"It was noble and like thee, mavourneen deelish," she said, "to give my dying eyes this last best blessing of life—beholding thee once more. For this boon, I bestow upon thee the proudest legacy I have to leave—this ring of most precious stones—the gift of my sister, Elizabeth of England. With the ring, I would give thee my benison, but that I fear the blessing of so sinful a woman might do thee harm. And yet, as I have loved thee purely, as a mother might, the saints may make it good. So, I will bless thee, jewel of my heart!"
The young lord knelt reverently to receive her blessing, and after she had ceased to murmur the fervent words, he still kept his place, for her large hand yet pressed heavily upon his head. After a moment's silence, she recommenced speaking, but rapidly and wildly, for her mind was wandering. It seemed to have gone back to the night when she had taken the heir of Howth from his nurse. She began railing against the old Earl's churlishness, and vowing she would teach him a lesson in hospitality Then she called out in loud, stern tones to her mariners to set sail for Connaught, and laughed fiercely over her prize. But soon her mood changed; she began to stroke the head of Tristram, and comfort him by gentle words and kind promises. She did not seem to perceive that the firm, manly face now before her, was not the smooth little face all wet with tears, she once caressed. The young lord was again a baby-boy to her; and presently she drew him closer, and began singing that same nursery song with which she used to soothe him to sleep.
It was a strange sight to see,—that dying woman, rocking herself back and forth, and singing that wild lullaby, with her staring servitors and grim old fighters grouped around her, hardly able to believe that this was indeed their haughty mistress, their brave leader, their bold sea-captain.
At first, her voice rang out clear and full, but soon it faltered and failed, and sunk lower and lower. And lower and lower sunk the head of the old chieftainess, till her long white locks mingled with the dark curls of the young lord; then her voice ceased altogether, and her forehead lay heavy and cold against his, and he knew that Grace O'Malley was dead.
Donnybrook
THE LITTLE FIDDLER.
A mile or two south of Dublin is Donnybrook, the place where a famous annual fair is held. We happened to be in the city at the time of this, and one pleasant afternoon we drove out to see this great gathering of the Irish peasantry. The fair-ground presented a busy, gay, and curious scene. A large enclosed space was covered with booths and tents—horse-markets—cattle-markets—buyers, sellers, and crowds of spectators. There was almost every thing one could think of, for sale; there were all sorts of games, and sports and shows going on; there were Ethiopian concerts, plays, exhibitions of Punch and Judy, little circuses and menageries, jugglers, tumblers, hurdy-gurdy players, ballad singers, pipers, fiddlers, and dancers.
In nearly all the tents were gay young couples, dancing away as though for dear life—dancing not alone with their feet, but with their arms, their heads, and their merry, twinkling eyes. They were not all well dressed, or even clean, but they seemed happy and healthy, and merrily snapped their fingers at care. Everywhere there was laughter, and chatter, and feasting, and frolic; but, I am glad to say, we saw little tippling, and no quarrelling. It was very different in old times, when the wild fun of Donnybrook Fair always ended in confusion, drunkenness, and fighting. This happy change has been effected partly by the Temperance reform, and partly by the establishment of a strong and active government police.