Chapter 5

"Saint Kevin riz up a-rubbin' his head as fast as he cud an' looked round an' there sure enough was owld Satan himself standin' there grinnin' away wid the horrid mouth av him stratched from year to year, a-laughin' at the fix the saint was in. Well, the minnit Saint Kevin set his two eyes an him, he knewn he had him, fur ye see, the ground was conshecrated, but the divil didn't know it fur it was done wan time when he'd gone to Cork to attind a landlord's convintion to raise the rints on a lot o' shtarving tinants, that bein' a favorite job wid him. If he'd knewn the ground was holy, he'd never dared to set fut an it, fur ye see, if ye can ketch the divil an holy ground where he's no bizness, ye've got him fast an' tight an' can pull him in when ye plaze. But the saint wasn't goin' to give the owld desaver any show so he run at him an' gripped him be the horns, the same as he was a goat, an' threw him an the ground an' tied his hands wid a pace av his own gown that he tore aff, an' the divil, do phat he cud, wasn't able to break loose.

"'Now,' says he, 'ye slatherin', blood-suckin', blaggardin' nagur, I'll fix ye, ye owld hippypotaymus, so as ivery sowl in Ireland 'ull know ye where ever ye're met.'

"So he rowled up his shlaves an' shpit an his hands an' fell to work. He onschrewed the divil's left leg at the jint av the knee, an' laid it an the grass. Then he tuk aff the cow's right hind leg at the knee an' laid that an the grass. Then he schrewed the owld cow's leg an the divil's knee, an' the divil's fut an the owld cow's leg, an' untied Satan an' bid him git up.

"'Now,' says he to him, 'do you go at wanst, an' I bid ye that when ye meet man or mortial, the foorst thing ye do is to show that fut that they know from the shtart who ye are. Now shtart, ye vagabone blaggard av a shpalpeen, or I'll kick the backbone shtrait up into the shkull o' ye. Out!' he says, flourishin' his fut at him.

"Well, the divil made a break fur to run, bekase he wanted no more benedictions from the toes o' Saint Kevin, but not bein' used to his new leg, the very foorst shtep he made wid it, it kicked out behind agin this shtone, that wasn't a crass at all then, an' made this hole that ye see, an' Saint Kevin tuk the shtone an' made a crass av it aftherwards. But the divil didn't shtop at all when the leg wudn't go fur him, fur he seen the blessed saint comin', a-wavin' his fut about, so he rowled over an' over till he got to the wall, then made a shpring an it an' out av sight like a ghost.

"That's the way Satan got his lame leg, bekase, ye see he's niver larned fur to manage it, an' goes limpity-lop, an' though he wears a cloak, is obligated fur to show the cow's fut whenever he talks wid any wan, fur if he doesn't, begorra, the leg does fur itself, fur it's niver forgot the thrick av kicking the owld cow larned it, an' if Satan waits a minnit, up goes the cow's fut, as hard an' high as the last time she kicked the saint. No more did the divil ever dare to come there agin, so the blessed Saint Kevin was left in pace to build the siven churches, an the divil wasn't ever seen in Glendalough, till the day the saint was berrid, an' then he peeped over the hill to look at the berryin', but he wudn't come down, thinkin', belike, it was a lie they were tellin' him when they said the saint was dead, fur to injuice him to come into the glen an' give Saint Kevin wan more whack at him wid his fut. An' they do say, that he's been to the besht docthers in the univaarse fur to get him another leg, but they cudn't do it, Glory be to God; an' so he is lame an' must show his cloven fut, so as ivery wan knows at wanst that it's the divil himself that's in it, an' can run away from him before he's time to do thim harm.

THE ENCHANTED ISLAND.

On the afternoon of Sunday, July 7, 1878, the inhabitants of Ballycotton, County Cork, were greatly excited by the sudden appearance, far out at sea, of an island where none was known to exist. The men of the town and island of Ballycotton were fishermen and knew the sea as well as they knew the land. The day before, they had been out in their boats and sailed over the spot where the strange island now appeared, and were certain that the locality was the best fishing-ground they had.

"And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew," for the day was clear and the island could be seen as plainly as they saw the hills to the north. It was rugged, in some parts rocky, in others densely wooded; here and there were deep shadows in its sides indicating glens heavily covered with undergrowth and grasses. At one end it rose almost precipitously from the sea; at the other, the declivity was gradual; the thick forest of the mountainous portion gave way to smaller trees, these to shrubs; these to green meadows that finally melted into the sea and became indistinguishable from the waves.

Under sail and oar, a hundred boats put off from the shore to investigate; when, as they neared the spot, the strange island became dim in outline, less vivid in color, and at last vanished entirely, leaving the wonder-stricken villagers to return, fully convinced that for the first time in their lives they had really seen the Enchanted Island. For once there was a topic of conversation that would outlast the day, and as the story of the Enchanted Island passed from lip to lip, both story and island grew in size till the latter was little less than a continent, containing cities and castles, palaces and cathedrals, towers and steeples, stupendous mountain ranges, fertile valleys, and wide spreading plains; while the former was limited only by the patience of the listener, and embraced the personal experience, conclusions, reflections, and observations of every man, woman, and child in the parish who had been fortunate enough to see the island, hear of it, or tell where it had been seen elsewhere.

For the Enchanted Island of the west coast is not one of those ordinary, humdrum islands that rise out of the sea in a night, and then, having come, settle down to business on scientific principles, and devote their attention to the collection of soil for the use of plants and animals. It disdains any such commonplace course as other islands are content to follow, but is peripatetic, or, more properly, seafaring, in its habits, and as fond of travelling as a sailor. At its own sweet will it comes, and, having shown itself long enough to convince everybody who is not an "innocent entirely" of its reality, it goes without leave-taking or ceremony, and always before boats can approach near enough to make a careful inspection. This is the invariable history of its appearance. No one has ever been able to come close to its shores, much less land upon them, but it has been so often seen on the west coast, that a doubt of its existence, if expressed in the company of coast fishermen, will at once establish for the sceptic a reputation for ignorance of the common affairs of every-day life.

In Cork, for instance, it has been seen by hundreds of people off Ballydonegan Bay, while many more can testify to its appearance off the Bay of Courtmacsherry. In Kerry, all the population of Ballyheige saw it a few years ago, lying in Tralee Bay, between Kerry Head and Brandon's Head, and shortly before, the villagers of Lisneakeabree, just across the bay from Ballyheige, saw it between their shore and Kerry Head, while the fishermen in Saint Finan's Bay and in Ballinskelligs are confident it has been seen, if not by themselves, at least by some of their friends. It has appeared at the mouth of the Shannon, and off Carrigaholt in Clare, where the people saw a city on it. This is not so remarkable as it seems, for, in justice to the Enchanted Island, it should be stated that its resemblance to portions of the neighboring land is sometimes very close, and shows that the "enchanter" who has it under a spell knows his business, and being determined to keep his island for himself changes its appearance as well as its location in order that his property may not be recognized nor appropriated.

In Galway, the Enchanted Island has appeared in the mouth of Ballinaleame Bay, a local landlord at the time making a devout wish that it would stay there. The fishermen of Ballynaskill, in the Joyce Country, saw it about fifteen years ago, since when it appeared to the Innisshark islanders. The County Mayo has seen it, not only from the Achille Island cliffs, but also from Downpatrick Head; and in Sligo, the fishermen of Ballysadare Bay know all about it, while half the population of Inishcrone still remember its appearance about twenty years ago. The Inishboffin islanders in Donegal say it looked like their own island, "sure two twins couldn't be liker," and the people on Gweebarra Bay, when it appeared there, observed along the shore of the island a village like Maas, the one in which they lived. It has also appeared off Rathlin's Island, on the Antrim coast, but, so far as could be learned, it went no further to the east, confining its migrations to the west coast, between Cork on the south and Antrim on the north.

Concerning the island itself, legendary authorities differ on many material points. Some hold it to be "a rale island sure enough," and that its exploits are due to "jommethry or some other inchantmint," while opponents of this materialistic view are inclined to the opinion that the island is not what it seems to be, that is to say, not "airth an' shtones, like as thim we see, but only a deludherin' show that avil sper'ts, or the divil belike, makes fur to desave us poor dishsolute craythers." Public opinion on the west coast is therefore strongly divided on the subject, unity of sentiment existing on two points only; that the island has been seen, and that there is something quite out of the ordinary in its appearance. "For ye see, yer Anner," observed a Kerry fisherman, "it's agin nacher fur a rale island to be comin' and goin' like a light in a bog, an' whin ye do see it, ye can see through it, an' by jagers, if it's a thrue island, a mighty quare wan it is an' no mishtake."

On so deep and difficult a subject, an ounce of knowledge is worth a pound of speculation, and the knowledge desired was finally furnished by an old fisherman of Ballyconealy Bay, on the Connemara coast, west of Galway. This individual, Dennis Moriarty by name, knew all about the Enchanted Island, having not only seen it himself, but, when a boy, learned its history from a "fairy man," who obtained his information from "the good people" themselves, the facts stated being therefore, of course, of indisputable authority, what the fairies did not know concerning the doings of supernatural and enchanted circles, being not worth knowing. Mr. Moriarty was stricken in years, having long given up active service in the boats and relegated himself to lighter duties on shore. He had much confidence in the accuracy of his information on the subject of the island, and a glass of grog, and "dhraw ov the pipe," brought out the story in a rich, mellow brogue.

"Faith, I'm not rightly sure how long ago it was, but it was a good while an' before the blessed Saint Pathrick come to the counthry an' made Crissans av the haythens in it. Howandiver, it was in thim times that betune this an' Inishmore, there was an island. Some calls it the Island av Shades, an' more says its name was the Sowls Raypose, but it doesn't matther, fur no wan knows. It was as full av payple as it could howld, an' cities wor on it wid palaces an' coorts an' haythen timples an' round towers all covered wid goold an' silver till they shone so ye cudn't see for the brightness.

"And they wor all haythens there, an' the king av the island was the biggest av thim, sure he was Satan's own, an' tuk delight in doin' all the bloody things that come into his head. If the waither that minded the table did annything to displaze him, he'd out wid a soord the length av me arrum an' cut aff his head. If they caught a man shtaling, the king 'ud have him hung at wanst widout the taste av a thrial, 'Bekase,' says the king, says he, 'maybe he didn't do it at all, an' so he'd get aff, so up wid him,' an' so they'd do. He had more than a hunderd wives, ginerally spakin', but he wasn't throubled in the laste be their clack, for whin wan had too much blasthogue in her jaw, or begun gostherin' at him, he cut aff her head an' said, beways av a joke, that 'that's the only cure fur a woman's tongue.' An' all the time, from sun to sun, he was cursin' an' howlin' wid rage, so as I'm sure yer Anner wouldn't want fur to hear me say thim blastpheemies that he said. To spake the truth av him, he was wicked in that degray that, axin' yer pardon, the owld divil himself wouldn't own him.

"So wan time, there was a thunderin' phillaloo in the king's family, fur mind ye, he had thin just a hunderd wives. Now it's my consate that it's aisier fur a hunderd cats to spind the night in pace an the wan thatch than for two wimmin to dhraw wather out av the same well widout aitch wan callin' the other wan all the names she can get out av her head. But whin ye've a hunderd av 'em, an' more than a towsand young wans, big an' little, its aisey to see that the king av the island had plinty av use fur the big soord that he always kept handy to settle family dishputes wid. So, be the time the row I'm tellin' ye av was over an' the wimmin shtopped talkin', the king was a widdy-man just ten times, an' had only ninety wives lift.

"So he says to himself, 'Bedad, I must raycrout the force agin, or thim that's left 'ull think I cant do widout 'em an' thin there'll be no ind to their impidince. Begorra, this marryin' is a sayrious business,' says he, sighin', fur he'd got about all the wimmin that wanted to be quanes an' didn't just know where to find anny more. But, be pickin' up wan here an' there, afther a bit he got ninety-nine, an' then cud get no more, an' in spite av sendin' men to ivery quarther av Ireland an' tellin' the kings' dawthers iverywhere how lonesome he was, an' how the coort was goin' to rack an' ruin entirely fur the want av another quane to mind the panthry, sorra a woman cud be had in all Ireland to come, fur they'd all heard av the nate manes he tuk to kape pace in his family.

"But afther thryin' iverywhere else, he sent a man into the Joyce Counthry, to a mighty fine princess av the Joyces. She didn't want to go at first, but the injuicemints war so shtrong that she couldn't howld out, for the king sint her presints widout end an' said, if she'd marry him, he'd give her all the dimunds they cud get on a donkey's back.

"Now over beyant the Twelve Pins, in the Joyce Counthry, there was a great inchanter, that had all kinds av saycrets, an' knew where ye'd dig for a pot av goold, an' all about doctherin', and cud turn ye into a pig in a minnit, an' build a cassel in wan night, an' make himself disappare when ye wanted him, an' take anny shape he plazed, so as to look to be a baste whin he wasn't, an' was a mighty dape man entirely. Now to him wint the princess an' axed him phat to do, for she didn't care a traneen for the king, but 'ud give the two eyes out av her head to get the dimunds. The inchanter heard phat she had to say an' then towld her, 'Now, my dear, you marry the owld felly, an' have no fear, fur av he daars to touch a hair av yer goolden locks, I'll take care av you an' av him too.'

"So he gev her a charm that she was to say whin she wanted him to come an' another wan to repate whin she was in mortial danger an' towld her fur to go an' get marr'ed an' get the dimunds as quick as she cud. An' that she did, an' at foorst the king was mightily plazed at gettin' her, bekase she was hard to get, an' give her the dimunds an' all she wanted, so she got on very well an' tuk care av the panthry an' helped the other wives about the coort.

"Wan day the king got up out av the goolden bed he shlept an, wid a terrible sulk an him, an' in a state av mind entirely, for the wind was in the aiste an' he had the roomytisms in his back. So he cursed an' shwore like a Turk an' whin the waither axed him to come to his brekquest, he kicked him into the yard av the coort, an' wint in widout him an' set down be the table. So wan av the quanes brought him his bowl av stirabout an' thin he found fault wid it. 'It's burned,' say he, an' threw it at her. Then Quane Peggy Joyce, that hadn't seen the timper that was an him, come in from the panthry wid a shmile an her face an' a big noggin o' milk in her hand. 'Good morrow to ye,' she says to him, but the owld vagabone didn't spake a word. 'Good morrow,' she says to him agin, an' thin he broke out wid a fury.

"'Howld yer pace, ye palaverin' shtrap. D' ye think I'm to be deefened wid yer tongue? Set the noggin an the table an' be walkin' aff wid yerself or I'll make ye sorry ye come,' says he.

"It was the first time he iver spake like that to her, an' the Irish blood ov her riz, an' in a minnit she was as mad as a gandher and as bowld as a lion.

"'Don't you daar to spake that-a-way to me, Sorr,' she says to him. 'I'll have ye know I won't take a word av yer impidince. Me fathers wore crowns ages afore yer bogthrottin' grandfather come to this island, an' ivery wan knows he was the first av his dirthy thribe that had shoes an his feet.' An' she walked strait up to him an' folded her arrums an' looked into his face as impidint as a magpie. 'Don't think fur to bully me,' she says. 'I come av a race that niver owned a coward, and I wouldn't give that fur you an' all the big soords ye cud carry,' says she, givin' her fingers a snap right at the end av his nose.

"Now the owld haythen niver had anny wan to spake like that to him, an' at first was that surprised like as a horse had begun fur to convarse at him, no more cud he say a word, he was that full o' rage, and sat there, openin' and shuttin' his mouth an' swellin' up like he'd burst, an' his face as red as a turkey-cock's. Thin he remimbered his soord ah' pulled it out an' stratched out his hand fur to ketch the quane an' cut aff her head. But she was too quick for him entirely, an' whin he had the soord raised, she said the charm that was to purtect her, an' afore ye cud wink, there stood the blood-suckin' owld villin, mortified to shtone wid his arrum raised an' his hand reached out, an' as stiff as a mast.

"Thin she said the other charm that called the inchanter an' he come at wanst. She towld him phat she done an' he said it was right av her, an' as she was a purty smart woman he said he'd marry her himself. So he did, an' bein' that the island was cursed be rayzon av the king's crimes, they come to Ireland wid all the payple. So they come to Connemara, an' the inchanter got husbands fur all the king's wives an' homes fur all the men av the island. But he inchanted the island an' made it so that the bad king must live in it alone as long as the sun rises an' sits. No more does the island stand still, but must go thravellin' up an' down the coast, an' wan siven years they see it in Kerry an' the next siven years in Donegal, an' so it goes, an' always will, beways av a caution to kings not to cut aff the heads av their wives."

HOW THE LAKES WERE MADE.

Among the weird legends of the Irish peasantry is found a class of stories peculiar both in the nature of the subject and in the character of the tradition. From the dawn of history, and even before, the island has been crowded with inhabitants, and as the centres of population changed, towns and cities were deserted and fell into ruins. Although no longer inhabited, their sites are by no means unknown or forgotten, but in many localities where now appear only irregular heaps of earth and stones to which the archaeologist sometimes finds difficulty in attributing an artificial origin there linger among the common people tales of the city that once stood on the spot; of its walls, its castles, its palaces, its temples, and the pompous worship of the deities there adored. Just as, in Palestine, the identification of Bible localities has, m many instances, been made complete by the preservation among the Bedouins of the Scriptural names, so, in Ireland, the cities of pagan times are now being located through the traditions of the humble tillers of the soil, who transmit from father to son the place-names handed down for untold generations.

Instances are so abundant as to defy enumeration, but a most notable one is Tara, the greatest as it was the holiest city of pagan Ireland. Now it is a group of irregular mounds that the casual observer would readily mistake for natural hills, but for ages the name clung to the place until at last the attention of antiquaries was attracted, interest was roused, investigation made, excavation begun, and the site of Tara made a certainty.

Not all ancient Irish cities, however, escaped the hand of time as well as Tara, for there are geological indications of great natural convulsions in the island at a date comparatively recent, and not a few of the Irish lakes, whose name is legion, were formed by depression or upheaval, almost within the period of written history. A fertile valley traversed by a stream, a populous city by the little river, an earthquake-upheaval lower down the watercourse, closing the exit from the valley, a rising and spreading of the water, an exodus of the inhabitants, such has undoubtedly been the history of Lough Derg and Lough Ree, which are but reservoirs in the course of the River Shannon, while the upper and lower Erne lakes are likewise simply expansions of the river Erne. Lough Neag had a similar origin, the same being also true of Loughs Allen and Key. The Killarney Lakes give indisputable evidence of the manner in which they were formed, being enlargements of the Laune, and Loughs Carra and Mask, in Mayo, are believed to have a subterranean outlet to Lough Carrib, the neighborhood of all three testifying in the strongest possible manner to the sudden closing of the natural outlet for the contributing streams.

The towns which at one time stood on ground now covered by the waters of these lakes were not forgotten. The story of their fate was told by one generation to another, but in course of ages the natural cause, well known to the unfortunates at the time of the calamity, was lost to view, and the story of the disaster began to assume supernatural features. The destruction of the city became sudden; the inhabitants perished in their dwellings; and, as a motive for so signal an event was necessary, it was found in the punishment of duty neglected or crime committed.