Read Ebook: Stories and Legends of Travel and History for Children by Greenwood Grace

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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.

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

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.

Dublin, Howth.

GRACE O'MALLEY.

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.

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.

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.

She lived in rude, stormy times, when the Irish were nearly as wild and warlike as savages, and fierce feuds and bold robberies, on land and sea, were every day affairs. Indeed, for a man to be a peaceful, honest, sober citizen, was then no ways to his credit; then children were taught by their quarrelsome parents, to fire up on the slightest occasion, and fight for their rights,--to revenge all insults, and make free with the property of their enemies; and little was the Sunday-school teaching they had to the contrary; then when women became leaders of lawless predatory bands, they were admired and wondered at; but few thought of condemning them, or dared to scout at them.

Those must have been the days, or Ireland the country, of "woman's rights," for throughout the warlike career of the great chieftainess, nobody seems to have been much shocked, or to have thought that Miss O'Malley was going out of her "proper sphere," and infringing on the sacred rights of the nobler sex, in fighting and pirating; except it may be those men who got the worst of it, in engagements with her.

Grace O'Malley was the daughter of a powerful chief, who, having no heir, brought up his one little girl as though she were a son--teaching her all sorts of manly and martial exercises. Instead of dolls and pets, her childish playthings were pistols and daggers, which she soon found very useful in scaring her attendants into instant obedience to her whims; and instead of being allowed to play among the sands and hunt shells on the wild seashore, she was taught to swim, to fish, to row, and to shoot the shy water-fowl. Instead of taking her airings, like a modern nobleman's little daughter, on a well-trained pony, or a sober, sure-footed donkey, over smooth lawns, and through shady parks and flowery lanes, she was accustomed to accompany her father and his rough followers, mounted on one of the wild horses of the country, on long mountain hunts--to dash through bog and briar, to ford swollen streams, and leap wide, dark chasms.

Once, when Grace was but a child, while she was out on one of these hunts, a young fawn that they were chasing, turned suddenly, and singling her out from all the party, ran to her side, laid its head in her lap, and lifted its large sorrowful eyes to her face, as though asking for her protection. "Stand back!" cried she, to the hunters,--"call off the dogs, and let no one harm her now,--she is mine!"

"Ah, well, comrades," said one of the men, "let us seek other game, and leave the fawn to our little lady, for a pet."

"No, by the Rock of Cashel!" cried old Cormac O'Malley, "I will not have my brave daughter made soft and silly, like other girls, by tending pets. Draw your hunting-knife across her throat, Grace, while you have her."

"That will I not, father, for she has trusted in me. I want no pets, but whoever kills this fawn, must kill me first," she said, flinging her arms around the poor trembling creature. She looked so fierce and determined that the men cheered, and the old chief laughingly promised her that the fawn should be allowed to escape unharmed. Grace jealously watched the disappointed hunters and yelping hounds till the swift-footed animal was out of sight, and then rode on with the rest.

Such was Grace O'Malley--stern and proud in temper, fearless and manly in her habits, but now and then giving way to a kind and generous impulse. When her father died, she assumed the command of his warlike retainers, and the sternest and bravest of them were not ashamed to acknowledge her authority. At first, she only fought in self-defence, or in revenge for what she considered aggressions and insults, and finally, for spoil and conquest, and for the habit and love of strife and adventure. She was a tall, handsome woman, with dark, flashing eyes, a clear, ringing voice, and a proud, soldier-like step. Her dress was a singular mingling of the masculine and feminine fashions of her half barbarous country; but it was picturesque and imposing; made of the richest materials she could procure, and worn with an air of majesty which not Queen Bess herself, in all her glory, could surpass.

But the proud Lady Grace professed to be a loyal subject of Elizabeth. In an Irish rebellion, headed by the Earl of Tyrone, she sided with the English government, and added immensely to her power and possessions, by the victories she gained over the rebels. She did not deign to receive a regular commission from the Queen, but fought in her own wild way, on her own responsibility, at her own risk, and for her own advantage. She took castle after castle, confiscated estate after estate, claiming always the "lion's share" of the plunder.

When some of the ships of the great Spanish armada, sent against England, were driven by a storm upon the Irish coast, she bore down upon them with her armed galleys, and took several noble prizes. With these ships, she obtained much magnificent dress, belonging to the proud Castilian officers and their stately ladies--velvets and brocades, stiff with woven jewels and broideries of gold, with which she went bravely dressed for the rest of her life. And the Spanish Dons and Donnas, what did they do, robbed of their splendid apparel? Ah, they went where they did not need it any more--down, down into still, dark ocean-caves, where they reposed on beds of silver sand, with the long sea-weed wrapping itself about them.

But I am not getting on with that legend of Howth Castle.

In the height of the fame and power of Grace O'Malley, when her rude bands were the terror of Connaught and the islands of that coast, and her ships the scourge of the Irish seas, she resolved to pay a visit to the court of Elizabeth. She went almost as a sovereign princess, and was royally received and entertained; for the politic English Queen was only too willing, I am afraid, to close her ears against stories of the cruelty and lawlessness of so useful a subject.

The warlike Grace made a decided sensation at court. In her strange, rich, half martial dress, and always wearing some sort of deadly weapon, she strode about like a terrible giantess among the Queen's laughing dames, awing them into momentary silence; and even the gay wits, pert young poets, and pages, shrank abashed from her haughty, flashing looks.

"Gra' mercy!" whispered one, as she passed, "she hath daggers in her eyes, as well as in her girdle."

"Ay, and pistols in her voice," said a saucy page, who served at the Queen's table; "when she saith 'Sirrah!' I have ever a mind to drop upon my knees and beg for my life."

But Grace O'Malley soon tired of the stately gayeties of the court. She curled her scornful lip at the safe and easy way of hunting in the royal parks--calling it "child's play." She laughed at their formal balls and feasts; and when the Queen, especially to please her, led off the court dance, the solemn, but graceful minuet, played the harpsichord with her own royal hands, and sung madrigals, and read Latin verses of her own composition, Grace only yawned, and said: "I wonder your Majesty should throuble yourself with things of this sort at all. Sure in Ireland, we have people to do the likes for us, and save us the worriment."

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