brancheen was white with flowers, where but a moment ago had been
tightly-closed buds. The yawning fairy slept
meanwhile under the
swaying meadowsweet, and the butterflies fanned him with their soft
wings; but, alas! it could not have been the hour for dancing on the
fairy ring, nor the proper time for the fairy pipers, and long, long
as I looked I saw and heard nothing more than what I have told you.
Indeed, I
presently lost even that, for a bee buzzed, a white petal
dropped from the thorn-tree on my face, there was a scraping of tiny
claws and the sound of two squirrels barking love to each other in
the high branches, and in that moment the glamour that was upon me
vanished in a twinkling.
"But I really did see the fairies!" I exclaimed
triumphantly to
Benella the doubter, when I returned Carrig-a-fooka Inn, much too
late for luncheon.
"I want to know!" she exclaimed, in her New England vernacular. "I
guess by the looks o' your eyes they didn't turn out to be very
lively comp'ny!"
Part Fifth--Royal Meath.
Chapter XXVI. Ireland's gold.
'I sat upon the
rustic seat-
The seat an aged bay-tree crowns-
And saw outsp
reading from our feet
The golden glory of the Downs.
The furze-crowned heights, the
glorious glen,
The white-walled
chapel glistening near,
The house of God, the homes of men,
The
fragrant hay, the ripening ear.'
Denis Florence M'Carthy.
The Old Hall, Devorgilla,
Vale of the Boyne.
We have now lived in each of Ireland's four
provinces, Leinster,
Munster, Ulster, and Connaught, but the confines of these
provinces,
and their number, have changed several times since the
beginning of
history. In A.D. 130 the Milesian
monarchy" target="_blank" title="n.君主政治;君主国">
monarchy was restored in the
person of Tuathal (Too'hal) the Legitimate. Over each of the Irish
provinces was a ri or king, and there was also over all Ireland an
Ard-ri or
suprememonarch who lived at Tara up to the time of its
abandonment in the sixth century. Before Tuathal's day, the Ard-ri
had for his land
allowance only a small tract around Tara, but
Tuathal cut off a
portion from each of the four older
provinces, at
the Great Stone of Di
visions in the centre of Ireland, making the
fifth
province of Royal Meath, which has since disappeared, but
which was much larger than the present two counties of Meath and
Westmeath. In this once famous, and now most lovely and fertile
spot, with the good republican's love of
royalty and royal
institutions, we have settled ourselves; in the midst of verdant
plains watered by the Boyne and the Blackwater, here rippling over
shallows, there meandering in slow deep reaches between reedy banks.
The Old Hall, from which I write, is somewhere in the vale of the
Boyne, somewhere near Yellow Steeple, not so far from Treadagh, only
a few miles from Ballybilly (I hope to be
forgiven this irreverence
to the
glorious memory of his Majesty, William, Prince of Orange!),
and within driving distance of Killkienan, Croagh-Patrick, Domteagh,
and Tara Hill itself. If you know your Royal Meath, these
geographical suggestions will give you some idea of our
location; if
not, take your map of Ireland, please (a thing nobody has near him),
and find the town of Tuam, where you left us a little time ago. You
will see a railway line from Tuam to Athenry, Athlone, and
Mullingar. Anybody can visit Mullingar--it is for the million; but
only the elect may go to Devorgilla. It is the
captive of our bow
and spear; or, to change the figure, it is a
violet by a mossy
stone, which we refuse to have plucked from its
poeticsolitude and
worn in the bosom or in the buttonhole of the tourist.
At Mullingar, then, we slip on enchanted garments which
conceal us
from the
casual eye, and disappear into what is, in
midsummer, a
bower of beauty. There you will find, when you find us, Devorgilla,
lovely enough to be Tir-nan-og, that Land of the Ever Youthful well
know to the Celts of long ago. Here we have rested our weary bodies
and purified our travel-stained minds. Fresh from the poverty-
ridden
hillsides of Connaught, these rich grazing-lands, comfortable
houses,
magnificent demesnes and castles, are unspeakably grateful
to the eye and healing to the spirit. We have not forgotten, shall
never forget, our Connemara folk, nor yet Omadhaun Pat and dark
Timsy of Lisdara in the north; but it is good, for a change, to