After some wheedling and flattery he complied, and told a curious story, of which the following is the substance.
The river Nore flows through a district of the Queen’s County celebrated for fertility and romantic beauty. From its source amongst the blue hills of Slievebloom to its termination at New Ross, where its bright ripples commingle with the briny billows of the Irish sea, many excellent and even some beautiful bridges span its stream. Until the commencement of the last century, however, except in the vicinity of towns, there were but few permanent bridges across this river, and in the country districts access was gained over it chiefly by means of causeways, or, as they are termed, “foords,” constructed of stones and huge blocks of timber fixed firmly in the bed of the river, and extending in irregular succession from bank to bank. Over this pathway foot passengers crossed easily enough, but cattle and wheeled carriages were obliged to struggle through the water as well as they could; but in time of floods, and in the winter season when the waters were swollen, all communication was cut off except to pedestrians alone.
One of those “foords,” in former times, crossed the Nore at Shanahoe, a very pretty neighbourhood, about three miles northwards of the beautiful and rising town of Abbeyleix, in the Queen’s County. The river here winds its course through a silent glen, and now several snug cottages and farm-houses arise above its banks at either side. The country in this neighbourhood is remarkably beautiful. Several gentlemen’s seats are scattered along the banks of the river in this vicinity, all elegant and of modern erection, whilst swelling hills, sloping dales, gloomy groves, and ruins of church and tower and “castle grey,” ornament and diversify the scene.
On a gentle eminence on the eastern bank of the river, stood, about a hundred years ago, the cabin of a man named Neale O’Shea. At that period there was not another dwelling within a long distance of the “foord,” and many a time was Neale summoned from his midnight repose to guide the traveller in his passage over the lonely and dangerous river pathway.
One wild stormy December night, when the huge limestone rocks that formed the stepping-stones of the ford were lashed and chafed by the angry foam of the agitated river, Neale O’Shea’s wife fancied she heard, amid the fitful pausings of the wind, the cry of some mortal in distress. She immediately aroused her husband, who was stretched asleep on a large oak stool in the chimney corner, and told him to look out. Neale, ever willing to relieve a fellow-creature, arose, and, flinging his grey “trusty” over his expansive shoulders, and seizing a long iron-shod pole or wattle, the constant companion of his nightly excursions, hastened down to the river’s brink. He stood a moment at the verge of the ford, and tried to penetrate through the intense gloom, to see if he could discover a human form, but he could see nothing.
“Is there any one there?” he shouted in a stentorian voice, which rose high above the whistling of the blast, and the brawling of the angry and swift-rushing river.
A voice sounded at the other extremity of the ford, and the stout-hearted peasant, with steady step, crossed over the slippery stepping-stones.
“Who the devil are you?” roughly exclaimed Neale to a man who lay extended on the brink of the river, convenient to the entrance of the ford.
“Whoever I am,” faintly replied the stranger, “you are my good angel, and it was surely Providence who sent you this night to rescue me from a watery grave.”
“Whoever you are,” again said Neale, “come along with me, and Kathleen and the childre will make you welcome in my cabin until morning.” So saying, he seized the bending form of the wayworn stranger, and flinging him on his back with herculean strength, trudged over the stepping-stones, chuckling with delight, and gaily whistling as he went.