Chapter 5

The next object of interest is Flint Castle, to which King Richard II. was carried as a prisoner, and where he met the banished Bolingbroke, who was soon to step into his royal shoes and dub himself King Henry IV.

Next was the town of Holywell--so called for the famous, and, it is said, miraculous well of St. Winifred, which it contains. If you inquire for this, you are conducted to a beautiful Gothic building, erected by the good Margaret, Countess of Richmond. Within this edifice is a large bath; and in and out of this, the maimed, palsied, and rheumatic, are constantly hobbling, crawling, or being carried. Over head, fixed in the roof, are hosts of old canes and crutches, placed there by cripples who say they have been cured by the waters. Doubtless this spring has medicinal properties, like many in our own country, and very likely many a poor creature is cured by simply bathing repeatedly in pure cold water--a treatment tried here for the first time in all their lives.

But who was St. Winifred?

All I know of her I get from a Roman Catholic legend, which I, being a Protestant, and because it seems to me absurd, cannot credit; but which many good, simple-hearted people find no difficulty in believing--especially such as have had a lame leg cured by the well, and have hung up a crutch in the shrine.

There was once, (says the legend,) a great lord, whose name was Thewith, and a noble lady, whose name was Wenlo, and they had one only daughter, whose name was Winifred. Now Winifred grew up to be a marvellously beautiful maiden, and her hand was sought in marriage by lords and princes far and near. But strangely enough, she would have nothing to say to any of them, and seemed to care nothing for the pomps and pleasures of the world. She was pious and charitable, and loved better to nurse and pray with the sick than to wear fine dresses, or dance with handsome young gentlemen. Perhaps she had visions, in which she saw and heard all the palsied old men and women, and all the miserable cripples that were, or ever would be in the world, shaking their heads and thumping with their crutches at her. At any rate, she resolved to live a single, devout, and charitable life, and for that purpose, placed herself under the care and instruction of her uncle, Breno, a very holy priest.

But it happened that Prince Caradoc, the son of King Alen--who _he_ was I don't know--saw her, and instantly fell desperately in love with her, and in the authoritative way which princes have, asked her to be his wife. Winifred said "no" very decidedly, and then he undertook to carry her off by force. But she escaped, and ran down the hill toward her uncle's cell. Caradoc followed, foaming with rage, and with his drawn sword in his hand. She ran very fast, but he soon overtook her, and with one blow of his sword cut off her head! The body dropped on the spot, but the head bounded forward and fell at the feet of Father Breno, who stood at the door of his cell. The good priest caught it up, and running to the body, put it on again--being very careful not to have it twisted toward one shoulder, or what would have been more awkward still, facing backward.

Immediately Winifred arose, as well as ever, only a little weak from loss of blood--and with nothing to remember her decapitation by, but a red line around her neck, which looked like a small string of coral beads, and was rather pretty than otherwise.

From that day it was settled that Winifred was a Saint, for on the spot where her head had rested, there bubbled up a spring of pure water, for the healing of the sick--particularly the crippled and rheumatic. Believers say that, in the Saint's time, the waters were more powerful than they are now. Then, after one dip, the palsied stopped shaking, the paralytic began talking, and cripples flung away their crutches while the maimed had only to thrust the stumps of arms and legs into the spring, to have beautiful new hands and feet sprout out before their eyes!

The part of North Wales through which we passed, is not so mountainous and picturesque as some other portions of the Principality; but it is very beautiful, even as seen in flying glimpses, from the railway carriage. We were very sorry that we could not stop to explore the lovely vales of Clwyd and Llangollen, and visit the little city of St. Asaph, where Mrs. Hemans once resided.

I longed to go and pay my respects to some of those grand, old mountains, that stood afar off, in their stern majesty, clothed with purple-blossomed heather, flecked with golden sunshine and crowned with gorgeous clouds, or silvery mists. The dark-waving foliage of many a shadowy glen and rocky gorge seemed beckoning to us to search into their lovely, lonely places, and many a glad rill and wild cascade seemed to call to us to come and look upon its unsunned beauty. But the swift locomotive remorselessly whirled us away from glen and gorge, and its rush and clang soon drowned those pleasant mountain voices of dancing rivulet and laughing waterfall.

We hardly caught a breath of the free, fresh air of the hills, in exchange for the long, brown train of heavy, hot smoke we left behind us;--in truth, puffing and whirling in and out of the Principality, as we did, I am almost ashamed to count Wales as one of the countries I have seen.

In England, no town, however large it may be, is called a city, unless it has a Bishop and a Cathedral, as the capital of an Episcopal See. Thus the great seaport of Liverpool is only a _town_, while St. Asaph, with but one street and eight hundred inhabitants, is a _city_.

The first Bishop of St. Asaph was St. Kentigern, a famous monk and monk-maker, and founder of monasteries. He had a disciple by the name of Asaph, whom he brought up to be a Saint.

Legends say that one day the good Bishop got severely chilled by remaining in his bath too long, and young Asaph, not having any shovel or tongs, took up some live coals in his hands, and carried them to his master, without burning himself at all. People said this was a very fair beginning for a Saint, and as he continued to improve, the church canonized him when he died, and the city and diocese were named for him.

Near St. Asaph is Rhyddlan Castle--the place where Edward I. outwitted the Welsh nobles, by proposing that they should be ruled by a _native_ Prince, whose character nobody could say a word against. All joyfully agreed, and then he presented to them his infant son, born at Carnarvon Castle, and whom he had made Prince of Wales.

At Conway, we passed close by a grand old castle, still very strong and imposing, though it was built by Edward I. Here we crossed the Tubular Bridge--a great curiosity--but far from equal to the Britannia Bridge, across the Menai Straits, which lie between Wales and the Island of Anglesea. I cannot describe this to you--but it is one of the most wonderful works in all the world.

Holyhead is a small town, on an island of the same name--divided by a narrow strait from the west coast of Anglesea. Here we took a steamer to cross the Irish channel.

We made the trip in about four hours; but they seemed to me no less than twelve--for I was mortally sick. I thought at one time that I was surely dying. I did not care much; people never do when they are sea-sick; still, I thought I should prefer a more romantic sort of a death, and I was heartily glad when I found myself on shore, at Kingstown, seven miles below Dublin, where we took the railway for that city. We arrived late at night, and drove to our hotel on a regular Irish jaunting car. This is a very funny looking vehicle--low and broad, with two wheels, concealed by the seats, which run lengthwise. There is another kind, called the _inside car_. An Irishman once explained the difference to an English traveller, in this way: "An outside car, yer honor, has the wheels _inside_, and an inside car has the wheels _outside_."

All Irish carmen drive furiously, and the cars go jumping and hopping along, and spinning round the corners, at such a rate that one feels rather nervous at first, and has no little difficulty in keeping on. But like many other things, it's easy enough, when you get used to it.

We found Gresham's Hotel a very comfortable, pleasant place, and we soon felt at home, though we saw none but Irish faces, and heard only the Irish brogue around us; for those faces were smiling and cordial, and that rich, musical brogue seemed bubbling up from kindly hearts.

I have not told you much about Wales in this chapter, because rushing through the country, as I did, I really saw very little of it. The people seemed quiet, cleanly, and industrious; but they did not look, or dress at all like the English. I noticed that many of the women seemed rather masculine in their tastes--wearing hats and coats like the men, and that the children were dressed in an odd old-fashioned way, and looked serious, shrewd, and mature--almost as though they were a race of dwarfs. The Welsh language had to me a strange, harsh, barbaric sound, and when listening to it, I realized for the first time since I had left America, that I was indeed far away from home. I do not doubt, however, but that if I had seen more of the Welsh, I should have liked them heartily, for they are said to be very kindly, honest, and hospitable. They are naturally brave and sturdy lovers of liberty. In old times the English had a hard and tedious struggle with them, before they could subdue them. Often, when they thought they had the whole rude nation under their hands, or rather under their feet, the rebellious spirit would break out again in a new spot, fiercer and hotter than ever, and all the work had to be done over again.

Many of the stories in Welsh history are very grand and heroic, but they are also very terrible; and I think you will find more to your taste a simple little story of domestic life, which I have picked up somewhere, and can assure you is as true as a great deal we find in history.

THE FISHERMAN'S RETURN.

A good many years ago, somewhere on the southwestern coast of Wales, there lived an honest fisherman, by the name of John Jenkins. The Jenkinses are a very numerous and respectable family in Wales, and so are the Joneses.

Mrs. Jenkins was a Jones, but she was not half so proud of her high and vast family connections, as she was of her industrious, hardy husband, and her pretty little daughter, Fanny.

When Fanny was a fortnight-old baby, the least, puny, little, pink creature, wrapped in flannel, there came up a dreadful storm, and a small London packet was wrecked on the coast, near her father's cottage. The passengers were all lost except a little boy, about three years of age, whom John Jenkins saved at the risk of his life. Two of the crew escaped, but they could tell nothing of the child more than that he came from Ireland, and was bound for London, with his nurse. The boy could give no clear account of himself, but he wore round his neck a gold locket, with arms engraved on it, and containing a lock of black hair, twined with small pearls. So the fisherman concluded that he must belong to some great family; and when they asked what was his name, they expected to hear some prodigious great title, such as earl, or marquis; but when he proudly answered, "Brian O'Neill," they could make nothing of it--little knowing, simple folks as they were, that the O'Neills were once kings and princes in Ireland. But that was in the old, old time; great changes have taken place since, and there are a few O'Neills quite in common life nowadays.

John Jenkins did all that lay in his power to find the parents and home of the child--but he was poor and ignorant--the lord of the manor was a little boy, at school, and the steward could not or would not help him; so, his efforts all proving useless, he adopted Brian, and brought him up as his son, giving him a tolerably good education, and training him for his own honest calling.

O'Neill grew into a fine, hearty, brave lad,--not at all conceited or haughty in his ways, though he was proud, he scarcely knew why, of his Irish name,--always treasured up his locket of gold, and often declared that he could remember the head from which that hair was cut--his mother's--and how he had seen it shut away under the coffin-lid, the very day that his nurse set out with him for London. He said, too, that he could remember his home; a grand old castle, near a lake, and a great park, and a little cottage, where his foster-mother lived, and his foster-father, a terrible man, who used to get drunk and break things; and how once, when running away from him, he fell and cut his head. Here Brian always lifted the hair off his forehead, and, sure enough, there was a scar quite plain to be seen.

Fanny Jenkins grew up into a good and beautiful girl, and it seemed very natural that she and young O'Neill should love one another, and when they married and set up for themselves nobody objected. Indeed, so much were they beloved, that all who were able, helped them, and those who had nothing to give, wished them well and smiled on their courageous love, and so did them more good than they thought.

The lord of the manor built them a beautiful cottage by the sea, with long narrow windows and turrets, almost like a castle; and the Lord of lords blessed them and prospered them, and in due time gave them a little son, whom they called Brian Patrick Jenkins Jones O'Neill, and who was just the brightest, best, and most beautiful baby ever beheld,--at least Fanny thought so, and surely mothers are the best judges of babies.

They lived a very happy life, that humble little family. Every morning early the young fisherman went out in his pretty boat, the "Fanny Jenkins," for his day's toil and adventure, leaving his cheerful little wife at her work--spinning, sewing, or caring for the child; and every night, when he returned tired and hungry, as fishermen often are, and found a tidy home, a smiling wife, a crowing baby and a hearty meal awaiting him, he thought and said, that he was just the happiest O'Neill in all the world.

In tempestuous weather Fanny suffered a great deal from anxiety for her brave husband, who would always put out to sea, unless the storm was very serious indeed.

At length, one lowering day in September, when he was far out of sight of home, a sudden squall came up, which deepened into a tempest as the day wore on.

With anxious heart and tearful eyes poor Fanny watched through the gloomy sunset, for his coming,--half longing, half fearing to see his frail vessel driven toward the land on such an angry sea.

But the day and night passed, and he did not come. The next four or five days were dark and stormy; there were several wrecks upon the coast, and Brian was given up for lost by all but his wife. She still kept up a good heart and would not despair.

At last the storm ceased, the sea grew smooth, the skies smiled, and all looked cheerful again, save where along the wild shore fragments of wrecks came drifting in, and the people were burying the drowned.

At the close of a beautiful day, a week from the time that Brian O'Neill left his home, his wife sat in front of the cottage, with her baby asleep upon her lap. Her brave heart was failing her now; she grew tired of her sad, vain gazing out toward the west, and bowing her head on her hands, wept till the tears trickled through her fingers and dropped on the sleeping face before her.

So she sat a long time, weeping and praying, and calling her babe a "poor fatherless boy," when suddenly, the child smiled out of sleep and started up, calling "Papa!" Fanny sprung to her feet, almost hoping that her Brian was by her side. No, he was not there; but, oh, joy! a little way out to sea, between her and the sunset glory, came a dear familiar object--her aquatic namesake--_the boat_! Swiftly it came o'er the bright waters, joyfully dancing toward its home! Soon a beloved form was seen waving a shining sailor's hat; soon a beloved voice was heard calling her name, and soon, though it seemed an age to her, Brian O'Neill, with his oars and nets over his shoulder, as though he had only been absent for a day's fishing, sprang up the steps before the cottage and clasped his wife and child to his honest heart! Fanny laughed and wept and thanked God, the baby crowed and pulled his father's whiskers, and all were happier than I can tell.

In the evening, when his parents and the neighbors were in, to rejoice over his return, Brian told the story of his adventures.

When that dreadful storm came up, he would have been lost, had he not been near a large vessel which took up both him and his boat. This ship was bound to a northern Irish port, and as the storm continued, he was obliged to make the whole voyage. At B----, while he was waiting for fair weather, he looked about him a little, to see the country; and now comes the wonderful, romantic part of his story. On visiting an old and somewhat dilapidated castle, in the neighborhood of the town, he instantly recognized it as the home of his infancy; and walking straight through the park, he found the cottage of his foster-mother and the dear old woman herself--who didn't believe in him at first, because he was a great weather-beaten sailor, instead of the fair baby she had nursed. But when Brian lifted his hair and showed the scar, she was convinced and rejoiced exceedingly. Then she told him how his father, Sir Patrick O'Neill died when he was a mere baby, and left him to the guardianship of an uncle who proved to be a bad man. So when Lady O'Neill was dying, she made her nurse promise to take the child to her sister, in London, to have him brought up away from that wicked man. When the news came of the wreck of the "Erin," and the loss of all on board, this uncle went into mourning for six months--but his tenants were always in mourning, for he proved a very hard landlord.

Brian laid no claim then to his title and estate, but as soon as the sea was calm, went home to ask his wife's advice, like a sensible man and a good husband.

He and Fanny had often said that they did not envy the rich and great; but now, considering that the false baronet was so bad a man, and his tenantry so oppressed, they really thought it their duty to make an effort for rank and fortune.

Well, after a long time, Brian got his rights, by the help of a great lawyer, who took half the property in payment for his services. So he became Sir Brian O'Neill, the master of a dreary old castle and no end of bogs and potatoe patches, and Fanny became "Her Leddyship, God bless her!" as the peasants used to say.

For a long time they found it rather awkward and tiresome to be grand and idle, like other great folks; so much so, that for several years they used to go over to Wales in the fishing season, and live in the cottage by the sea, and Sir Brian would go out fishing every day, and Lady Fanny would spin and sew and take care of the baby, just in the old way. Living thus, they were happiest--but they were always happy and good--they lived to be very old, and died on the same day and were buried in the same grave.

Their great great-grandson, Sir Algernon O'Neill, is fond of the water, too; but he takes to it in a splendid yacht, called the "Fanny Ellsler," with his delicate wife, the Lady Ginevra, who abhors the sea, and gets dreadfully sick always, but _will_ take cruises, because the sea air is good for the little O'Neills, _she_ says,--because Queen Victoria has set the fashion, some people say.

Dublin, Howth.

GRACE O'MALLEY.

It is not certainly know who was the founder of Dublin, or _Dubhlywn_, as the name was written formerly. Some learned historians say it was Avellanus, one of the Danish Vikings, an adventurous sort of monarchs of old times, very much given to a seafaring life, and piratical depredations. If Avellanus was the founder--and I don't dispute that he was--he showed great taste and wisdom in selecting the site of a city. It has a beautiful harbor; the River Liffey flows through it, a picturesque country lies around it, and in sight are romantic valleys and dark gorges and noble hills, which don't stop far short of real mountains.

Dublin remained under the rule of the Danish Sea-kings, and their descendants, till they were conquered by the English, in the year 1170. They were, however, put down for a time in the year 1014, by a league of native princes, led by the great king, Brien-Boro. It was during this struggle that the famous battle of Clontarf was fought.

Brien-Boro was a model monarch--the King Alfred of Ireland. So perfectly were the laws administered in his reign, that it was said a fair damsel might travel alone, from one end of the Kingdom to the other, with a gold ring on the top of a wand, without danger of being robbed. I doubt very much, however, if any young lady ever performed such a journey.

From the year 1173, when Henry II. received the submission of the Irish princes, and the last Irish king, Roderic O'Connor, Ireland has remained under the government of England, and though it has had several bloody rebellions, it has never been really independent. The Irish formerly had a parliament of their own, but toward the close of the last century it was suppressed, and the union made complete.

The governors of Ireland have always been called viceroys, or lord-lieutenants. Dublin Castle was built for their residence, but for some time past it has been abandoned for "The Lodge," in Phoenix Park. The Castle is a massive, gloomy-looking building, now principally occupied by the military.

The Parliament House, now the Bank of Ireland, the Custom-House, and Trinity College, are beautiful buildings; but I did not admire the cathedrals and churches very much, after those of England. The church of St. Anne is interesting, as containing the tomb of Felicia Hemans.

We drove about the town on a jaunting car, with a talkative driver, seeing all the sights and listening to strange, wild legends. In the pretty cemetery of Glasneven, we saw, through the grating of a vault, the magnificent coffin which contains the body of Daniel O'Connell, the great orator. We enjoyed most our drive in Phoenix Park, a noble enclosure, filled with fine trees and shrubbery, flowers, birds, gentle deer, and playful, brown-eyed fawns.

But if we liked the streets, buildings, and parka of Dublin, we liked the _people_ better. Very courteous, generous, and cordial we found all those to whose hospitality we had been commended--and warm at my heart is now, and ever will be, the dear memory of my good Dublin friends.

A pleasant excursion from the city is to the Bay, which is considered one of the most beautiful in the world; and to Howth Harbor, formerly the landing-place of the Dublin packets, but now superseded by Kingston.

The first object which strikes one on approaching Dublin by sea, is the famous Hill of Howth, which rises bold and high, on the northern coast of the bay, and stands like the great guardian and champion of Ireland.

The Dublin people are as proud of this as the Neapolitans are of Mount Vesuvius, which overlooks their noble bay of Naples. "Ah, sure ma'am," said an Irish sailor,--"it's as fine an ilivation, barrin' a few thousand feet of height, as that same smokin', rumblin' ould cratur, an' a dale betther behaved."

At Howth there are some very interesting Druidical remains to be seen, a fine old castle and an abbey, in which repose many brave and famous knights--the Tristrams and St. Lawrences, barons of Howth.

There is a curious and romantic legend of Howth Castle, which I will relate here.

GRACE O'MALLEY.