Part 24

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.