonry—five-sided, six-sided, seven or eight-sided—piled and packed together, varying much in height, but little in size. Some form a floor almost as even as a city pavement—some form gradual steps leading down to the sea—and some tower upward, like spires and turrets.

There is a very singular collection of these columns on the side of the highest cliff, a hundred and twenty feet in height, called "the Giant's Organ," from their resemblance to the pipes of that instrument.

According to tradition, the mighty Giant, Fin Mac Cual, was musical in his taste, and used to give himself "a little innocent divarsion" here, after his hard labors in building the Causeway. Even now, when the sea roars, and the deep thunder rolls along the rocky coast, they say—"the giant is playing on his big stone organ under the cliff."

Sometimes they say,—"Listen to Fin, now!—he's at his avening devotions—Heaven help us, an' him, poor cratur!" and then they cross themselves, for Fin was but a miserable heathen, and can have no part now, they think, in the true church.

By the way, I was told while here, a ludicrous little anecdote of the great Fin, from which it seems that he was not, after all, quite as brave as a giant should be. It is said that when he had finished the Causeway, he went up on a high point and shouted across the channel to the Scotch Giant, Benandonner, to come over and fight him, if he dared. Bold Benandonner accepted the challenge, and began to wade across—threatening and bullying his Irish enemy. As he drew near, he seemed to grow so much bigger, that Fin got frightened, and turned and ran into his house, which stood near the cliff.

"What's the matter, Fin?" said his wife, who saw what a tremble he was in, and how pale he looked.

"Ah, my darling," said he, "there's big Benandonner coming over to have a fight—and as I'm not very well to-day, I don't like to meet him."

Now, Mrs. Mac Cual was really very much ashamed of her husband for being such a booby; but like the good wife she was, she kept her contempt to herself, just then, and told him to lie down in the cradle, and keep quiet, and she would attend to the Scotch Giant. Fin did as he was bid—his wife covered him up in the cradle, and commenced rocking and singing to him. Presently, Benandonner came stamping and storming in, and asked for "that rascal, Fin Mac Cual."

"If you'll please sit down and rock my baby a minute—I'll go and look for him," said Mrs. Mac Cual. Benandonner looked down into the cradle, and seeing that enormous giant lying there, with his feet hanging over the foot-board, thought to himself, "if Fin's baby is so big, what must Fin himself be!"—and became so frightened that he turned and hurried back home, much quicker than he came. It is a foolish little tradition, but I have related it as a specimen of the stories which are told to amuse the children of Irish peasants.

There are two caves near the Causeway, which are entered from the sea. Our visits to these were the most interesting and exciting incidents of the day. Though the waves ran high, our skilful boatmen rowed us safely in—and though the roar of the sea and the reverberation of some fire-arms discharged by the guides, were rather awful, we certainly enjoyed the sight of those ocean temples, gloomy, rude, and jagged though they were.

From the Causeway we went to Dunluce Castle—a grand old ruin, which stands on an insulated rock, a hundred feet above the sea. It is separated from the land by a chasm twenty feet wide, which is crossed by an arch only about eighteen inches broad.

This castle was once the stronghold of a very powerful, proud, and warlike family—the Mac Donnels. They had a whole regiment of retainers; they had their bard, an elderly gentleman, with a long white beard, who spent most of his time in singing songs in praise of their glory and great exploits, to the music of a rude harp—and they had their Banshee, who occupied a choice apartment in one of the turrets, and doubtless howled as seldom as possible. But all this glory has passed away, and now, the rooks and sea-birds have the famous old castle all to themselves—wheel fearlessly about the lofty black precipices, and scream back the shrillest shriek of the storm-winds. Now, no bard, however poor, ever visits that once hospitable hall, to "sing for his supper," and even the gloomy Banshee has retired from her turret in disgust.

A branch of the Mac Donnels clung to the haunted, dilapidated, old castle as long as possible, to keep up the family credit, I suppose. It was within this century, I think, that a frightful accident happened, which drove the last of them away. In a terrible storm, one winter afternoon, the part of the castle containing the kitchen was blown down, and tumbled over the precipice into the sea, with the family stores of meat and potatoes, and Biddy, the cook, who was preparing dinner, and Teddy, the little scullion, who was turning the spit. The Mac Donnels, for all their pride, were shocked and afflicted by this misfortune,—for Biddy was an excellent cook, and Teddy, her son, though careless and lazy, and given to little thefts and large stories, had his good points, as what Irish boy has not. So they, the Mac Donnels, sought out some other home,—safer and more comfortable, if not quite so grand in its isolated, ancient gentility,—and it may be, took the Banshee with them for their comfort. Trouble, I believe, always goes with people in this world, wherever they move to,—in some form or other, it travels with them, and settles down with them,—as sorrow, ill-luck, disease, disgrace, discontent, fear, or remorse,—and if we may credit Irish traditions, the old nobility and gentry had to endure howling Banshees in addition. No wonder they wasted away under their aristocratic infliction.

In my story, I shall make bold to turn my back on the Causeway, Dunluce Castle, the Mac Donnels, Banshees, and all,—return to the beautiful neighborhood of Glenarm, and relate a little incident in the lives of some humble peasant people there.

THE POOR SCHOOLMASTER.

Some forty or fifty years ago, there lived at Glenarm, near the castle, a poor schoolmaster, named Philip O'Flaherty.

Philip, though a very quiet, well meaning man, was singularly unfortunate in all but one thing—he had an excellent wife. Yet she, poor woman, was but "a weakly body," while, as for Philip, if any sickness whatever was going about, he was sure to catch it. He was a sort of Irish "Murad the Unlucky," nothing seemed to prosper with him. His potatoe-crop always fell short—if he took a fancy to keep a few ducks, or geese, a thieving fox carried them on—his pigs ran away, and he had not even "the poor man's blessing"—children, to comfort him. One after another, his babes were borne to the churchyard, and his cabin was left silent and lonely.

Poor Philip, though a schoolmaster, was not very remarkable for learning. In truth, he was a good deal behind the times, and his few scholars, if at all clever, soon got beyond him, and left him. When his wife was well, she did more than her part toward their support, and when she was ill, they fared very poorly, I assure you.

One September night, Philip and his wife sat alone in their cabin, more than usually dejected and sorrowful. They had just buried their last child—a baby-boy, only a few months old, but as dear to them as though he had grown to their hearts for years.

There was a terrible storm on the coast that night; the winds almost shook their old cabin to pieces, and torrents of rain were fast quenching the peat fire upon the hearth. Suddenly they were startled by hearing the sound of a gun, above the roaring of the sea. "There's a ship in distress!" cried Philip—"God help the poor creatures, for it's an awful night to be on the deep!" "Amen!" said Nelly, solemnly.

Soon after they heard the shouts of fishermen and cottagers, hurrying to the shore, and, protecting themselves as well as they could, they joined their neighbors—hoping to do some good upon the beach.

They arrived just in time to see the distressed vessel dashed upon a rock, and to witness a still more dreadful sight—the falling of a bolt of fire, from the black sky, right on to the ship—which in a few moments was enveloped in flames! No boatman, however brave, dared put out through the wild breakers to rescue the passengers and crew—and in the morning it was announced along that coast, that an unknown ship had gone down, in storm and fire, with every soul on board! But no—one little babe had been taken from the arms of its dead mother, and though apparently lifeless, was restored, by Nelly O'Flaherty, the schoolmaster's wife, who took it home to her cabin, where it was doing well. There was no mark upon the few fragments of clothing which remained upon the mother and child, when they reached the shore, by which it could be told who or what they were—but they both had a delicate look, which made the peasants think that they belonged to "the quality."

Nelly took the poor foundling at once to her heart—clad him in her dead baby's clothes, and would not hear to his being taken to the almshouse. "God," she said, "knew what was the best almshouse for the pretty little cherub, when He sent it to cheer the lone cabin of the childless."

As a matter of course, unlucky Philip took cold from the exposure of that stormy night, and had one of his fevers, which confined him several weeks. The first day that he was able to get out, he walked down to the bay, with his wife, to say good-bye to some friends, who were going to America. After the ship had set sail, they sat for a long time on the shore, watching it sadly and silently. "Ah, Nelly," said Philip at last, "if it weren't for my faver and your being burdened with that strange baby, sure we might work and earn enough to take us to America. Faith, that shipwreck was a misfortune to us, entirely!"

"Sure, and it was no such thing," said Nelly; "what's a faver more or less to you, avourneen; and has it not given us a beautiful boy, to take the place of our little dead Phil? 'Twas the Lord sent him, and He'll not let him bring us any trouble."

"The Lord,—why, Nelly, woman, do you suppose He ever busies himself with the likes of us?" said the schoolmaster, bitterly.

"Philip, avick, what do you mean?" exclaimed Nelly, in astonishment.

"I mean," replied her husband, "that our cabin is so small and poor, and the castle near by so big and grand, that it's natural Providence should overlook us just, and attend to the affairs of the quality. It's the way of the world."

"It may be the way of the world, but it's no the way with God, Philip. Our cabin is bigger than a sparrow's nest, afther all, and we—even you, miserable sinner, as ye are, 'are of more value than many sparrows.' 'The likes of us,' indade! Have ye ever come yet to sleeping in a stable in Bethlehem, among cows and sheep and asses? Answer me that! Ah, it's ashamed of you, I am, Philip O'Flaherty."

The next morning, this poor couple sat down to a breakfast of only half a dozen potatoes and a little salt.

"Philip, dear," said Nelly, sadly, when they had finished, "these are our last potatoes—I have sold all the rest to pay our rent, and the Doctor's little account, just."

"Blessed Saints!" exclaimed Philip, "what'll we do?"

"I'm afraid we must ask charity, till we can get work," said Nelly.

"No, no! I can't do that! I will die first!" cried Philip; then laying his face down on the table, he burst into tears and sobbed out—"Oh Nelly, darling, I wish I were dead and out of your way!—sure I'm no use in the world."

Nelly clasped the "strange baby" to her heart and murmured—"God help us!" Just at that moment, there came a knock at the cabin door—she opened it and dropped a respectful curtesy. It was the Earl, and a gentleman in mourning, who as soon as he saw the baby that Nelly held, caught it in his arms and began kissing it, and weeping over it, crying out that he had found his boy! The Earl explained that the stranger was a kinsman of his, a Scotch Laird, whose wife had been lost in the wreck, a few weeks before, while on her way to visit her relatives at the castle, with her child and servants. He said, they had not received the letter announcing her coming—so had not thought of looking for friends among the drowned and burned who were washed ashore after the wreck; but they had heard of the child so miraculously saved, and hoped that it might be their kinsman's son.

When Nelly fully realized that she must lose her adopted child, she fell at the feet of the father, crying with tears and sobs,—"Oh, sir, I cannot let him go! I warmed him out of the death-chill at my heart—I gave him my own dead darling's place! It will kill me, just, to part with him!"

"And you shall not part with him, my good woman," said the Laird—"the child must have a nurse—he should have none but you. I will take you and your husband with me to Scotland, if you will come!"

So, to make a long story short, the poor schoolmaster and his wife were provided with a comfortable home for the rest of their days, for their kindness to the little shipwrecked boy, who was always dear to them, and always returned their love.

Many others may adopt poor foundlings and care for them tenderly, and yet never have rich lords come to claim their charges and reward them so generously; but the Lord of all will not fail to ask for his "little ones" at last,—and to those who do good to "the least of these" He has promised rewards more glorious than the greatest earthly monarch could give—and He will keep his word.

* * * * *

Here end my stories and legends of dear old Ireland. I returned from visiting the Causeway, to Belfast, from which place, after a few weeks of rest and quiet social enjoyment, I passed over to Scotland. And now, may I not hope that all the dear young readers who have gone with me thus far, in my wanderings, will wish to bear me company yet further? In another volume, I will describe what I saw, and tell appropriate histories and legends of the rugged, but beautiful land of Wallace and Bruce—of Burns and Scott. So, for the present, I will only bid you a short farewell—or as the French say, when they part with the hope of meeting again—au revoir.

GRACE GREENWOOD.

THE END