Like the butterfly, the spirit of O’Donoghue closely hovers over the perfume of the hills and flowers it loves; while, as the reflection of a star in the waters of a pure lake, to those who look not above, that glorious spirit is believed to dwell beneath.
LINN-NA-PAYSHTHA.
XXXVI.
Travellers go to Leinster to see Dublin and the Dargle; to Ulster, to see the Giant’s Causeway, and, perhaps, to do penance at Lough Dearg; to Munster, to see Killarney, the beautiful city of Cork, and half a dozen other fine things; but who ever thinks of the fourth province?—who ever thinks of going—
—“westward, where Dick Martin ruled
The houseless wilds of Cunnemara?”
The Ulster-man’s ancient denunciation “to hell or to Connaught,” has possibly led to the supposition that this is a sort of infernal place above ground—a kind of terrestrial Pandemonium—in short, that Connaught is little better than hell, or hell little worse than Connaught; but let any one only go there for a month, and, as the natives say, “I’ll warrant he’ll soon see the differ, and learn to understand that it is mighty like the rest o’ green Erin, only something poorer;” and yet it might be thought that in this particular “worse would be needless;” but so it is.
“My gracious me,” said the landlady of the Inn at Sligo, “I wonder a gentleman of your teeste and curosity would think of leaving Ireland without making a tower (tour) of Connaught, if it was nothing more than spending a day at Hazlewood, and up the lake, and on to the ould abbey at Friarstown, and the castle at Dromahair.”
Polly M’Bride, my kind hostess, might not in this remonstrance have been altogether disinterested; but her advice prevailed, and the dawn of the following morning found me in a boat on the unruffled surface of Lough Gill. Arrived at the head of that splendid sheet of water, covered with rich and wooded islands with their ruined buildings, and bounded by towering mountains, noble plantations, grassy slopes, and precipitous rocks, which give beauty, and, in some places, sublimity to its shores, I proceeded at once up the wide river which forms its principal tributary. The “old abbey” is chiefly remarkable for having been built at a period nearer to the Reformation than any other ecclesiastical edifice of the same class. Full within view of it, and at the distance of half a mile, stands the shattered remnant of Breffni’s princely hall. I strode forward with the enthusiasm of an antiquary, and the high-beating heart of a patriotic Irishman. I felt myself on classic ground, immortalized by the lays of Swift and of Moore. I pushed my way into the hallowed precincts of the grand and venerable edifice. I entered its chambers, and, oh my countrymen, I found them converted into the domicile of pigs, cows, and poultry! But the exterior of “O’Rourke’s old hall,” gray, frowning, and ivy-covered, is well enough; it stands on a beetling precipice, round which a noble river wheels its course. The opposite bank is a very steep ascent, thickly wooded, and rising to a height of at least seventy feet; and, for a quarter of a mile, this beautiful copse follows the course of the river.
The first individual I encountered was an old cowherd; nor was I unfortunate in my cicerone, for he assured me there were plenty of old stories about strange things that used to be in the place; “but,” continued he, “for my own share, I never met any thing worse nor myself. If it bees ould stories that your honour’s after, the story about Linnna-Payshtha and Poul-maw-Gullyawn is the only thing about this place that’s worth one jack-straw. Does your honour see that great big black hole in the river yonder below?” He pointed my attention to a part of the river about fifty yards from the old hall, where a long island occupied the centre of the wide current, the water at one side running shallow, and at the other assuming every appearance of unfathomable depth. The spacious pool, dark and still, wore a death-like quietude of surface. It looked as if the speckled trout would shun its murky precincts—as if even the daring pike would shrink from so gloomy a dwelling-place. “That’s Linn-na-Payshtha, sir,” resumed my guide, “and Poul-maw-Gullyawn is just the very moral of it, only that it’s round, and not in a river, but standing out in the middle of a green field, about a short quarter of a mile from this. Well, ’tis as good as fourscore years—I often hard my father, God be merciful to him! tell the story—since Manus O’Rourke, a great buckeen, a cockfighting, drinking blackguard that was long ago, went to sleep one night, and had a dream about Linn-na-Payshtha. This Manus, the dirty spalpeen, there was no ho with him; he thought to ride rough-shod over his betters through the whole country, though he was not one of the real stock of the O’Rourkes. Well, this fellow had a dream that if he dived in Linn-na-Payshtha at twelve o’clock of a Hollow-eve night, he’d find more gold than would make a man of him and his wife, while grass grew or water ran. The next night he had the same dream, and sure enough, if he had it the second night, it came to him the third in the same form. Manus, well becomes him, never told mankind or womankind, but swore to himself, by all the books that were ever shut or open, that, any how, he would go to the bottom of the big hole. What did he care for the Payshtha-more that was lying there to keep guard on the gold and silver of the old ancient family that was buried there in the wars, packed up in the brewing-pan? Sure he was as good an O’Rourke as the best of them, taking care to forget that his grandmother’s father was a cow-boy to the earl O’Donnel. At long last Hollow-eve comes, and sly and silent master Manus creeps to bed early, and just at midnight steals down to the river-side. When he came to the bank his mind misgave him, and he wheeled up to Frank M’Clure’s—the old Frank that was then at that time—and got a bottle of whisky, and took it with him, and ’tis unknown how much of it he drank. He walked across to the island, and down he went gallantly to the bottom like a stone. Sure enough the Payshtha was there afore him, lying like a great big conger eel, seven yards long, and as thick as a bull in the body, with a mane upon his neck like a horse. The Payshtha-more reared himself up; and, looking at the poor man as if he’d eat him, says he, in good English,