Page:Once a Week Jul - Dec 1859.pdf/94

30, 1859.] was a peaceful-looking spot on the face of God’s creation there it lay: it was studded all over with tiny tombstones and little wooden crosses; so curiously formed, so quaintly fashioned, so cunningly worked, and so carefully preserved—flowers of rare and splendid hue loaded the air with the sweet scents of spring; garlands woven with jealous care hung suspended here and there, whilst gently raised little ridges encased in their moss-clad bosoms all that on earth remained of those whose gentle spirits knew no guile; whose souls knew no sin; who had bloomed and passed away from earth to heaven; whose little voices were hushed by whispering angels; whose sojourn knew not of sorrow or of suffering! Such a holy quiet reigned around, that involuntarily I removed my cap, and as I cast a furtive look at Darby I perceived that poor fellow, rough as he was in exterior, he had a Christian heart, for a tear moistened his cheek as he offered up an Irish peasant’s heartfelt prayer for the souls of the dead. To add appropriate interest to the sweet solemnity of the picture, kneeling amongst the tiny tomb-stones, clad in the picturesque garb of the country, sky-blue coats, and the females with the distinguishing scarlet cloak, were many a poor fond father and mother, who had toiled wearily and from afar to deck with flowers and smooth the mossy canopy that covered all that was dear to them, and to commune in spirit with their lost first-born.

We stood before the “Graves of the Innocents.”

As we turned reluctantly to pursue our journey, I inquired from Darby, was there any legend or story connected with this sweet and peaceful resting place? Regarding me with an indescribable look—half serious, half comic—he burst forth:—

“Why, thin, musha, yer honor it’s joking me ye are now. Don’t you know there’s not a mountain, valley, or river, nor a rath, nor a boreen, lake, watherfall, or landmark of our bewtiful green island that hasn’t its own wild story? Haven’t we White Ladies and Black Ladies, and Phookas, Banshees, and Chirichauns, and Leprichauns as plenty as thorns in a whin bush. Story, indeed—ay, an a bitther one.”

“Well, then, Darby,” said I, producing a fresh stock of the real “Maryland,” which made his eyes sparkle again, “We’ll load again, and then you can fire away with the story.”

“Long life to yer honor!” ejaculated Darby, as he sent forth a puff like the explosion from a thirteen-inch mortar, and giving the old horse a thwack that resounded along the mountain like the blow of a flail, he settled himself down for a comfortable yarn.

“There’s an ould manor in these parts, called the Manor of Friernè, belonging to the raale ould stock, they owned half the counthry at one time, but the ould Friernès were gallows ould chaps for wine and women, and horses, dogs, and hawks, racin and shoo tin, and spendin ther money in foreign parts. Och! musha! ’twas a great ould place in times gone by, and the ould castle stands there still, yer honor, an would do yer heart good to look at it; every stone is as perefect as the day it was built—divil a fut less than thirteen feet of solid stone-work is in every wall of it—and you might manewver a lodgement in the ould coort-yard. The last of the Friernès that was in the counthry—oh! he was a wild chap—shocking, and had always a wild clan about him; but there was one despirate scoundhrel that used to set him on for all sorts of badness. No good could come of him, and so the neighbours and tinints said; but this black-hearted rascal drew him on from bad to worse until he had to lave the counthry, and thin this chap was made agint over the property. Och! wirra-wirra! bud it was a bad day for the tinints of Friernè;—for they never knew bad thratement until then.

“Ye see that brake up in the mountains, there, yer honor?”

“I do, Darby!”

“That’s called Tubbermore!” continued he. “And up there lived a sthrong young farmer, a tinint of the Friernès, by the name of Con Flaherty. Con had the best farm on the estate, for he was own fosterer to young Friernè, and used to be always at his elbow, until this black-livered hound of an agint put him against him. Con had just been married to the purtiest Colleen Dhas in all Kerry; and many an achin heart there was amongst the boys the day she became Mrs. Flaherty.

“Now the agint, Misthur Dan O‘Mara he was called, a Dublin attorney—bad look to the likes of thim—had as liquorish a tooth, and was as bad a boy as ever walked the hall uv the foor coorts; and many a poor father and mother’s curse was upon his head, for many was the poor misfortunate girleen he left without name or characther, deluded and desaived; and sure, yer honor,” appealed Darby, “a man that id lade an innocent girleen on to ruin and desthruction, and a nameless grave among sthrangers, to satisfy a few hours of his own bad passions, is no man at all,—he’s a brute-baste! Well, this was the sort of chap that had the whole of the manor of Friernè undther him. But the moment he clapped his eyes on Noreen of Tubbermore, he was fairly illuminated about her. Now, Captain, jewel, if there’s one woman in the world that’s more virtuous than another, ids an Irishwoman; uv coorse I know there’s an odd one now and agin, but in the main they bate creation. So my dear, Noreen up an she tould Misther O’Mara that if he kem to her house agin on the same errand she’d make her husband lave marks upon him that he’d carry to his grave. Well, they lived on, and there wasn’t a happier, or purtier, or betther hearted couple in the counthry round; the poor never left their doore empty-handed, and the sthranger was always welkim. A year rowlled on, and ther first child was born—oh, such a bewtiful little crayture—’twould jump and clap its dawshy hands, and crow at everybody, showin it had the big, ginerous heart of father and mother; ’twas a little flaxen haired girleen, too, and ’twas like a wee spring-flower that bloomed before its time. All this time Misthur O’Mara was working his evil plans;—an he parsacuted the life and sowl out of poor Con Flaherty, and things began to go wrong. At last Con forgot himself, and he sthruck the agint one day at the fair of Cahirciveen; it was all the black thief