Part 14

Once every year, Grace O'Malley went in state to Howth Castle, to see her beloved little friend and carry him presents, till at last, just as he was growing into manhood, a cruel sickness came upon her, and she was unable to go. Yet she sent her galley and the presents, as usual, to prove her faithful love.

Tristram, who had grown up a noble, generous youth, was grieved to hear of the illness of this strange, proud woman, who had seemed to lay aside her very nature to love him, and as he had always kept his old childish affection for her, he resolved to go and see her once more.

So the galley, on its return, took the young Lord of Howth to the O'Malley's Castle, in Connaught.

It was night when they arrived--a wild November night. The sky was heavy with storm-clouds, and the sea was running high before a strong wind, and breaking with a sound like thunder upon that bleak, black shore. There was a great fire burning in the vast chimney of the old hall, but in the farther corners, dark shadows were lurking, and the stone walls were glistening with a chill dampness.

As the heavy hall door swung open, to admit the young lord and his train, so much of the tempestuous night rushed in with them, that the old armor and the banners hanging on the walls clanged and flapped, and the fire roared fiercely and whirled out an angry cloud of smoke. In the midst of the hall the Lady Grace was lying, surrounded by her retainers, her warriors, and seamen, on a rude couch, piled with skins of deer she had slain, but curtained with rich crimson drapery, suspended from the ceiling by enormous antlers of elks. She was dressed in her old way, except that she had no arms in her girdle, and wore a rosary about her neck. By her side stood a venerable priest, holding a crucifix and the Lady Grace was repeating after him very devoutly a prayer for the dying; but when she saw Tristram, she forgot both priest and prayer. She sprang up from her couch to meet him, with a glad cry; and though she sank back at once, in weakness and mortal pain, she was content, for her arms were about the neck of her darling. She wiped the rain-drops from his face and pressed them out of his soft brown hair, and gazed at him with a fierce joy of love in her great dark eyes, which seemed larger and darker now, and shone with new splendor, since her long black locks had turned to silvery white.

"It was noble and like thee, mavourneen deelish," she said, "to give my dying eyes this last best blessing of life--beholding thee once more. For this boon, I bestow upon thee the proudest legacy I have to leave--this ring of most precious stones--the gift of my sister, Elizabeth of England. With the ring, I would give thee my benison, but that I fear the blessing of so sinful a woman might do thee harm. And yet, as I have loved thee purely, as a mother might, the saints may make it good. So, I will bless thee, jewel of my heart!"

The young lord knelt reverently to receive her blessing, and after she had ceased to murmur the fervent words, he still kept his place, for her large hand yet pressed heavily upon his head. After a moment's silence, she recommenced speaking, but rapidly and wildly, for her mind was wandering. It seemed to have gone back to the night when she had taken the heir of Howth from his nurse. She began railing against the old Earl's churlishness, and vowing she would teach him a lesson in hospitality Then she called out in loud, stern tones to her mariners to set sail for Connaught, and laughed fiercely over her prize. But soon her mood changed; she began to stroke the head of Tristram, and comfort him by gentle words and kind promises. She did not seem to perceive that the firm, manly face now before her, was not the smooth little face all wet with tears, she once caressed. The young lord was again a baby-boy to her; and presently she drew him closer, and began singing that same nursery song with which she used to soothe him to sleep.

It was a strange sight to see,--that dying woman, rocking herself back and forth, and singing that wild lullaby, with her staring servitors and grim old fighters grouped around her, hardly able to believe that this was indeed their haughty mistress, their brave leader, their bold sea-captain.

At first, her voice rang out clear and full, but soon it faltered and failed, and sunk lower and lower. And lower and lower sunk the head of the old chieftainess, till her long white locks mingled with the dark curls of the young lord; then her voice ceased altogether, and her forehead lay heavy and cold against his, and he knew that Grace O'Malley was dead.

Donnybrook

THE LITTLE FIDDLER.

A mile or two south of Dublin is Donnybrook, the place where a famous annual fair is held. We happened to be in the city at the time of this, and one pleasant afternoon we drove out to see this great gathering of the Irish peasantry. The fair-ground presented a busy, gay, and curious scene. A large enclosed space was covered with booths and tents--horse-markets--cattle-markets--buyers, sellers, and crowds of spectators. There was almost every thing one could think of, for sale; there were all sorts of games, and sports and shows going on; there were Ethiopian concerts, plays, exhibitions of Punch and Judy, little circuses and menageries, jugglers, tumblers, hurdy-gurdy players, ballad singers, pipers, fiddlers, and dancers.

In nearly all the tents were gay young couples, dancing away as though for dear life--dancing not alone with their feet, but with their arms, their heads, and their merry, twinkling eyes. They were not all well dressed, or even clean, but they seemed happy and healthy, and merrily snapped their fingers at care. Everywhere there was laughter, and chatter, and feasting, and frolic; but, I am glad to say, we saw little tippling, and no quarrelling. It was very different in old times, when the wild fun of Donnybrook Fair always ended in confusion, drunkenness, and fighting. This happy change has been effected partly by the Temperance reform, and partly by the establishment of a strong and active government police.

Now for a short story of Donnybrook Fair.

THE LITTLE FIDDLER.

Away toward the hills of Wicklow, some five or six miles from Dublin, there lived, not many years ago, a humble peasant family, by the name of O'Shaughnessy. Michael O'Shaughnessy worked in the bog--that is, he cut up the turf of the bogs, and piled it in stacks for drying--so making the peat which is the common fuel of Ireland. He was very poor, and with his wife and five children lived in a little low cabin, built of mud and stones, and thatched with straw. There was but one small window to this cabin, but then a good deal of light came down through a hole in the roof, left for the smoke to go out of--for there was no chimney.

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 passed 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."