The Essential Celtic Folklore Collection. Lady Gregory

ate what Saint Kavin laid his blessed hands on.

      "Howsumdever, the king never recovered the loss iv his goose, though he had her stuffed (I don't mane stuffed with pratees and inyans, but as a curosity) and preserved in a glass case for his own divarshin; and the poor. king died on the next Michaelmas Day, which was remarkable. Throth, it's thruth I'm tellin' you; and when he was gone, Saint Kavin gev him an illigant wake and a beautiful berrin'; and more betoken, he said mass for his sowl, and tuk care av his goose."

      Lough Corrib

      IT chanced, amongst some of the pleasantest adventures of a tour through the West of Ireland, in 1825, that the house of Mr.------ of ----- received me as a guest. The owner of the mansion upheld the proverbial reputation of his country's hospitality, and his lady was of singularly winning manners, and possessed of much intelligence--an intelligence arising not merely from the cultivation resulting from careful education, but originating also from the attention which persons of good sense bestow upon the circumstances which come within the range of their observation.

      Thus, Mrs.--, an accomplished Englishwoman, instead of sneering at the deficiencies which a poorer country than her own laboured under, was willing to be amused by observing the difference which exist, in the national character of the two people, in noticing the prevalence of certain customs, superstitions, etc. etc.; while the popular tales of the neighbourhood had for her a charm which enlivened a sojourn in a remote district that must otherwise have proved lonely.

      To this pleasure was added that of admiration of the natural beauties with which she was surrounded; the noble chain of the Mayo mountains, linking with the majestic range of those of Joyce's country, formed no inconsiderable source of picturesque beauty and savage grandeur; and when careering over the waters of Lough Corrib that foamed at their feet, she never sighed for the grassy slopes of Hyde Park, nor that unruffled pond, the Serpentine river.

      In the same boat which often bore so fair a charge have I explored the noble Lough Corrib to its remotest extremity, sailing over the depths of its dark waters, amidst solitude, whose echoes are seldom awakened but by the scream of the eagle.

      From this lady I heard some characteristic stories and prevalent superstitions of the country. Many of these she had obtained from an old boatman, one of the crew that manned Mr.--'s boat; and often, as he sat at the helm, he delivered his "round, unvarnished tale"; and, by the way, in no very measured terms either, whenever his subject happened to touch upon the wrongs his country had sustained in her early wars against England, although his liege-lady was a native of the hostile land. Nevertheless, the old Corribean (the name somehow has a charmingly savage sound about it) was nothing loath to have his fling at "the invaders "--a term of reproach he always cut upon the English.

      Thus skilled in legendary lore, Mrs. ----- proved an admirable guide to the "lions" of the neighbourhood; and it was previously to a projected visit to the Cave of Cong that she entered upon some anecdotes relating to the romantic spot, which led her to tell me that one legend had so particularly excited the fancy of a young lady, a friend of hers, that she wrought it into the form of a little tale, which, she added, had not been considered ill done. "But," said she, " 'tis true we were all friends who passed judgment, and only drawing-room critics: You shall therefore judge for yourself, and hearing it before you see the cave, will at least rather increase your interest in the visit." And forthwith drawing from a little cabinet a manuscript, she read to me the following tale--much increased in its effect by the sweet voice in which It was delivered.

      A Legend of Lough Mask

      THE evening was closing fast as the young Cormac O'FIaherty had reached the highest acclivity of one of the rugged passes of the steep mountains of Joyce's country. He made a brief pause--not to take breath, fair reader--Cormac needed no breathing time, and would have considered it little short of an insult to have had such a motive attributed to the momentary stand he made, and none that knew the action of the human figure would have thought it; for the firm footing which one beautifully formed leg held with youthful firmness on the mountain path, while the other, slightly thrown behind, rested On the half-bent foot, did not imply repose, but rather suspended action. In sooth, youth Cormac, to the eye of the painter, might have seemed a living Antinous--all the grace of that beautiful antique, all the youth, all the expression of suspended motion were there, with more of vigour and impatience. He paused--not to take breath, Sir Walter Scott; for, like your own Malcolm Graeme,

      "Right up Ben Lomond could he press,

      And not a sob his toll confess;"

      and our young O'Flaberty was not to be outdone in breasting up a mountain side by the boldest Graeme of them all.

      But he lingered for a moment to look back upon a scene at once sublime and gorgeous; and cold must the mortal have been who could have beheld and had not paused.

      On one side the Atlantic lay beneath him, brightly reflecting the glories of an autumnal setting sun, and expanding into a horizon of dazzling light; on the other lay the untrodden wilds before him, stretching amidst the depths of mountain valleys, whence the sunbeam had long since departed, and mists were already wreathing round the overhanging heights, and veiling the distance in vapoury indistinctness - though you looked into some wizard's glass, and saw the uncertain conjuration of his wand, On the one side all was glory, light, and life--on the other all was awful, still, and almost dark. It was one of Nature's sublimest moments, such as are seldom witnessed, and never forgotten.

      Ere he descended the opposite declivity, Cormac once more bent back his gaze; and now it was not one exclusively of admiration. There was a mixture of scrutiny in his look, and turning to Diarmid, a faithful adherent of his family, and only present companion, he said: "That sunset forebodes a coming storm; does it not, Diarmid?"

      "Ay, truly does it," responded the attendant; "and there's no truth in the clouds if we haven't it soon upon us"

      "Then let us speed," said Cormac; "for the high hill and the narrow path must be traversed ere our journey be accomplished." And he sprang down the steep and shingly, pass before him, followed by the faithful Diarmid.

      "Tis sweet to know there is as eye to mark

      Our coming and grow brighter when we come."

      And there was a bright eye Watching for Cormac, and many a love-taught look did Eva cast over the waters of Lough Mask, impatient for the arrival of the O'Flaherty. "Surely he will be here this evening," thought Eva; "yet the sun is already low, and no distant oars disturb the lovely quiet of the lake. But may he not have tarried beyond the mountains--he has friends therein recollected Eva. But soon the maiden's jealous fancy whispered: "He has friends here too." And she reproached him for his delay; but it was only for a moment.

      "The accusing spirit blushed," as Eva continued her train of conjecture. " 'Tis hard to part from pressing friends," thought she, "and Cormac is ever welcome in the hall, and heavily closes the portal after his departing footsteps."

      Another glance across the lake. 'Tis yet unrippled by an oar. The faint outline of the dark grey mountains, whose large masses lie unbroken by the detail which daylight discovers; the hazy distance of the lake, whose extremity is undistinguishable from the overhanging cIiffs which embrace it; the fading of the western sky; the last lonely rook winging his weary way to the adjacent wood; the flickering flight of the bat across her windows--all--all told Eva that the night was fast approaching; yet Cormac was not come. She turned from the casement with a sigh. Oh! only those who love can tell how anxious are the moments we pass in watching the approach of the beloved one.

      She took her harp. Every heroine, to be sure, has a harp; but this was not the pedal harp, that instrument par excellence of heroines, but the simple harp of her country, whose single row of brazen wires had often rung to many a sprightly planxty, long, long before the double action of Erard had vibrated to some fantasia from Rossini or Meyerbeer, under the brilliant finger of a Bochsa or a Labarre.

      But now the harp of Eva did not ring forth the spirit-stirring planxty, but yielded to her gentlest touch one of the most soothing and plaintive