Now, Mrs. Mac Cual was really very much ashamed of her husband for being such a booby; but like the good wife she was, she kept her contempt to herself, just then, and told him to lie down in the cradle, and keep quiet, and she would attend to the Scotch Giant. Fin did as he was bid—his wife covered him up in the cradle, and commenced rocking and singing to him. Presently, Benandonner came stamping and storming in, and asked for "that rascal, Fin Mac Cual."
"If you'll please sit down and rock my baby a minute—I'll go and look for him," said Mrs. Mac Cual. Benandonner looked down into the cradle, and seeing that enormous giant lying there, with his feet hanging over the foot-board, thought to himself, "if Fin's baby is so big, what must Fin himself be!"—and became so frightened that he turned and hurried back home, much quicker than he came. It is a foolish little tradition, but I have related it as a specimen of the stories which are told to amuse the children of Irish peasants.
There are two caves near the Causeway, which are entered from the sea. Our visits to these were the most interesting and exciting incidents of the day. Though the waves ran high, our skilful boatmen rowed us safely in—and though the roar of the sea and the reverberation of some fire-arms discharged by the guides, were rather awful, we certainly enjoyed the sight of those ocean temples, gloomy, rude, and jagged though they were.
From the Causeway we went to Dunluce Castle—a grand old ruin, which stands on an insulated rock, a hundred feet above the sea. It is separated from the land by a chasm twenty feet wide, which is crossed by an arch only about eighteen inches broad.
This castle was once the stronghold of a very powerful, proud, and warlike family—the Mac Donnels. They had a whole regiment of retainers; they had their bard, an elderly gentleman, with a long white beard, who spent most of his time in singing songs in praise of their glory and great exploits, to the music of a rude harp—and they had their Banshee, who occupied a choice apartment in one of the turrets, and doubtless howled as seldom as possible. But all this glory has passed away, and now, the rooks and sea-birds have the famous old castle all to themselves—wheel fearlessly about the lofty black precipices, and scream back the shrillest shriek of the storm-winds. Now, no bard, however poor, ever visits that once hospitable hall, to "sing for his supper," and even the gloomy Banshee has retired from her turret in disgust.
A branch of the Mac Donnels clung to the haunted, dilapidated, old castle as long as possible, to keep up the family credit, I suppose. It was within this century, I think, that a frightful accident happened, which drove the last of them away. In a terrible storm, one winter afternoon, the part of the castle containing the kitchen was blown down, and tumbled over the precipice into the sea, with the family stores of meat and potatoes, and Biddy, the cook, who was preparing dinner, and Teddy, the little scullion, who was turning the spit. The Mac Donnels, for all their pride, were shocked and afflicted by this misfortune,—for Biddy was an excellent cook, and Teddy, her son, though careless and lazy, and given to little thefts and large stories, had his good points, as what Irish boy has not. So they, the Mac Donnels, sought out some other home,—safer and more comfortable, if not quite so grand in its isolated, ancient gentility,—and it may be, took the Banshee with them for their comfort. Trouble, I believe, always goes with people in this world, wherever they move to,—in some form or other, it travels with them, and settles down with them,—as sorrow, ill-luck, disease, disgrace, discontent, fear, or remorse,—and if we may credit Irish traditions, the old nobility and gentry had to endure howling Banshees in addition. No wonder they wasted away under their aristocratic infliction.
In my story, I shall make bold to turn my back on the Causeway, Dunluce Castle, the Mac Donnels, Banshees, and all,—return to the beautiful neighborhood of Glenarm, and relate a little incident in the lives of some humble peasant people there.
THE POOR SCHOOLMASTER.
Some forty or fifty years ago, there lived at Glenarm, near the castle, a poor schoolmaster, named Philip O'Flaherty.
Philip, though a very quiet, well meaning man, was singularly unfortunate in all but one thing—he had an excellent wife. Yet she, poor woman, was but "a weakly body," while, as for Philip, if any sickness whatever was going about, he was sure to catch it. He was a sort of Irish "Murad the Unlucky," nothing seemed to prosper with him. His potatoe-crop always fell short—if he took a fancy to keep a few ducks, or geese, a thieving fox carried them on—his pigs ran away, and he had not even "the poor man's blessing"—children, to comfort him. One after another, his babes were borne to the churchyard, and his cabin was left silent and lonely.