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Graham's Magazine Vol XXXIII No. 5 November 1848
That glorious sunset on the islands and waters of the Susquehanna cannot soon fade from my memory – nor shall I easily forget the blaze of glory shed around the infant's grave. Strange that the richness of sunlight should spring from the impure particles by which it is reflected – but in this world of ours what but errors and impurities of the human kind make visible and beautiful the grace of Him in whose light and heat "we live and move and have our being?"
PEDRO AND INEZ
BY ELIZABETH J. EAMES[It is a well known fact that the hapless Inez de Castro, the young and beautiful bride of Pedro of Portugal, was murdered, while he was absent on a hunting excursion.]
Softly broke the light of morning, through a pictured window's gloom,Blandly strayed the zephyr's winglet 'mid rich plants of Eastern bloom,Shedding a strong spicy fragrance round that gorgeous room,Lightly on her couch of purple slumbered Pedro's new-made bride,In her young unshadowed beauty, with no other thought besideThat which his deep love had poured o'er her spirit's tide.Softly had Prince Pedro risen from his nuptial couch that morn,Lightly donned his hunting vesture, at the call of hound and horn:Yet he bends enamored o'er that face of Beauty born.One more love-glance, yet another, on the sleeping face he cast;Soft he stoops to meet that red lip – one light kiss – the last!"God and our Lady bless thee, love!" – and so Prince Pedro passed.Softly faded into twilight gorgeous gleams of gold and red,Valley, stream, and purple mountain lay in mellow glory spread.And the lemon's snowy blossom dewy odors shed.Homeward through eve's tender shadows speeds Prince Pedro with his band,While with love almost paternal his fond eye drinks in the land,Over which he soon may govern with a kingly hand.Now the mellow horn he soundeth through the leafy olive groves,Far and wide the clear notes echo, but they bring not her he loves —"Inez? is it thou, sweet Inez, where yon shadow moves?"Never more shall Inez answer to that fond familiar call —Of the lovely bride left sleeping, bleeding clay is all —Of a fiendish hate the victim lies she, wrapt in gory pall.Never more from that dread hour was Prince Pedro seen to smile!Never more did chase or revel his still agony beguile —But he walked in the shadow of dark thoughts the while!With her martyred form forever graven on his memory,He became a scourge and terror from whom all men sought to flee,Tortured were his victims, but he smiled in mockery!Such the change, and such the monarch whose reft hand made discord ringLike a clarion through the country that had gladly hailed him king.Darkly, like the tempest, rode he on the avenger's wing!And when midnight drew her curtain round the land, that hourIn her blood-stained chamber did he stand with fearful power,And renew the fatal vow to avenge his martyred flower!A LEGEND OF CLARE
CHAPTER I
THE GUBBAUN SEAREOne of my own dear countrymen, casting his eye on the above title, may possibly recognize something in it familiar to him, especially should he ever have resided on the classic shores of Galway or of Clare, our own "Far West;" but to others who may chance to honor our legend with a perusal, some few words of introduction are necessary to transport them, "in their mind's eye," from the city of "brotherly love," to the far distant and far different land of the O'Malleys, the Macnamaras,1 and the Blakes.
An Irishman is, in my humble opinion, rather unlike a prophet, for this reason, he is in one sense only, to be honored in his own country – transplant him; and though he may be unimpaired, perhaps, in vigor of body; though he may make an excellent fabricator of rail-roads and canals, yet it has always appeared to me he loses his native raciness, except under very peculiar circumstances; he grows different; in a word, he gradually becomes —like the rest of the world!
Is it the absence of the unique fragrancy of his native turf smoke, which at home he so freely inhaled, or is it the substitution of beef and pudding for his former scanty meals of the never-failing root of plenty? Let us leave these vexatæ questiones to those whom they may concern, but on one point let us give our decided opinion. Our readers may say, "O, now you all are changed! since your Father Mathew has made five millions of you teetotallers, your country is not worth the living in! No more doth the invigorating, all-inspiring, thrice concentrated juice of the 'barley grain' push you forward to glorious deeds of heroic daring – of skull-breaking, dancing, or of story-telling; so that for all intents and purposes you have nothing left worth chronicling —you are getting like the rest of the world!" "Aisy a bit," say I, "the fiddle and the bagpipes have just the same charms to 'put the capers in our heels' as in whisky's balmiest days; and as for story-telling, that we can do equally well over a good cup of fine hot coffee. No, no; while the same fresh and free breezes shall continue to be wafted across the Atlantic to us; while we have our own green fields and wild, lofty mountains to behold, Irishmen we shall be in all our better qualities; and though Father Mathew may have been influential enough in cooling our heads, (we admit,) yet our hearts are as warm as ever!
Irish cabins, which you all have heard of, would not be such bad concerns after all, and we should get on very well indeed, if we were only a leetle better treated. On all hands it is admitted that we are pretty nearly able (and take my word for it we are willing enough) to eat and to drink all that a bounteous Providence causes to be brought forth from the most fruitful of soils; in truth, a superficial observer might even be tempted to utter an exclamation of surprise on being told that with a territory one thousand square miles less than that of the state of Maine, and six thousand less than that of Pennsylvania, ten millions of human beings should be supported; but then consider, kind reader, when our beef, and our butter, and our eggs, and even the little cabbages from our gardens, must fly on the wings of steam to pay the rent, and that rent flies away again, you know, to pay whom; (a slight glance at a certain map will tell you that;) consider, I say, that we cannot always be light-hearted, that a little sadness will sometimes creep over us. Think how our poor countrymen must sometimes suffer, and let ever our warmest sympathies be exerted when we hear of their distresses.
But, "stop!" you say, "these are twists you're getting into, indeed. What has this to do with your legend?" Well, then, reader, jump over with me into a snug cabin, which is not so very unlike a log-cabin, only built of stone or mud, (excuse me,) and sit down with me and a collection of choice spirits, round a blazing turf fire, keeping it warm, as we say, with the pipe and the "darlin' tibacky" taking their accustomed rounds. I may as well introduce Jimmy Carmody to you – my "Micky Free" – Tom Dillon, and a few others. So, now we are all settled.
"What's this you're all discussing so learnedly, boys?"
"O, nothing very partic'lar, your honor, only we're just saying what mighty quare owld ruins them is – them round towers. Did your honor never see any of them? Sure there's one on Scattery Island, in the Shannon, and one at Kilmacduagh, I believe, in this county."
"O, yes, Tom, I've seen those you mention, and a great many more, too; and if any of you have ever been to Dublin by the canal, I'm sure you must have seen the one at Clondalkin. There's one, too, you know, in the county Wicklow, at the lake that Tommy Moore made the beautiful song about:
'By that lake, whose gloomy shoreSkylark never warbled o'er.'""Why, now, yer honor's perfectially right!" said Jimmy, who just then remembered some incidents in his former travels to Dublin about his "little spot of a pratee garden, that was near being sowld at the Four Courts for non payment. Quite right your honor is. Sure I wint down to see where the blessed Saint Kevin done all his miracles – where he turned the loaves into stones, and where he med the owld king's goose, that he was so fond of, young again, and all that; but sure your honor knows all about it; but after a while, the man that was there showed me a little hole up over the lake in the clift above, and 'look!' says he, 'that's St. Kevin's bed,' says he. 'Why, then, now!' says I, 'up in that little pigeon-hole!' says I. 'O! and did his blessed reverince go up there to bed?' says I. 'No! you fool!' says he, 'but to avoid the darlin' young lady,' says he. 'And it's there he threw her down into the deep, cowld, dark lake,' says he. 'Would you like to go up and lie down in his bed?' says he. 'Is it me,' says I, 'to do it? Why my brain is like a spider's web wid lookin' at it,' says I. But a young man that was used to crawling in them unchristian places – them mines – went up; and I thought I could jump through a key-hole, I felt so, to see him do it; and says I, when he came down, 'Young man, I pray, when you settle in life, you may have a handier way of gettin' into bed than that, particularly if you're – '"
Here a burst of laughter, which it is not hard to elicit from such an auditory, interrupted Jimmy, who is requested to tell "whether he ever heard who built these round towers, or why they were built at all?"
"Why," remarks Jimmy, "why they were built, no one can tell – they don't look like any thing Christian; but the man that undoubtedly built some of them was the Gubbaun Seare."
"Who was he, Jimmy?" asked all.
"Why, then, your honor, myself doesn't know much about the Gubbaun Seare, only as the owld people tell us."
"Well, Jimmy, that don't make what the old people tell us of no account; for with all our new improvements, (I had been explaining a rail-road to them the evening before,) we are obliged to retain nearly all their inventions also; so you may as well tell us what you know about the Gubbaun Seare, for you may depend there must be some truth and value in it."
"Why, then, that's true for your honor," said another; a sentence, by the bye, which always greets you when you utter an opinion, correct or incorrect.
"Well, then," said Jimmy, "in them owld times, I believe, when the round towers was building, there was a mason – and if there was, he was as fine a mason as ever lived, or ever will again – and, indeed, your honor, you know the round towers would prove that, if he built them – for where is the mason-work that's equal to what's on them? That one at Glendalough is a fine one, to be sure – and there's many finer than that. Well, he lived in a fine cottage, somewhere in Munster, and I don't know exactly where.
"He had been married, and had an only son – and proud was he of him, you may depend. Well, it was given up to the Gubbaun, that he was not only the best mason in all the world, but along with that, sir, he was the cutest man known, and the greatest hand at all kinds of plans and contrivances. He was able for every one, and any one; and nobody ever had to boast that they had gained the least advantage over him."
"I suppose, Tom, that with all this wisdom of the father, the son must have been as wise as he was himself, or may be wiser?"
"Why, to be sure, so one would imagine; but it was far from him to be as good a boy as the father – and that the father knew right well, for he was always trying to make him sensible of the scaming; but the son was always too honest, and that vext the father.
"However, he said nothing until the son grew up a dashin' fine young man; and if he wasn't the best av scamers, he was nearly as good a mason as the father himself, and was quiet and honest, only a terrible simpleton, and what the English gentleman that used to come to see your honor called spooney; though what a man had to do with a spoon, myself doesn't see. But the father racked his brains constantly to find out some way to make him knowin'; and at last he came to be determined in his mind that nothing would do the son so much good, or put sinse so well into his head as a fine, clever, smart young woman av a wife, if he could meet one to his mind; and, your honor, though I never tried it myself, I have no doubt an excellent plan it is. Well, sir, after he once hit on a plan, sorra long he was in puttin' it into execution. One morning he got up very early, and called his son into the field. 'Now, Boofun,' (that was the young man's name,) 'now, Boofun,' says he, 'run an' catch the sheep beyant there – that big white one, with the fine fleece, and bring her to me quick!' So Boofun did; an' if he did, the Gubbaun pulled out his big knife, and kill'd her; an' by the same token the summer was comin' on, and the fleece was fine, and long, and silky."
"What did he do that for, Jimmy?"
"Wait a bit, your honor. When the Gubbaun had her skinned, he embraced his son, (that's hugged him, boys, d' ye mind,) an' spoke to him as this:
"'Now, Boofun, avick, (my son,) and it's you was ever the good boy of a son to me, only I never could make you understand the coorse of the world's doin's as well as I could wish; but never heed! you'll improve yet – so take courage and do as I desire you; but mind, if you don't, never call the Gubbaun Seare your father more, the longest day you have to live! Do you see that skin?' 'I do, father – I see it,' says he, innocent as a child. 'Well, Boofun, you must take to the road now at once, and you must walk on, and never stop till you get some one that will buy this skin, and pay you for it, and then give you your skin back again into the bargain.'
"'O! O! father!' says the other, 'I'm a fool myself, I know, and yet I'm sure I wouldn't do sich a simple thing as that,' says he, 'and I think, indeed, father, you must be a fool yourself to think so,' says he. 'Howld your tongue, an' be off, you natral!' says the father; 'what do you know about it! Be off at wanst; and here, take this! here's cost enough for the road,' says he, 'and be sure an' remember what I towld you,' says he.
"So poor Boofun, sir, wint off; and sorrowful he was to lave his father, and his business, and his comfortable home, and to go away on what he thought sich a wild-goose chase. It happened that it was market-day at the next town, an' many a one overtook him, an' he cryin'.
"'Well, Boofun,' they'd say, for they knew him, 'are you going to sell that fine sheep's skin?' 'I am,' he'd say; 'but I know you wont buy it, for by the way I'm selling it, it would be a dear article for you.' 'Why so, man? I'm in want of wool, an' very little would make me buy the same skin, for it's fine wool.' 'Yes, but,' Boofun would say, 'you must pay me for it, and then give it me back if you buy it!' So he would be always laughed at, an' he was nearly dying av dishpair.
"However, on he traveled and walked; and many miles from home he came to a beautiful lake, all surrounded with trees, very like that lake where your honor and the captain, and the ladies used to go and fish, and make peckthers, (pictures,) Inchiquin lake, sir; an' if he did, there was as darlin' a young lady as could be seen, an' she standing on the shore of the lake, and after finishing washin' some of the finest fleeces of iligant wool. 'O!' said he to himself, 'if I could only get this darlin' to buy my fleece! But no one will ever do so foolish a thing as that, an' I shall never sell it, nor get back again!'
"However, Boofun took courage, and wint up to her. 'God bless your work, alanna! 'tis yourself's not idle this morning! And what beautiful wool! I've a fleece here myself, an' I thought it good, but yours bates it intirely! I would sell mine, too, but neither you nor any one else will ever buy it! A voh! voh!'
"'Why, that must be a curious fleece, if no one'll buy it. Sir,' says she, 'what may be the price?'
"'O, for that,' says he, 'it's for little or nothing I'd sell it; but what good would that do you, agrah, when I'm never to enter my father's house again, nor call myself his son, until I bring him back the skin and the price of it as well! However, it's no use talking to you, at any rate, for you'll have nothing to do with me.'
"'Why, how can you say so till I tell you?' says she.
"'O, my thousand blessings for that word,' says he, 'it makes my heart rise like a cork to hear you!'
"'Well, what will you take for the skin?'
"'O, very little, then – only so much, (mentioning a small sum.)
"'Very good,' says she, 'I'll give you that much, and welcome;' and whisper, 'are you the son of the Gubbaun Seare?'
"'I am; but how could you guess that?'
"'Because,' says she, 'no one could think of such a plan but his own four bones, and I think I see the meanin' of it, too,' says she. 'Hand me the skin.' So Boofun did, sir; and she fell to work, and in a very short time she had the wool stripped off. 'And here, now,' says she, 'here is your skin back for you, and here is the price of it,' says she, handing him the money; and tell the Gubbaun a very good buraun the skin'll make,' says she.
"'O, my million thanks to you,' says he; 'though I never should have thought of this in thousands of years, yet you've settled it with one word!'
"So, sir, after much more talk, away he ran, and never stopped till he came home; and the Gubbaun had just returned from his work, and findin' the house so lonesome, was almost repentin' he'd ever sent Boofun away. Glad he was, though, when Boofun came in, and gave him a great account of all he had done; but what was his joy when Boofun drew forth the sheep's skin, and counted out the money. Well, after some of the joy was over, the Gubbaun put on a very long, sarious face, 'And now, Boofun,' says he, 'don't as you love me,' says he, 'deny any thing I ask,' says he, 'but tell me the truth. I know, you needn't tell me, it was a woman that thought of the plan of skinning the fleece, for no man in Ireland would think of it but myself.'
"'Faix, then, so she said herself,' says Boofun.
"'Hah! well, I knew it was a she; but was she young or owld? for, by my trowel and hammer!' says he, 'the owld ones are sometimes as cute as any!'
"O, then, she was young, and handsome, too, and rich beside,' says he.
"'O, never mind the riches,' says the Gubbaun, 'for half a grain of sinse is worth a ton of it; but you're my darlin' son at last, and be off at the first light of morning,' says he, 'and take the best horse I have, and put on the best clothes you have, and bring her home – and I'll engage she comes.'
"Long before the Gubbaun was up, Boofun started; and not many hours was he on the road, when he met the very same young lady, an' she goin' to market all by herself. Well, sir, they had a great salutation, an' he coaxed her to take a sate on the horse. She wanted to get off at the market, but it wouldn't do, sir; and he came to his father's house airly in the evening.
"Well, you'd think, sir, the Gubbaun knew it all. Some said surely that he could foretell. There was the house, all beautiful and nate, and a most splendid intertainment on the table; there was a large party of the Gubbaun's friends, and plenty of all that was good.
"And the Gubbaun was the boy that could intertain them all. And, sir, when all were in high good-humor, and herself laughing and jokin' with Boofun, then he brought forward the match. To be sure, she was very shy, and ashamed, the crayther, (all by herself, you may say,) but you know, sir, even now, as we see every day, a match isn't long comin' round, when the parties are willin' an' the spaykers are good. So it was now; she agreed to lave all for Boofun – and she did well. To make my long story short, in a few days they were married; and in the meantime they had got her friends' consint. And a great weddin' they had."
"Well, Tom, now we've got them well married, jump up for some turf! don't you see the fire's a'most out?"
"O, then, that your honor may never want for a good fire, I pray."
"Yes, Jimmy, nor a good warrant, like yourself, to tell a good story."
"To be sure, sir, it shortens the night, as we say, an' if Jimmy wont be offended, for taking the story out av his mouth, I'll tell your honor some more of the Gubbaun's doin's."
CHAPTER II
"That's a good boy, Tom," said Jimmy, myself doesn't remember any more about him."
"Well, then, sir, they were not very many weeks married, when the Gubbaun wished to try the wife still more, to see whether she was knowin' enough for him, in order that she might be depended on completely, if any thing should happen. So one day he towld the son to get ready, and to come with him, for that he had heard of a fine job of work. So they started; and when they had got about three miles on the road, the Gubbaun turned sharp round, and asked Boofun the distance to the next place.
"'Twenty miles, no less,' says Boofun.
"'Well,' says the Gubbaun, 'every inch of the road we have to go,' says he, 'but it's too long by ten miles.'
"'Sure I can't help that,' says Boofun.
"'You can, sir!' says the Gubbaun, 'you can make it ten miles, if you like; and if you can't, go back, sir, and stay at home with your wife, for you're not fit to travel with me,' says he.
"Boofun said 'he couldn't do it;' so he had to go back. And when he came home, his wife ran out.
"'Well, what's brought you back? Any thing the matter?'
"'Every thing!' says poor Boofun. 'We hadn't got three miles before the Gubbaun towld me to shorten the road one half; and sure, you know, all I could say wouldn't shorten it!'
"'I don't know that,' says she, 'may be not; but take my advice, run back, and begin to tell him some story,' says she, 'no matter whether it is true or not, but amuse him as well as you can; and if he isn't satisfied, cut my head off when you come back,' says she. So, sir, he never stopped until he overtook the Gubbaun; and the very minute he began the story, he had confidence in Boofun's wife.
"Now, Tom, tell us – what reason could he have had for that? Couldn't they and she both have taken care of themselves?"
"Howld on a while, and maybe you'll see, sir."
"They traveled on and on, a hundred miles, or maybe more, and at last they came to a most splendid, iligant, noble palace, that the King of Munster was building. Thousands of masons, and carpenters, and all kinds of workmen, were in full operation at it – and the finest of work they were doing. It was just dinner-time, as it happened, when the Gubbaun and Boofun came, but they made no delay, but asked the steward of the works, sir, for employment, an' they didn't let an they were any thing in particklar, only just masons.
"'O!' says the steward, says he, 'there's plenty av employment for men in your line,' says he, 'but wait till after dinner, and then I'll talk to you,' says he.
"'Why, for that matter,' says the Gubbaun, 'it's a while ago we eat our dinner,' says he, 'and if it's all the same to you, we'll be glad if you'll set us some piece of work that we can be at till you come back.' And just then, sir, the dinner-bell began to ring. 'Well, gentleman,' says the steward, laughin' out loud, an' turnin' up his nose, an' winkin' round to the rest of the men, since you are so impatient, an' sich wonderful men, just sit down here, and take that block of marble,' says he, 'and have a cat an' two tails made out of it when I come back,' says he, runnin' into dinner.
"Well, sir, it was a fine block of stone, sure enough, and likely, rale Kilkenny marble; but it was any thing like a Kilkenny cat they med, for they never stopped until they had a splendid cat, wid two noble tails carved out, and all this before the lazy steward and his men came back from their dinner; and what was the most astonishin' to all, the surprisin' fierce pair of whiskers that the Gubbaun was puttin' out from the cat's nose when the steward came out! But who should be along with him but the King of Munster himself; and when he saw the cat, and the two tails, and the warlike pair of whiskers, he was all but ready to split with the laughin', and when he got words at last, he never stopped praisin' the Gubbaun.
