Dublin.
NED M'KEOWN.
Ned M'Keown's house stood exactly in an angle, formed by the cross-roads of Kilrudden. It was a long, whitewashed building, well thatched and furnished with the usual appurtenances of yard and offices. Like most Irish houses of the better sort, it had two doors, one opening into a garden that sloped down from the rear in a southern direction. The barn was a continuation of the dwelling-house, and might be distinguished from it by a darker shade of color, being only rough-cast. It was situated on a small eminence, but, with respect to the general locality of the country, in a delightful vale, which runs up, for twelve or fourteen miles, between two ranges of dark, well-defined mountains, that give to the interjacent country the form of a low inverted arch. This valley, which altogether, allowing for the occasional breaks and intersections of hill-ranges, extends upwards of thirty miles in length, is the celebrated valley of the “Black Pig,” so well known in the politico-traditional history of Ireland, and the legends connected with the famous Beal Dearg.*
* The following extract, taken from a sketch by the author
called “The Irish Prophecy-man,” contains a very appropriate
illustration of the above passage. “I have a little book
that contains a prophecy of the milk-white hind an' the
bloody panther, an' a foreboding of the slaughter there's to
be in the Valley of the Black Pig, as foretould by Beal
Derg, or the prophet wid the red mouth, who never was known
to speak but when he prophesied, or to prophesy but when he
spoke.”
“The Lord bless an' keep us!—an' why was he called the Man
with the Red Mouth, Barney?”
“I'll tell you that: first, bekase he always prophesied
about the slaughter an' fightin' that was to take place in
the time to come; an', secondly, bekase, while he spoke, the
red blood always trickled out of his mouth, as a proof that
what he foretould was true.”
“Glory be to God! but that's wondherful all out. Well,
we'll!”
“Ay, an' Beal Deig, or the Red Mouth, is still livin'.”
“Livin! why, is he a man of our own time?”
“Our own time! The Lord help you! It's more than a thousand
years since he made the prophecy. The case you see is this:
he an' the ten thousand witnesses are lyin' in an enchanted
sleep in one of the Montherlony mountains.”
“An' how is that known, Barney?”
“It's known, Every night at a certain hour one of the
witnesses—an' they're all sogers, by the way—must come out
to look for the sign that's to come.”
“An' what is that, Barney?”
“It's the fiery cross; an' when he sees one on aich of the
four mountains of the north, he's to know that the same
sign's abroad in all the other parts of the kingdom. Beal
Derg an' his men are then to waken up, an' by their aid the
Valley of the Black Pig is to be set free forever.”
“An' what is the Black Pig, Barney?”
“The Prospitarian church, that stretches from Enniskillen to
Darry, an' back again from Darry to Enniskillen.”
“Well, well, Barney, but prophecy is a strange thing, to be
sure! Only think of men livin' a thousand years!”
“Every night one of Beal Derg's men must go to the mouth of
the cave, which opens of itself, an' then look out for the
sign that's expected. He walks up to the top of the
mountain, an' turns to the four corners of the heavens, to
thry if he can see it; an' when he finds that he cannot, he
goes back to Beal Derg. who, afther the other touches him,
starts up and axis him, 'Is the time come?' He replies, 'No;
the man is, but the hour is not!' an' that instant
they're both asleep again. Now, you see, while the soger is
on the mountain top, the mouth of the cave is open, an' any
one may go in that might happen to see it. One man it
appears did, an' wishin' to know from curiosity whether the
sogers were dead or livin', he touched one of them wid his
hand, who started up an' axed him the same question, 'Is the
time come?' Very fortunately he said, 'No;' an' that minute
the soger was as sound in his trance as before.”
“An', Barney, what did the soger mane when he said. 'The man
is, but the hour is not?'”
“What did he mane? I'll tell you that. The man is
Bonyparty, which manes, when put into proper explanation,
the right side; that is, the true cause. Larned men have
found that out.”
That part of it where Ned M'Keown resided was peculiarly beautiful and romantic. From the eminence on which the house stood, a sweep of the most fertile meadowland stretched away to the foot of a series of intermingled hills and vales, which bounded this extensive carpet towards the north. Through these meadows ran a smooth river, called the Mullin-burn, which wound its way through them with such tortuosity, that it was proverbial in the neighborhood to say of any man remarkable for dishonesty, “He's as crooked as the Mullin-burn,” an epithet which was sometimes, although unjustly, jocularly applied to Ned himself. This deep but narrow river had its origin in the glens and ravines of a mountain which bounded the vale in a south-eastern direction; and after sudden and heavy rains it tumbled down with such violence and impetuosity over the crags and rock-ranges in its way, and accumulated so amazingly, that on reaching the meadows it inundated their surface, carrying away sheep, cows, and cocks of hay upon its yellow flood. It also boiled and eddied, and roared with a hoarse sugh, that was heard at a considerable distance.
On the north-west side ran a ridge of high hills, with the cloud-capped peek of Knockmany rising in lofty eminence above them; these, as they extended towards the south, became gradually deeper in their hue, until at length they assumed the shape and form of heath-clad mountains, dark and towering. The prospect on either range is highly pleasing, and capable of being compared with any I have ever seen, in softness, variety, and that serene lustre which reposes only on the surface of a country rich in the beauty of fertility, and improved, by the hand of industry and taste. Opposite Knockmany, at a distance of about four miles, on the south-eastern side, rose the huge and dark outline of Cullimore, standing out in gigantic relief against the clear blue of a summer sky, and flinging down his frowning and haughty shadow almost to the firm-set base of his lofty rival; or, in winter, wrapped in a mantle of clouds, and crowned with unsullied snow, reposing in undisturbed tranquillity, whilst the loud voice of storms howled around him.
To the northward, immediately behind Cullimore, lies Althadhawan, a deep, craggy, precipitous glen, running up to its very base, and wooded with oak, hazel, rowan-tree, and holly. This picturesque glen extends two or three miles, until it melts into the softness of grove and meadow, in the rich landscape below. Then, again, on the opposite side, is Lumford's Glen, with its overhanging rocks, whose yawning depth and silver waterfall, of two hundred feet, are at once finely and fearfully contrasted with the elevated peak of Knockmany, rising into the clouds above it.
From either side of these mountains may be seen six or eight country towns—the beautiful grouping of hill and plain, lake, river, grove, and dell—the reverend cathedral (of Clogher)—the white-washed cottage, and the comfortable farm-house. To these may be added the wild upland and the cultivated demesne, the green sheep-walk, the dark moor, the splendid mansion, and ruined castle of former days. Delightful remembrance! Many a day, both of sunshine and storm, have I, in the strength and pride of happy youth, bounded, fleet as the mountain foe, over these blue hills! Many an evening, as the yellow beams of the setting sun shot slantingly, like rafters of gold, across the depth of this blessed and peaceful valley, have I followed, in solitude, the impulses of a wild and wayward fancy, and sought the quiet dell, or viewed the setting sun, as he scattered his glorious and shining beams through the glowing foliage of the trees, in the vista, where I stood; or wandered along the river whose banks were fringed with the hanging willow, whilst I listened to the thrush singing among the hazels that crowned the sloping green above me, or watched the splashing otter, as he ventured from the dark angles and intricacies of the upland glen, to seek his prey in the meadow-stream during the favorable dusk of twilight. Many a time have I heard the simple song of Roger M'Cann, coming from the top of brown Dunroe, mellowed, by the stillness of the hour, to something far sweeter to the heart than all that the labored pomp of musical art and science can effect; or the song of Katty Roy, the beauty of the village, streaming across the purple-flowered moor,
“Sweet as the shepherd's pipe upon the mountains.”